Dr Jew

bumped mine again. I smiled but gave no indication that anything had taken place. She glanced at me quickly, but had so much cool, reserve. Level-headed, that girl.
    The dinner turned to more genial topics, holiday plans, that kind of garbage. I smiled and let the others talk, focusing on that leg of hers. We kept bumping, and finally, after I told the joke about the black rabbi and the cosmonaut, her leg rubbed against mine. There was no more ambiguity.
    With that in place, the rest of the dinner was façade, show. The real work took place inside as I planned and worked the calendar. When would I be able to see her with no one else around? Find out how far she wanted to go. Had to settle it before the job. All these details. But none of it mattered if she was game. And apparently she was.
    When it was time for dessert, Dave told her to get the ice cream and pie, and as she rose he patted her on the ass. I saw her wince. That sealed it.
    Less than two weeks till the job. Yes, to act fast. To act fast.
    I had been staring and looked to see if Dave had noticed. He hadn't. But that other one – that Ueda – was staring into me again with those cold, cold eyes.

XX.

    "You come to me highly recommended," said Philip K. Glassdick.
    "Oh?" said Dr. Jew.
    "Yes. My friend Johnny said you once took care of his genital warts or something."
    "Oh, that little matter. 'Twas nothing. If that's what ails you have no fear. Bit of battery acid and have you swallowed in a bed of yogurt, you'll be good as new."
    "Actually, I 'm afraid it's a little more serious than that."
    "Not genital warts? Swine-AIDS perhaps?"
    "What?" said Glassdick. "No… why do you ask? Am I looking… swinish?"
    "Aheheheheh, no. Just a particular favorite of mine. So what is the matter then, Mr. Glassdick? And before we go on, can I say that I am a great fan of your work…? Many are the hours that I've let Music for Headaches unflower in the background."
    "Thank you. It's always a pleasure to hear that my music is appreciated."
    "Appreciated?" said Dr. Jew. "No, no, no, sir. Appreciated is too light a word to unpack my feelings for your music. Appreciated is how I might describe albums from the mortal plane. Your works… your works are something more."
    "As much as I 'd like to think so," said Glassdick, "I assure you that I'm just a musician."
    "Bah!" said Dr. Jew. "Modesty! Sheer modesty and utter nonsense. Do you know, I've tried to convey that album's significance to others – it's the same feeling I try to radiate through my poetry – what? Yes, yes, bit of a poet, me. I know, who'd have thunk it… What? He's a great poet as well as a brilliant medico-scientist? Some men get all the luck! Yes, I imagine that's what they'd say on the 'street' if they knew the full stomach of my faculties, which is why I keep my poetry on the hush-hush. But where was I? Ah yes! Music for Headaches . You know, I wrote a witty little epigram about that album that I'll share with you now."
    Glassdick looked uneasy. Dr. Jew searched his desk for a scrap of paper.
    "Ah, here it is," he said. He cleared his throat. "Are you ready? Okay." He read: "'Philip K. Glassdick's Music for Headaches is like Brian Eno's Music for Airports but you play it inside headaches instead of airports.'"
    Dr. Jew looked up and eagerly awaited a response. "Well? Well?"
    "Ah," said Glassdick. "Very… droll."
    "Isn 't it though?" said Dr. Jew. "Ah ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! At first I wasn't going to present it to you but then I realized you might want to put it on the cover of your next album… you know, a bit of PR – 'What, his music is endorsed by a quasi-famous doctor? Simply astonishing! Perhaps the music has some sort of medicinal effect –'"
    "I doubt it ," said Glassdick.
    "Says you! But look at me for contrary proof otherwise! I'm fit as a fiddle and with the lungs of a four-year-old. Yes, please, take this little bon mot and plaster it over your next masterwork. I'll be waiting."
    "Well, if I don 't get treatment there may not be a next album."
    "Never you mind that. You're in good hands here and we'll have you fixed in a jiff. But before we go on – since you brought the matter up – I wonder if you'd mind telling me about this next album you've got going."
    "Well, there 's not much to speak of."
    "Come, come, sir. No need to hold back the facts. I am, after all, a doctor. Your doctor. I remember reading years ago in one of those musical newsrags about your near-fatal accident