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spot ain't in between but at the top, the motherfucking queen! And that ain't all. I got enough bankroll, if you fall, to raise you for murder one with a telephone call. Get hip and flip for that!'
    She coyly averts her eyes, to stroke his hoodlum ego, murmurs, 'It's you I think I'll choose. But, like I told you in the bar, Whispering, I'll think about it, let you know.'
    He grunts as he picks up the loaded syringe. He flicks on the nightstand lamp, eases the syringe needle into a wrist vein. She stares at the red flood of his blood into the syringe. He pumps it empty into his vein, withdraws it and lays it on the pile of powder.
    'Goddamn! This is some sweet shit' he moans with closed eyes.
    She kisses his nipple nearest the packet. Her nose quivers as she hovers it above the powder. He seizes her hair and jerks her head away as she swoops her nose into the dope.
    'Ask me for my dope, cold-blooded 'ho mama' he whispers savagely as he wraps up the package and starts to slide from the bed.
    'May I have a pinch of your smack?' she asks sweetly with radiant eyes.
    He starts to cook up a shot in a bottle cap with water from a glass on the nightstand.
    'I don't want to start banging again, Whispering ... just lay a pinch on me for my nose.'
    He shakes his head as he draws the syringe full from the bottle cap. 'Turn over girl, if you want it.'
    She flops on her belly. He hits a vein in her buttock, drains in the contents of the syringe.
    She moans into her pillow. 'You rotten bastard! ... it's soooo gooood.'
    He snatches his 'C' note from her unwary hand. She screams, 'Give me back that trick money!'
    He grins, 'Bitch, we ain't turned no trick. We done had a smack party.'
    He slides from the bed, dresses, stuffs his bankroll and dope into his pockets.
    She rolls to the edge of the bed with dope glazed eyes, mumbles thickly, 'Leave me a light taste of that shit.'
    Stony faced he says, 'Uh uh 'ho mama ... connect with me in the Blue Pit if you wanta score or be my woman. You dig?'
    She nods stuporously as he turns and splits the bedroom.
     

3
    Divorcee Marguerite Spingarn and her Club Alabam companions leave after the last show to have seafood at a Pico Boulevard restaurant. Afterwards, Judge Evans, recent widower, drives them through thickets of extinguishing neon into the quietly lighted environs of Marguerite's impressive white stone house on tree embossed Normandie Avenue in a still predominantly white upper-middle-class neighborhood. Her real estate brokerage sign glows its pale blue neon in a front window. The fragrance of honeysuckle, ringing the house, pervades the night air.
    Marguerite's all day visitors, Rob Spingarn and his cutie pie wife Helena, sleepily kiss Marguerite and the Judge goodnight. They go, arm in arm, to their new blue Chrysler sedan parked in Marguerite's driveway behind her new fuchsia Caddie convertible. Marguerite and the Judge watch the ruby orbs of the Chrysler taillights disappear. Santa Ana winds lute a mournful dirge through a trio of weeping willow trees sighing counterpoint on Marguerite's spacious lawn.
    'Happy kids aren't they, Maggie?' the Judge says softly.
    'Yes ... Jay and I were happy like that ... in the beginning ... hope their happiness train never derails' she says as she flicks flame to a cigarette, exhaling a grey poltergeist of smoke through an open window.
    His amorous soft brown eyes gaze adoringly at her dusky, sloe-eyed loveliness as he takes her hand, kisses her fingertips. 'Maggie, you, we could be happy again. I've been hellishly lonely since Ora passed last year ... I ... uh have had, for many years, bountiful affection and admiration for you as you must know. I've been in an airy fugue all evening in your company. My dear, I adore you! I must see you again and again. May I? Maggie, we are like canaries in the snow.'
    Her elfish face is serious as she studies his face with tender eyes for a moment, kissing his cheek. He reaches to embrace her.
    She moves away, whispers