for a moment, then yanked it out so hard he pulled the sleeve back again with it.
Thud,and the bathroom door shivered again.
“Gods, how can you be so clumsy?” the gunslinger moaned, and rammed his own fist into
the left sleeve of Eddie’s shirt. Eddie grabbed the cuff as the gunslinger pulled back. Now
the gunslinger held the shirt for him as a butler might hold a coat for his master. Eddie put
it on and groped for the lowest button.
“Not yet!” the gunslinger barked, and tore another piece away from his own diminishing
shirt. “Wipe your gut!”
Eddie did the best he could. The dimple where the knife had actually pierced his skin was
still welling blood. The blade was sharp, all right. Sharp enough.
He dropped the bloody wad of the gunslinger’s shirt on the sand and buttoned his shirt.
Thud.This time the door did more than shudder; it buckled in its frame. Looking through
the doorway on the beach, Eddie saw the bottle of liquid soap fall from where it had been
standing beside the basin. It landed on his zipper bag.
He had meant to stuff his shirt, which was now buttoned (and buttoned straight, for a
wonder), into his pants. Suddenly a better idea struck him. He unbuckled his belt instead.
“There’s no time for that!” The gunslinger realized he was trying to scream and was unable.
“That door’s only got one hit left in it!”
“I know what I’m doing,” Eddie said, hoping he did, and stepped back through the
doorway between the worlds, unsnapping his jeans and raking the zipper down as he went.
After one desperate, despairing moment, the gunslinger followed him; physical and full of
hot physical ache at one moment, nothing but cool ka in Eddie’s head at the next.
18
“One more,” McDonald said grimly, and Deere nodded. Now that all the passengers were
out of the jetway as well as the plane itself, the Customs agents had drawn their weapons.
“Now!”
The two men drove forward and hit the door together. It flew open, a chunk of it hanging
for a moment from the lock and then dropping to the floor.
And there sat Mr. 3A, with his pants around his knees and the tails of his faded paisley
shirt concealing—barely—his jackhandle. Well, it sure does look like we caught him in the
act, Captain McDonald thought wearily. Only trouble is, the act we caught him in wasn’t against the law, last I heard. Suddenly he could feel the throb in his shoulder where he had hit the door—what? three times? four?
Out loud he barked, “What in hell’s name are you doing in there, mister?”
“Well, I was taking a crap, ” 3A said, “but if all you guys got a bad problem, I guess I could wipe myself in the terminal—”
“And I suppose you didn’t hear us, smart guy?”
“Couldn’t reach the door.” 3A put out his hand to dem- onstrate, and although the door was now hanging askew against the wall to his left, McDonald could see his point. “I suppose I
could have gotten up, but I, like, had a desperate situation on my hands. Except it wasn’t
exactly on my hands, if you get my drift. Nor did I want it on my hands, if you catch my further drift.” 3A smiled a winning, slightly daffy smile which looked to Captain
McDonald approximately as real as a nine-dollar bill. Listening to him, you’d think no one
had ever taught him the simple trick of leaning forward.
“Get up,” McDonald said.
“Be happy to. If you could just move the ladies back a little?” 3 A smiled charmingly. “I know it’s outdated in this day and age, but I can’t help it. I’m modest. Fact is, I’ve got a lot to be modest about.” He held up his left hand, thumb and forefinger roughly half an inch apart, and winked at Jane Doming, who blushed bright red and immediately disap- peared up the
jetway, closely followed by Susy.
You don’tlook modest, Captain McDonald thought. You look like a cat that just got the cream, that’s what you look like.
When the stews were out of sight, 3 A stood and pulled up his shorts and jeans. He then
reached for the flush button and Captain McDonald promptly knocked his hand away,
grabbed his shoulders, and pivoted him toward the aisle. Deere hooked a restraining hand into the back of his pants.
“Don’t get personal,” Eddie said. His voice was light and just right—he thought so,
anyway—but inside everything was in free fall. He could feel that other, feel him clearly.
He was inside his mind, watching him closely, standing steady, mean- ing to move in if
Eddie fucked up. God, it all had to be a dream, didn’t it? Didn’t it?
“Stand still,” Deere said.
Captain McDonald peered into the toilet.
“No shit,” he said, and when the navigator let out a bray of involuntary laughter,
McDonald glared at him.
“Well, you know how it is,” Eddie said. “Sometimes you get lucky and it’s just a false alarm. I let off a couple of real rippers, though. I mean, we’re talking swamp gas. If you’d lit
a match in here three minutes ago, you could have roasted a Thanksgiving turkey, you
know? It must have been some- thing I ate before I got on the plane, I g—”
“Get rid of him,” McDonald said, and Deere, still holding Eddie by the back of the pants,
propelled him out of the plane and into the jetway, where each Customs officer took one
arm.
“Hey!” Eddie cried. “I want my bag! And I want my jacket!”
“Oh, we want you to have all your stuff,” one of the officers said. His breath, heavy with the smell of Maalox and stomach acid, puffed against Eddie’s face. “We’re very inter- ested
in your stuff. Now let’s go, little buddy.”
Eddie kept telling them to take it easy, mellow out, he could walk just fine, but he thought
later the tips of his shoes only touched the floor of the jetway three or four times between
the 727’s hatch and the exit to the terminal, where three more Customs officers and half a
dozen airport security cops stood, the Customs guys waiting for Eddie, the cops holding
back a small crowd that stared at him with uneasy, avid interest as he was led away.
CHAPTER 4
THE TOWER
1
Eddie Dean was sitting in a chair. The chair was in a small white room. It was the only chair in the small white room. The small white room was crowded. The small white room
was smoky. Eddie was in his underpants. Eddie wanted a cigarette. The other six—no,
seven—men in the small white room were dressed. The other men were standing around
him, enclosing him. Three—no, four—of them were smoking cigarettes.
Eddie wanted to jitter and jive. Eddie wanted to hop and bop.
Eddie sat still, relaxed, looking at the men around him with amused interest, as if he wasn’t
going crazy for a fix, as if he wasn’t going crazy from simple claustrophobia.
The other in his mind was the reason why. He had been terrified of the other at first. Now he thanked God the other was there.
The other might be sick, dying even, but there was enough steel left in his spine for him to have some left to loan this scared twenty-one-year-old junkie.
“That is a very interesting red mark on your chest,” one of the Customs men said. A
cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth. There was a pack in his shirt pocket. Eddie felt
as if he could take about five of the cigarettes in that pack, line his mouth with them from
corner to corner, light them all, inhale deeply, and be easier in his mind. “It looks like a stripe. It looks like you had something taped there, Eddie, and all at once decided it would
be a good idea to rip it off and get rid of it.”
“I picked up an allergy in the Bahamas,” Eddie said. “I told you that. I mean, we’ve been through all of this several times. I’m trying to keep my sense of humor, but it’s getting
harder all the time.”
“Fuckyour sense of humor,” another said savagely, and Eddie recognized that tone. It was the way he himself sounded when he’d spent half a night in the cold waiting for the man
and the man didn’t come. Because these guys were junkies, too. The only difference was
guys like him and Henry were their junk.
“What about that hole in your gut? Where’d that come from, Eddie? Publishers’ Clearing
House?” A third agent was pointing at the spot where Eddie had poked himself. It had
finally stopped dribbling but there was still a dark purple bubble there which looked more
than ready to break open at the slightest urging.