He sneers at her as she fastens the dress. "What do you want?"

"An ounce."

He stares.

He suspects! He suspects and now he'll send me out there and- "Thirteen hundred," he says.

She fishes the cash out of the bag. Thirteen of the cops' hundred dollar bills. He throws the baggie in her face and picks up his pipe again, flicking the lighter.

"Hey!" she says, gently ma.s.saging the bag between her fingers. "Don't smoke that yet! Let me out of here!"

He sneers at her again, this time with a look of pure hatred, but he pulls the lighter away from the gla.s.s. She stands at the door, panting, fondling the ounce, feeling the plastic slide over the powder inside. He slowly climbs to his feet, taking the pipe with him. He undoes the combination lock and lets her out.

The detective keeps his crimson face pointed at his shoes as he takes the bag. "Thanks," he mutters, exhaling raggedly and shaking his head slightly. Cops run toward Iggy's place with guns and a big thing that looks like a chain saw with a grinding disc on it. It will be a bad night for Iggy.

She gulps the hot, humid air, trembling because there is no way to fill her lungs with what she really needs. The cop turns away.

She takes a step backward. The cop's stare in the opposite direction is a little too intense to be real.

You want me to go. And I will. Because you can't tell the difference between "alive" and "undead."

The grinder begins shrieking inside Iggy's hallway as she takes another step back. Now Iggy will get the same kind of deal they offered her. And that will lead them to Miguel.

A drop of blood dangles on her upper lip before falling to splatter on the sidewalk. She takes another few steps backward, letting the night envelop her, and then she turns and runs.

Miguel stares at his ceiling, shivering.

"You can't go out like this," she says. "You got poisoned blood, Miguel. You can't go out. I'll go instead."

"No!" Miguel raises a knuckle to his eyes, rubbing. "I can go. Not you, Sara."

"Still don't trust me. After all this time. After all the deals. You think I'm gonna step over you with your California connection?"

His breathing is too fast. He reaches for her, weakly grabbing a wrist. His hand is gray and clammy. "I know what you want to do. But don' do it."

She strokes his forehead. Wet and cold, like clay. His hand drops to the white plush carpet. "Don't worry, dear," she says. "It's gonna be all right. I'll take care of you. But we gotta get the product. We gotta get it." She turns, picking up his straw and doing four lines from the gla.s.s-topped chrome table next to him. "You're almost out of product, Miguel. I'm almost out, too. We gotta get more. For both of us."

His stare is colder than his flesh. "I know what you want to do."

She reaches to touch his face again. He jerks his head away. His eyes narrow. "All right," he says. "Go. He gonna be in the alley behind Vida Nocturna in a white Cadillac at four-thirty. I tell him you go there to do the deal."

"Thank you, Miguel. I'll pick it up for you tonight. You just rest."

He shivers, laughs. "Sure."

More. Always more. It's the way our kind survives.

She shivers. She does a few more useless lines.

Don't want to meet anyone new.

Pills are not enough. c.o.ke is not enough. Heroin could get her comfortable but might knock her out.

She sighs. The chemicals in her blood will not let her cry.

A plastic bag is wedged next to the Porsche's pa.s.senger seat. Neil's magic mushrooms.

She blows smoke up at the light behind Vida Nocturna, staring at the dark square of gla.s.s in the back door. It puckers and bends in on itself, forming an ever-deepening cave. Inside it, Alexander lights her cigarette and makes a garish Pica.s.so face at the bar. Jeff brings her an Amontillado.

The Cadillac appears, a white El Dorado convertible floating a few feet above the alley pavement, the driver invisible behind the dark windshield.

The car stops. The motor idles. She stares.

The car grows, twists, changes. Its grille becomes a giant set of teeth. She smiles. The rest of the car fades, leaving only the teeth.

A man approaches her. Miguel's source. His head pivots like an owl's as he checks for traps.

He looks like Miguel, with his Hispanic complexion and his square jaw line. He is Miguel!

No. This one's eyes are not right. They look through her and they look inside himself at the same time. Just like Iggy's did. This is Miguel's cousin, not Miguel. Her new source.

He stands before her, his eyes reaching in through hers, searching for her soul.

"Miguel told you I'd be coming?" she asks.

He nods but says nothing. He stands close, staring, scanning the area. He licks his lips, flashing needle-like fangs.

His hands flash out, grabbing her wrists. Handcuffs click around them. He feels her body all over.

Cops again? If they recognize- He punches her in the face, comes behind her like a wrestler. Blood trickles from the side of her mouth, droplets floating off into s.p.a.ce. He touches the blood with his fingers, smells it. His hard p.e.n.i.s digs against her as he opens the car door.

No. Not a cop.

On the pa.s.senger side floor is a baby doll dressed like Little Red Riding Hood. She smiles.

"h.e.l.lo, Sara," the doll says. "I came all the way from California to keep you company. We can be together forever. You'll never be lonely."

Sara laughs.

Her hands turn to vapor. The cuffs clatter to the pavement and scurry off toward some garbage cans.

The source shoves her. She falters briefly, teetering above the pa.s.senger seat. Then the rest of her dissolves into mist and she escapes up into the night.

end.