The Theatre - Kellerman, Jonathan

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.