There were attacks of roid rage. Once he clenched his teeth so hard he cracked a molar. The dentist who pulled the shattered tooth gave Clifford a script for pain pills. That night at work, while goofing on Percocet, Clifford picked up his high-powered binoculars and scanned the six-story Hudson & Swain lofts.

Clifford spotted a brunette working on a clay sculpture. She was a newcomer to Hudson & Swain. She had a cigarette in her mouth as she removed her smock and washed the clay from her hands. She disappeared from view, and Clifford shifted his binoculars to another floor. Suddenly the brunette returned to the window nude except for a white towel around her head. He could see each and every detail.

She stood at the window extracting another Gauloise from a blue packet as she raised the sill for a little air. Jesus, what a set! Thirty-four-D cups with no sag factor. She lit her cigarette with a Diamond-brand kitchen match. She took a deep drag as she shook out the match. She must have been about twenty-five, and she was absolutely gorgeous. She set the cigarette down on a white Martini & Rossi ashtray and removed the towel covering her hair. She leaned forward, running her fingers through her shoulder-length hair, and straightened up, flipping it back. Clifford’s dick was hard in an instant. It pressed against the inside of his Levi’s like a pole.

As she picked up the cigarette, Clifford pulled out his cock. The girl snuffed out her smoke and turned away. She had a hot fucking ass. Suddenly the lights went off, causing Clifford to wonder if it had all been a dream. A moment later the low-watt bulb from her refrigerator blinked on. Baby was now attired in a long black Metallica T-shirt. He watched her stand before the open refrigerator eating yogurt with a plastic spoon. When she finished she threw the spoon and the empty cup in the garbage. She shut the fridge. The show was over.

The nighthawks in Hudson & Swain knew how to put out quality entertainment. Dopers in black leather jackets occupied the third floor. Clifford trained his binoculars on them. A pair wearing paper face masks sat chopping dope in the small kitchen, while others packaged it into glassine bags. Junkies came and went, fifteen in the space of an hour. They laid cash on the table and retrieved thirty or so bags of powder. A huge brute of a black dude Clifford dubbed Big Boy stood by the door. Periodically, Big Boy peered through the peephole and opened the door to most of the same street hustlers Clifford had seen twenty or thirty minutes before. A few came in, made their buys, and retired to a shooting gallery in back. He couldn’t see what was going on in there; the windows were covered with foil.