All right!

And this one didn't spit: Yum. With a smile.

Lying through her teeth, but he loved it nonetheless.

Loved her.

Because it was true love, he paid her more than they'd agreed on, looked for her the next night and the next, not knowing her name, not knowing who to ask for-Sarah who swallows? Went home hungry, cruised, stole a stray dog and feasted on science and the memories until the third night, when he spotted her on a different corner, even farther east.

Still in black, still beautiful.

No recognition, until she got close.

Well, hello, cutie.

Weird accent, but definitely not spic.

After she did him, he asked what her name was.

Nightwing.

What kind of name is that?

My street name, cutie.

What's your real name?

The street is real, cutie. You ask too many questions. Talk's a waste of time. Cat smile. Well, well, would you loo-ook at that… Hey, Youngblood-how about seconds? You're so cute, I'll give you a discount.

I'll pay you regular.

Well, aren't you sweet-ooh, so impatient. Go ahead, push my head, pull my hair-a little harder, even, if it gets my cutie off.

They dated regularly, at least once a week, sometimes twice. Driving farther and farther away from Nasty, up into the hills that overlooked the boulevard. Parking on cul-de-sacs and tree-blackened side streets, always blow-jobs-neither of them wanted anything messy.

Casual dates, no holding-hands-in-the-movie-theater bullshit. He liked the honesty, the fact that neither of them felt a need for conversation and other lies.

But learning a little about her anyway-she liked to talk when she reapplied her lipstick.

She was from out of town, had worked Nasty for six months, first with a pimp but going it alone now. The pimp, some evil nigger named BoJo, had accused her of holding out cash and cut her up. She showed him the scar under one tit, bumpy pink zipper. He licked it.

Being an independent meant she had to cover her ass at all times, stay away from the pimp-slaves, restrict herself to quiet corners. Which was getting tougher to do-the pimps were spreading out, pushing her east, away from the Nasty Strip hot spots. But the hills were okay. Everything was okay:

I got no problems, cutie. I got no problem making ends meet-if you dig what I'm saying, cutie pie.

She'd volunteer a little info, but wouldn't answer questions, not even about the accent, which he still couldn't | place-gypsy?

The secrecy didn't bother him. In fact, he liked it.

None of that peace-love-confiding-and-relating scam.

He paid; she sucked. He started keeping an ice chest in the trunk of the Plymouth, brought beer, Pepsi, and orange soda along. She washed her mouth out afterward, licked his

| nipples through his shirt with a cold tongue. Most of the time it got him going for seconds.

He was becoming an expert, could go longer and longer now, volunteered to pay her for her time instead of by the act. She squealed with delight, told him he was a total sweetie. Went down on him with fake enthusiasm so real it made his head spin, gagging and whispering that she'd do anything for him, just name it.

Just do what you're doing, babe.

He gave himself a street name, too: Dr. Terrific.

Mind picture: DT loves n carved into the cerebral cor-

C'mon, cutie. You're too young to be a doctor. You'd be surprised.

But you got money like a doctor, don't you? Want to earn some more? Right on. Later:

If you're a doctor, you probably got all sorts of far-out drugs, right?

Drugs are bad for you.

You're putting me on now, right?

Mysterious smile.

After their twentieth date, she snorted heroin and offered him some. He said no, watched her get all drowsy and mellow, played with her body while she lay there half-grokked.

True love.

At nineteen, he could tell from the way people ogled him that he was good-looking. Was certain that he looked older-maybe twenty-four or five. At nineteen and a half, life got cleaner: She died, just stopped breathing in bed and lay there in her own filth for two hours before one of the hired nurses came up from the kitchen and noticed.

The house was totally his now. It hadn't taken much to "convince" Doctor to let him keep living in it.

Nineteen and a half, and totally on top of the world: his own pad, endless bucks, and head-in-lap true love.

He cleaned out the Ice Palace, had the carpets ripped up, gave everything away. Told the retardo nigger to spray it with disinfectant, open all the windows. Decided it would stay empty forever.

He woke up one morning feeling terrific and filled with a sense of purpose. He'd been waiting for the right time to start the investigation, knew this was it, and started looking in the Yellow Pages under Private Detectives.

He wanted a one-man agency; the big firms were all fat on big-business bucks, not likely to take him seriously.

He found half a dozen possibles, all in low-rent areas, phoned them, listened to their voices, and made an appointment with the one who sounded the hungriest.

Slimeball named J.Walter Fields, bad address not far from the Nasty Strip.

He made an appointment for late in the afternoon.

The office was on the fourth floor of a decaying walkup, winos dozing near the front entrance, half the suites unoccupied, shit-colored cracked linoleum, bare light bulbs and empty sockets, the hallways stinking of piss.

Fields's place was a glass-doored single room with the men's John on one side, an answering service company on the other.

RELIABLE INVESTIGATORS.

J.W.FIELDS, PRES.

Inside was pure Late Show cliche: old-clothes smell, grimy walls, portable fan on a chair, metal desk and file cabi-nets. A flyspecked window offered a view of inert neon signs and the tar-paper roof of the walkup across the alley.

Fields was a short, fat bag of slime in his late fifties. Wet, hungry eyes, bad suit, and receding gums. He kept his feet up on the desk and popped licorice drops in his mouth while raising one eyebrow and staring at his visitor. Making a big show of being bored.