"Yeah?"

"We have an appointment." Speaking in a deep voice.

Fields glanced down at a big old-fashioned metal desk calendar resting on a rust-specked metal base. "You're Dr. Terrif, huh?" Pronouncing it tariff.

'That's right."

"The fuck you trying to pull, kid? Get outa here. Don't waste my time."

"Pressed for time, are you?"

"Watch your mouth, kid." A grubby thumb pointed to the door. "The fuck out."

Boyish shrug. "Oka-ay." Pulling out a thick roll of bills, putting it back, and turning to go.

Slimeball let him get to the door, then spoke up. Straining to keep the hunger out of his voice.

"Whoa, what's on your mind, kid?"

'Doctor."

"Sure, sure. You're a doctor, I'm Mr. Universe."

Scornful look at the slimeball: "We have nothing to talk about." Saying it with class, swinging the door open and walking out.

He'd gone ten paces down the hall before hearing Fields's cheap-shoe shuffle. "C'mon… Doc. Don't be sensitive."

He ignored the whining, kept on walking.

"Let's talk. Doc." Fields was trotting to catch up. "C'mon, Dr Terrif."

Stopping, swiveling, staring at the pathetic slime.

"Your manners stink, Fields."

"Listen… I didn't-"

"Apologize." Power.

Fields hesitated, looked sick, as if standing on a diving board suspended over a cesspool.

Tick-tock, licking his lips. You could see the dollar signs bounce like slot-machine fruit in the fucker's eyes.

Split-second later, he sucked in his breath and dived in: "You got to understand… Doc. My business, you get all types, all kinds of scams. Just trying to cover my butt…You got a young face, good genes, lucky guy, Doc… Okay, I'm sorry. How say we start over?"

Back in the rathole of an office, Fields picked up a gray mug that had once been white and offered to fix him instant coffee.

I'd rather drink snake-jizz, fucker. "Let's get down to business, Fields."

"Sure, sure, at your service. Doc."

He told the slime what he wanted. Fields listened hard, trying to imitate an intelligent life form. Popping licorice and saying "Uh huh" and "Uh huh, Doc."

"Think you can handle it?"

"Sure, sure, Doc, no problem. This guy Schwann, you into him for bucks or vicey versey?"

"That's none of your concern." Saying it automatically, in a totally cool way. The deep voice making him sound just like a rich guy, totally in charge-which he was, when you got down to it. Built to rule.

"Okay, no problem, Doc. Only sometimes it helps to know about the motivation, if you know what I'm sayin'."

"Just do what I pay you for and don't worry about motivation."

"Sure, sure."

"When can you have the information?"

"Hard to tell. Doc. Depends on lots of things. You ain't givin' me much to work with."

"Here's your advance. Plus." Standing and peeling off bills, a hundred more than the slime had asked for. Doing it offhand, in a totally cool manner.

"I got expenses, Doc."

Another hundred passed into the slime's paw. "Have the information in three weeks and there's an extra two hundred in it for you."

Fields nodding energetically, just about coming in his cheap-suit trousers. "Okay, sure, Doc, three weeks, you're top priority. Where can I reach you?"

"I'll reach you. Sit down. I'll see myself out."

"Yeah, sure, pleasure doing business with you."

After leaving the office, he closed the door, stood to the side for a moment, and heard the slime say "Fucking rich kid."

Nightwing started using heroin in front of him on a regular basis. Snorting the first few times, then skin-popping.

I don't mainline, cutie. That's how you really get fucked up.

But ten dates later, she was shooting it into a vein behind her leg.

I can handle it.

He'd read plenty of medical books on addiction, knew she was full of shit, biochemically hooked, but didn't say anything. When she nodded off, he used the time to explore her body. She knew what he was doing, smiled and made little cat sounds while he poked and probed and nibbled and tasted.

One night, while parked on a side street in the hills, Nightwing sprawled across the front seat of the Plymouth, he heard racing engines, saw red lights-pair of cop cars speeding by, on their way to check out something in one of the hill houses. Break-in? Silent burglar alarm? If so, the cops would be back, cruising the hills, looking for suspects. He thought of the heroin in Nightwing's black vinyl purse and began to freak out.

A bust for dope-the perfect life blown to bits!

He put the Plymouth in neutral, coasted downhill with his lights off. Nightwing stayed fast asleep, rolling with the motion of the car, snoring like a little sow. At that moment he saw her as filth, hated her, wanted to open her up, dive in, clean her. Then love thoughts took over and replaced the scientific ones.

He coasted all the way to Nasty, turned the engine and headlights on, merged with the traffic, and tried to calm down. But he stayed freaked at the thought of being busted for dope, had read about prison in psychiatry books, and knew what happened to fresh young white meat.

Deprivation-induced homosexuality: Locked in a cell with psycho niggers who'd ream his ass. His hold over Doctor loosened, the fucker'd be in charge of the lawyers, be able to keep him there as long as he wanted. Maybe even hire some nigger to slice him with a homemade shiv.

He pulled off the boulevard, drove six blocks, parked, and reached over for Nightwing's purse. The strap was under her ass. He tugged. She stirred but didn't wake.

Quickly, frantically, he rummaged through gum wrappers and tissues, plastic wallet, comb, makeup, breath-mint roll, foil rubber packets, and all the other crap she kept in there, before finding the little glassine envelope. Tossing it out of the car, then driving another half mile before feeling safe.