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.”
“Fuck your 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.
Eddie indicated the red band where the tape had been. “It itches,” he said. This was no lie. “I fell asleep on the plane—check the stew if you don’t believe me—”
“Why wouldn’t we believe you, Eddie?”
“I don’t know,” Eddie said. “Do you usually get big drug smugglers who snooze on their way in?” He paused, gave them a second to think about it, then held out his hands. Some of the nails were ragged. Others were jagged. When you went cool turkey, he had discovered, your nails suddenly became your favorite munchies. “I’ve been pretty good about not scratching, but I must have dug myself a damned good one while I was sleeping.”
“Or while you were on the nod. That could be a needlemark.” Eddie could see they both knew better. You shot yourself up that close to the solar plexus, which was the nervous system’s switchboard, you weren’t ever going to shoot yourself up again.
“Give me a break,” Eddie said. “You were in my face so close to look at my pupils I thought you were going to soul-kiss me. You know I wasn’t on the nod.”
The third Customs agent looked disgusted. “For an innocent lambikins, you know an awful lot about dope, Eddie.”
“What I didn’t pick up on Miami Vice I got from the Reader’s Digest. Now tell me the truth—how many times are we going to go through this?”
A fourth agent held up a small plastic Baggie. In it were several fibers.
“These are filaments. We’ll get the lab confirmation, but we know what sort they are. They’re filaments of strapping tape.”