Ike the Spike should have been dead by now. Mort. Kaput. Yet, here he is, crouched on the sidewalk beside me, alive and relatively well. Once again, proving--only the good die young.

A bit of background:

His real name is Nicholas Dwight Gallo, son of one of the Gallo brothers of restaurant fame. I nicked him Ike The Spike due to his middle name and needle fixation. As if heroin and cocaine were not additive enough, Ike couldn't stay off the spike.

He carried his kit in a leather pouch attached to his belt. If arrogance were apples, he'd be an orchard. His veins read like a braille autobiography of self-annihilation--one prick at a time.

As with most Chicago offspring of the rich and notorious, Nick's bon vivant lifestyle peppered the society page until his mug shots outnumbered his paparazzi portfolio. Then the darling of the celebrity A-list turned to persona non grata on everybody's list.

A few years back, I get this call from his old man, a guy I'd rubbed noses with a few times. "Do me a big one," he said.

"I think I already did," I answered back.

"Nah, I'm talking about my kid. Give him a job," he said. "Straighten him out."

"What's his forte?" I asked.

"Fucking up," he said. "I'll owe you big time if you get him out of my hair for a few months."

My favorite words, "I'll owe you. "

I agreed. Q resisted.

"Babysitting a junkie is not in my job description," Q grumbled.

"Your job description is facilitating your employer. I need facilitating."

"He ain't gonna like my house rules."

"And I care for what reason?"

Ike moved in with a backpack and an attitude. The house rules were short and simply put. "You cop, I cut," Q said.

"Cut what, Mr. Fancy Pants?" Ike asked like a scarecrow throwin' shade.

"I will uncouple your digits from your metacarpus."

"Whaaattt!" Ike asked.

"He'll cut your fucking fingers off," I said before I had to fetch my thesaurus.

The first month passed without incident if you discount the occasional late-night come-to-Jesus realignment chat. Q can be very persuasive when sleep deprived. I bought an extra ice pack.

Then, Ike did the unthinkable. He moved in on Biggie. I blame myself. I missed all the signals--their shared interest in photography, video games, and Hostess Ding Dongs.

As it turned out, Stella, ever the romantic, facilitated their tete-a-tete, and Thursday Movie night became a regular thing. I was just happy to have one night a week without Stella and Biggie hogging the TV.

A good thing. Right? What could go wrong?

Famous last words. Yes, indeed, what could possibly go wrong?

To be continued.