The Butcher's Theatre (63 page)

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.

“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. Breakin? 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.

He pulled over again, under a street light, cut the engine. The purse was in his lap. Nightwing was still sleeping.

As he calmed down, curiosity overpowered his fear. He opened the purse, removed the plastic wallet.

Inside was a driver’s license, picture of Nightwing without Vampira makeup, just a pretty, dark girl, Sarah-twin.

Lilah Shehadeh. Five two, hundred and fourteen. Birth date that made her twenty-three. Address in Niggertown, probably from her days with BoJo.

Shehadeh. What the hell kind of name was that?

When she awoke, he told her about ditching her dope. She sat up sharply, started to get all pissed.

Oh, shit! That was China fucking White!

What was it worth?

Hundred bucks.

Bullshit, babe.

Fifty—and that’s no bullshit. China White’s heavy duty—

Here’s sixty. Buy yourself some more. But don’t carry it when you’re with me.

She snapped up the money. Fun guy, you are.

Flames of rage seared him from throat to asshole. The bad-machine noise grew deafening.

He gave her a long, heavy stare, totally scornful, just like the one he’d used to whip Fields into shape.

This is our last date, babe.

Panic under the mile-long lashes: Aw, c’mon, cutie.

It’s not fun for me either, babe.

She reached out, ran her long black fingernails over his forearm. He felt nothing—being cool was easy.

Aw, c’mon, Dr. Cutes. I was just kidding. You’re real fun, the best. Grab. The biggest.

He removed her fingers, shook his head sadly.

Time for both of us to move on, babe.

Aw, c’mon, we been having so much fun. Don’t let a little-She was whining. The bad-machines echoed in his head, making him feel hollow. Useless.

His hand was around her neck in a flash. Thin neck, soft neck, nice and fragile under his grip. He pushed her back against the door of the car. Saw the terror in her eyes and felt his hard-on grow gargantuan.

A little pressure on the carotid, cut off the blood flow to the brain for a split second, then release, let her breathe. Let her know what he could do if he wanted. That she was a bug over a flame. Dangling in the grip of a pair of tweezers.

Let her know who controlled the tweezers.

Listen carefully, babe. Okay?

She tried to talk. Fear had frozen her vocal cords.

I’m perfectly happy to date you—you’re terrific. But we’ve got to come to an understanding. Okay? Nod if you agree.

Nod.

The beauty of this relationship is that we give each other what we need. Right?

Nod.

Which means both of us have to stay happy.

Nod.

I don’t care if you want to kill yourself with heroin. But I don’t want you putting me in danger. That’s fair, isn’t it?

Nod.

So no dope when you’re with me, please. A beer’s okay, one or two at the most. If you ask my permission and I

give it. No surprises. I respect your rights and you respect mine. Okay?

Nod.

Still friends?

Nod, nod, nod.

He let go of her. Her eyes stayed big with fear—he could see the respect in them.

Here, babe. He gave her an extra fifty. This is for goodwill, let you know I only want the best for you.

She tried to take the money. Her hands were shaking. He tucked it between her tits. Pointed at his crotch and said, I’m ready to go again.

After they finished, he asked her:

What kind of name is Shehadeh?

Arabic.

You’re an Arab.

Fuck, no, I’m an American.

But your family’s Arab?

I don’t want to talk about them. Defiantly. Then looking at him in panic, wondering if she’d pissed him off again.

He smiled inside. Thought: The relationship’s climbed to a new level. Still casual dating and true love, but now the roles were set. Both of them knew their parts.

He held her face in his hands, felt her tremble. Kissed her on the lips, no tongue, just friendly. Gently—letting her know everything was okay. He was merciful.

They’d have a long, happy life together.

He met with Fields three weeks after giving the slime the assignment. Grubby little fucker was surprisingly thorough, had a thick file labeled schwann, d. clutched in his grubby little hands.

“How you doin’, Doc?”

“Here’s your money. What do you have?”

Fields stuffed the money in his shirt pocket. “Good news and bad news time, Doc. The good news is I found out all about him. The bad news is the sonofabitch is dead.”

Saying it with a twinkle in his eye that signed his own death certificate.

“Dead?”

“As a doorknob.” Slimeball shrugged. “Sometimes in these bad-debt cases you can sue the estate in probate court, try to collect, but this Schwann was a foreigner—goddamned Kraut. His body was shipped back to Krautland. Try to collect from over there, you’re gonna need an international lawyer.”

Dead. Daddy dead. His roots completely severed. He sat there, numb, flooded with pain.

Fields mistook the numbness for disappointment over the debt, tried to comfort him with “Tough luck, eh, Doc? Anyway, guy like you, being a doctor and all that, should be able to write it off, pay less taxes this year. Could be

rse, eh?”

Babbling. Making things worse for himself.

The slime was staring at him. He shook himself out of the numbness.

“Give me the file.”

“I got a report for you, Doc. All summed up and everything.”

“I want the file.”

“Eh, usually I keep the file. You want a copy, I got Xeroxing charges, extra expenses.”

“Would twenty dollars take care of it?”

“Uh, yeah—thirty would be more like it. Doc.”

Fields took the three tens and held out the folder.

“All yours, Doc.”

“Thanks.” He stood up, took the folder with one hand, picked up the old-fashioned desk calender with the other, and slammed the fucker across the face with the rusty metal base.

Fields went down without a sound, slumping on the desk. A red stain spread from under his face and saturated the blotter.

He wrapped his hands in tissues, lifted the slime, and inspected him. The front of Fields’s face was flattened and bloody, the nose a soft smear. Still a weak wrist pulse.

He put him facedown on the desk, slammed him on the back of the head with the calendar base, kept slamming him, enjoying it. Making him pay for Schwann, for the twinkle in his slimy eyes.

No pulse—how could there be? The medulla oblongata had been turned to shit.

Looked out the window: only neon, and pigeons on the roof. He drew the shade, locked the door, searched for any mention of his or Schwann’s names in any other file or in the calendar, then wiped his hands and everything he’d touched clean with a handkerchief—the important thing was to clean up properly.

A little blood had spattered on his shirt. He buttoned his jacket; that took care of that.

Picking up the Schwann file, he left the fucker lying there leaking, stepped out into the hallway, and walked away casually. Feeling like a king, the emperor of everything.

Dr. T.

Those good feelings grew as he drove home on Nasty. Looking at the geeks and pimps and junkies and bikers, all thinking they were bad, so bad. Thinking: How many of you losers have gone all the way? Remembering what Fields’s face had looked like after being slammed. The weak pulse. Then nothing.

One giant step for Dr. Terrific.

Back home, he put the Schwann file on his bed, stripped naked, masturbated twice, and took a cold bath that made him angry and hungry for bloody mind pictures. After toweling himself dry, he jerked off some more, came weakly but nicely, and, still naked, went in and got the file.

Noble Schwann, dead.

Cut off at the roots.

The bad-machines started grinding.

He should have taken his time with Fields, really punished him. Brought the slime’s body back here, for exploration, real science.

Except the guy’s body would have had to be putrid, a real stinker. So no loss.