"Not bad. All I had after work was some hash and beer.

I'm still geeked on acid, but couldn't find none. I can get blotter in L.A. once in a while, it's okay. But old Owsley's preemo purple or even windowpane, that stuff could get you in touch with your ancestors.

All they want to sell you on the street is crack and that's bad shit, messes you up.

Acid's good for you-I mean you don't overdo it, become a burnout. It's like a laxative for the brain, it mellows you while it cleans out your head."

Robin sipped her wine. She said, "I have some," and saw Skip's sly grin peeking through his beard, a sparkle coming into his pale eyes.

"You know I suffer from anti-acrophobia, fear of not being high."

"My apartment's right around the corner."

"Bitchin". What kind is it?"

"Blotter. Has a little numeral one on it."

"Shit, I gotta go back to work. They're gonna shoot some night for night."

"It's there when you want it," Robin said.

Skip grinned at her.

"You're setting me up, aren't you?

You got a dirty trick in mind and you need the Skipper to help you pull it."

Robin gave him her sort-of smile.

When the trio in the red vests strolled up she decided to let Skip handle it, not say anything. She watched him look up as the leader asked with an Italian sound how they were this evening and would they like to make a request.

Maybe their favorite song? She watched Skip's bland expression and saw it coming.

"You guys remember a group used to be around here, the MC5?" The leader frowned.

MC5? He wasn't sure. What was one of their tunes? She watched Skip, with his pale, innocent eyes, say, "

"Kick Out the Jams, Motherfuckers." You guys know that one?" Robin watched, thinking, Oh, man, have I missed you. hris asked the St. Antoine Clinic doctor if he thought a psychiatric evaluation was really necessary. All he was doing was transferring to another section. He'd still be at 1300 Beaubien, up from the sixth to the seventh floor and down at the other end of the hall.