Alan went down the street to a drug store and paid a buck forty-seven for a package of ten Plastipak disposable U-80 Insulin syringe/needle units.

By the time he got back to the roof of the parking structure, Richard the dealer was there. Alan didn't see him-skinny young black guy with a big grin and a newspaper folded under one arm-until he stepped out of the med panel truck that had SUPER-RITE DRUGS painted on the side in white letters along with an RX prescription symbol.

"Jesus," Alan said, "nobody will ever say you don't have some kind of a fucking sense of humor."

"It's a touch," the dealer said, grinning. "I seen the truck in the used-car lot. I said, man, I got to have it."

"In your name?"

"Shit, my cousin's name. He still in the slam."

"Bobby's got to see it," Alan said. "Too fucking much."

"Yeah, Bobby have something to say. Speaking of Bobby." He handed Alan the folded newspaper. "Shit never been his pleasure, but as you say, maybe it's for some chickie friend. You need anything for yourself?"

Alan took the envelope out of the newspaper and folded it into his pocket. "You have it in the truck?"

"No man, but I can get it right now."

"I got to be somewhere," Alan said. "In fact, I'm late." He paused a moment. "Hey, you wouldn't let me use your truck, would you?"

"Use my truck-how'd you get here?"

"Guy dropped me off. Listen, it's a long story. What I got to do is see a man wants to buy some smoker movies. Take me about a half-hour at the most."

The dealer wasn't sure and wasn't grinning now. He said, "The man live around here?"

"Over in Southfield. He wants to buy some movies, you know, for his club; but he's got some old equipment and he doesn't know if it's any good. I got to look at it. Half-hour's all, Richard. You don't have any stuff in the truck, do you?"

"It's clean."

"Then what're you worried about? It isn't even in your name."

"I got a piece in there."

"So keep it there," Alan said. "You want to stand on the roof of the fucking parking lot with a piece in your hands?"

"You want to get stopped with it?"

"Stopped for what? I'm a very careful driver, obey all the traffic regulations. I'm not worried about the piece. I don't even know where it is, I don't want to know. All I want to do is to see a guy."

"Something I don't like," the dealer said.

"What don't you like? Richard, hey, go have a cup of coffee or something, I'll be back in half an hour. No shit, scout's honor."

That's how Alan got the panel truck with SUPER-RITE DRUGS written on the side. That was also how he got the piece, another Lucky Jackpot of the Year Award for clean living. It wasn't in the glove compartment-which he had to bust open, snapping the lock with a screwdriver-it was up under the instrument panel, hanging there in a wool sock: a kind of automatic he had never seen before, a cheap little Saturday night gun without a name or number, but it had nine live ones in the clip and that's what counted.

It was turning out to be a good day.

It was, in fact, the first warm sunny day in almost a month: a clear sky finally, now that it was the middle of May, temperature in the high sixties. The touch of wind was cool, but the stockade fence held off the gusts that came across the yard and it was almost hot on the patio.

Barbara reclined in a lounge chair with the backrest set low, her eyes closed, her face raised to the sun. The first good hot feel of sunshine in three months, since Mexico. She wore a yellow bikini that once had been her daughter's. With her flat-sunken stomach, firm thighs and trace of the winter-vacation tan, her body seemed made for the bikini. But she had a feeling about wearing one and she put it on only for backyard sunning or if she was off somewhere with Mitch, alone.

Lying there she thought of Mitch. She thought of the girl and wondered what she had looked like. No, she couldn't do that. She thought of Mitch again and hoped he was at the plant and if she called him he would answer. But she didn't get up to call. Mitch handled matters his own way. She would have to be patient and wait, not nagging or pleading or telling him to be careful. If you want him, she thought, that's the way he is. And she wanted him.

She thought about the house and having the storms taken off and the windows washed and the lawn cut and fertilized and the swimming pool cleaned out. She tried to think of the name of the pool maintenance company they had called last year. Aqua something. Aqua-Queen- "You got a nice navel."

Her eyes opened abruptly. The sun was on a line over his shoulder, a halo behind him, and for a moment until she shielded her eyes, she could not see his face clearly.

"I like a nice deep navel in a little round tum-tum," Alan said. "Please don't move, lady, till I tell you to."

She had started to push up out of the chair, swinging her legs to the side away from him. She stopped as he took the newspaper from under his arm, opened one fold and showed her the gun inside.

"You see it?" He folded the newspaper, putting it under his arm again. "Now you don't. But you know where it is."

Barbara stared at him. "What do you want?"

"You remember me? Silver Lining Accounting Service." Alan smiled. "What was the line? We make a mistake we eat it. Something like that."

"I know who you are," Barbara said. "I know what you are."

"So I don't have to introduce myself and give you references," Alan said. "Now what I want you to do is get up, put your little sandals on and go in the house. I'll be right behind you."

When Barbara swung her legs to his side of the lounge and bent over to straighten her sandals, to slip them on, Alan got a good clear shot of her breasts. He said, "Jesus, I don't know what he was fooling around with that skinny chick for."

Then, inside the house, after he had checked to make sure the doors were locked, following close behind her, his eyes holding on the movement of her hips, he said, "Jesus, I bet you start that thing going it takes all night to shut it off. My, having that right at home."

He took her into the kitchen and told her to get up on the table and fold her legs under her like an Indian. She sat there watching him, not sure what he was doing until he took the package of disposable syringes and the envelope out of his pocket.

Alan used an egg poacher. He got the water boiling, set the aluminum tray over it and cooked the heroin, diluted with a spoonful of water, in one of the concave sections of the tray, where the egg would go. Alan grinned and said, "Shit, man, gourmet cooking; Bobby'd take one look at this setup and have to get one." Bobby mostly blew coke, though, he told Barbara. Bobby said shit messed him up and made him sick.

She watched him bend over the egg poacher and carefully draw the white-powder-turned-to-liquid into a syringe, pushing the plunger in to release the air bubbles then drawing it out again slowly, getting almost every drop of the liquid.

When he turned to her, holding the syringe so that the needle pointed up, he said, "It won't feel hot. Maybe a little warm going in."

"I don't want it," Barbara said.

"Lady, it's just scag. Give you a nice slow ride uptown, see the lights."

"I don't want it."

"Jesus, I'm not hooking you. I just want to make you quiet and easy to handle. Put your leg out, either one." His free hand reached toward her.

When she pulled away from him, holding onto the edge of the table, he slapped her hard across the face. She made a sound, more of surprise than pain, and he hit her again.

"Now put your leg out!"

He grabbed her by the ankle and pulled. Barbara fell back against the curtain covering the lower part of the window, off-balance now, on her elbows. Alan turned, taking her leg under one arm, squeezing the angle and pushing the syringe into the vein that popped out beneath his thumb. He felt her tighten and try to draw her other leg free, but not in time to kick him or push him away. His thumb raised over the syringe, stroked it down slowly and the lady was on her way.