"Best get out! Now!" the tall one persists in a shaky voice.

Lee, a caricature of the Tasmanian Devil, leaping up and down, swinging the baseball bat, growling and howling, whirls wildly within a few yards.

One of the assailants suddenly shouts something about the others being on their own and races off into the shadows of the barren parking lot. A moment later the tall one follows.

As the bounding, crazed creature of the night closes in, the lone remaining assailant stumbles back, throws an earnest look to the cash machine and its free money, then also takes off, escaping in the same direction, over shrubbery and across the empty parking lot, as the other deserters.

"LEE, STOP!" I shout, courageously stepping into his path.

Slowing, he gasps, "But. . .but. . .Shadow People!"

"They're gone, Lee! They're gone—disappeared!"

"Huh?" he gulps.

"Yeah, yeah—gone. Disappeared. Back to the realm of Shadow People." And indeed, squinting into the darkness, the robbers are nowhere to be seen. Only the diminishing sounds of hurried feet give echo to their being.

While Joel's babbling and doing a play-by-play recount of the attempted robbery, I remove the money from the cash machine.

"Lee," I stammer. "Where did you get the baseball bat?"

"Are you kidding, bro?" he responds. "This is L.A.! I always keep it under my front seat." Then, under his breath, he says, ". . .Where are you from?"

Catching this last part, I sigh and say, "Come on. . .Let's get you your drugs."

I should be able to recognize a crank addict's house by now. It's well after midnight and the Spin Doctor is out in his driveway, while the rest of this quiet neighborhood sleeps in darkness, working on automobiles. Extension chords stretch from the garage to the assortment of drop-lights he has strung up near the three cars up on jacks. Tools and engine parts lay strewn across the front lawn and most of the available space in the driveway. It looks like he's running an auto shop. He wheels out from under a Firebird as we walk up and then jumps to his feet. He's a comical sight with his dark mustache and goatee and two dark plumes of curly hair which jut up from his head. The stitched-on pockets of his camouflage U.S. Army jacket bulge with tools. Two bands of pouches decked with wrenches criss-cross his chest like belts of ammunition worn by a soldier manning a high-caliber machine gun. I guess him to be in his early thirties.

"Lee-Lee-Lee! How ya' doing, buddy? Good to see you! How you been? Just fixing my car. Polishing the wheel-wells now. Was waxing the engine. How'd that eight-ball go? Who are the squares you're with? You tweaking right now?"

And I should be able to recognize another crank addict as well.

Lee and Spin Doctor launch into a light speed conversation. I can barely follow—it's amazing they can even understand each other. For the most part I miss much of what's said between these two tweakers. Reading a couple of gestures, I'm guessing that introductions were just made. Spin Doctor puts down the rag in his hand and then takes off the criss-crossing bands of wrenches. He's just starting. Like a circus clown on performance in the center ring, he's pulling tools from what appear to be bottomless pockets and tossing them over his shoulders where they fall to the ground.