Mind, gone; memory, gone. He stomped around the room, checking the floor, the bed, his dresser, the closet, feeling the panic starting to rise-

"Looking for this?" said someone.

His heart shot up into his chest, collided with the roof of his mouth. Unexpelled breath stagnated painfully in his chest.

Outline in the doorway, backlit by the foyer bulb. Some guy, hat, long coat. The light glinting off eyeglasses. The fuzz of a beard.

The guy came closer. Smiling. Grinning.

"What the hell-"

"Hi, I'm Dr. Terrific. What seems to be the problem?"

He could see teeth. A grin.

Too weird.

Oh, shit, Dr. Terrific: D.T. The D.T.'s.

A Delirium Tremens Demon. You always heard about it hitting some other guy, never thought it would happen to you. He remembered the warning of the Brazilian doctor with the soft, wet hands: Your liver, Mr. Wilbur. Easy on the daiquiris.

Off the sauce, he promised himself, first thing tomorrow morning. Three squares a day, more B vitamins

"Looking for this, Mark?" repeated the D.T. Demon, extending the Turkey bottle.

Definitely hallucinating.

Poisoned hash. Laced with something-LSD… The demon in the hat grinned wider. Looking awfully goddamned real for a hallucination

Wilbur sat down on the edge of the bed, closed his eyes, rubbed them, opened them again, hoping to find himself alone.

He didn't.

"What the hell-"

The demon/man shook his head. "Talk respectfully, Mark."

Using his name, as if he knew him intimately, were part of him. Like one of those cartoons he'd watched as a kid. This is your conscience speaking, Mark.

He waved it away. "Up yours."

The demon reached into his coat, pulled out something long and shiny. Even in the dimness, Wilbur knew right away what it was.

Knife. Biggest goddamned knife he'd ever seen-blade had to be close to a foot long, maybe longer. Gleaming metal Made, pearl handle.

"Respectfully, Mark."

Wilbur stared at the knife glinting light. Cold and clean and cruel and real… Could this be real? Oh, God-

"I've missed your stories about me, Mark. I feel as if you've abandoned me."

And then he knew.

"Listen," he forced out, "I wanted to. They wouldn't let me."

The man kept grinning, listening.

A hundred shrink interviews reeled through his head: Buy time, goddammit. Establish a bond. Empathy.

"Censorship-you know what it's like," he said. Forcing a smile-oh, Jesus, how it hurt to smile. That knife… "I did several stories-you want to see them, I can show them to you-out in my desk in the living room." Slurring his words, sounding like a drunk. Be dearer!

"In the living room," he repeated. Front room, make a lunge for the door

"Another thing, Mark," said the grinning bastard, as if he hadn't heard a word. "You called me a butcher. That implies sloppiness. Crudeness. I'm a professional. A real scientist. I always clean up afterward."

No, no, no, make this go away-got to get out of this room, this goddamned room, make a run for it

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean-"

"Despite that, I've really missed those stories, Mark. We had a relationship. You had no permission to end it without consulting me."

The man in the hat and long coat came closer. What a weird face, something wrong with it-off kilter, he couldn't place it… Hell with that-don't waste time wondering about stupid things.

Buy time.

"I know what you mean. I'd feel the same way if I were you. But the system stinks, it really does." Now he was jabbering. Going on about New York, the Chosen People, how both of them were victims of Zionist censorship. The grinning man just standing there, bottle in one hand, knife in the other. Listening.

"We can work together, Doctor. Tell your story, the way you want it told, a big book, no one will ever know who you are, I'll protect you, once we're out of this stinking country no more censorship, I can promise you that. Hollywood's crazy for the idea…"

The grinning man didn't seem to be listening anymore. Distracted. Wilbur moved his aching eyes down from the off-kilter face to the asshole's hands: the Turkey bottle in one hand, the knife in the other. He decided to go for broke, wondered which one to grab.

The knife.

He readied himself. A long moment of silence. His heart was racing. He couldn't breathe, was suffocating on his own fear… Stop that! No negative thinking-buy time.

Distract the asshole again.

"So," he said, "tell me a little about yourself."

The grinning man came closer. Wilbur saw his eyes and knew it was useless. Over.

He tried to scream. Nothing came out. Struggled to get up off the bed and fell backward, helpless.

Paralyzed with fear. He'd heard that animals about to be ripped to shreds by predators slipped into protective paraly-

The mind shut off. Anesthesia-oh, Lord, he hoped so. Make me an animal, numb me, take away these thoughts, the waiting

The bearded face hovered over him, grinning.

Wilbur choked out a feeble squeak, covered his face so as not to see the knife, scrambled to fill his mind with thoughts, images, memories, anything that could compete with the pain of waiting.

God, how he hated knives. So unfair-he was an okay guy.

The hand with the knife never moved.

The one with the bottle did.

The Ali Baba closed at midnight, but Al Biyadi slipped the waiter some dollars and he and Cassidy were allowed to sip another pistachio milk as the lights went out around them.

Quite a few dollars, thought Shmeltzer, as he watched the waiter bring them a plate of cookies topped off by a sonata of bows and scrapes.

Cassidy took a cookie and nibbled on it. She seemed bored, no expression in the sexless face. Al Biyadi drank, consulted his watch. Just another couple out on a date, but Shmeltzer's instincts told him something was up-the shmuck had looked at the watch fourteen times during the last hour.