“I didn’t take a shower before I left the hotel,” Eddie said for the fourth time. “I was out by the pool, getting some sun. Trying to get rid of the rash. The allergy rash. I fell asleep. I was damned lucky to make the plane at all. I had to run like hell. The wind was blowing. I don’t know what stuck to my skin and what didn’t.”
Another reached out and ran a finger up the three inches of flesh from the inner bend of Eddie’s left elbow.
“And these aren’t needle tracks.”
Eddie shoved the hand away. “Mosquito bites. I told you. Almost healed. Jesus Christ, you can see that for yourself!”
They could. This deal hadn’t come up overnight. Eddie had stopped arm-popping a month ago. Henry couldn’t have done that, and that was one of the reasons it had been Eddie, had to be Eddie. When he absolutely had to fix, he had taken it very high on his upper left thigh, where his left testicle lay against the skin of the leg . . . as he had the other night, when the sallow thing had finally brought him some stuff that was okay. Mostly he had just snorted, something with which Henry could no longer content himself. This caused feelings Eddie couldn’t exactly define . . . a mixture of pride and shame. If they looked there, if they pushed his testicles aside, he could have some serious problems. A bloodtest could cause him problems even more serious, but that was one step further than they could go without some sort of evidence—and evidence was something they just didn’t have. They knew everything but could prove nothing. All the difference between world and want, his dear old mother would have said.
“Mosquito bites.”
“Yes.”
“And the red mark’s an allergic reaction.”
“Yes. I had it when I went to the Bahamas; it just wasn’t that bad.”
“He had it when he went down there,” one of the men said to another.
“Uh-huh,” the second said. “You believe it?”
“Sure.”
“You believe in Santa Claus?”
“Sure. When I was a kid I even had my picture taken with him once.” He looked at Eddie. “You got a picture of this famous red mark from before you took your little trip, Eddie?”
Eddie didn’t reply.
“If you’re clean, why won’t you take a bloodtest?” This was the first guy again, the guy with the cigarette in the corner of his mouth. It had almost burned down to the filter.
Eddie was suddenly angry—white-hot angry. He listened inside.
Okay, the voice responded at once, and Eddie felt more than agreement, he felt a kind of go-to-the-wall approval. It made him feel the way he felt when Henry hugged him, tousled his hair, punched him on the shoulder, and said You done good, kid—don’t let it go to your head, but you done good.
“You know I’m clean.” He stood up suddenly—so suddenly they moved back. He looked at the smoker who was closest to him. “And I’ll tell you something, babe, if you don’t get that coffin-nail out of my face I’m going to knock it out.”
The guy recoiled.
“You guys have emptied the crap-tank on that plane already. God, you’ve had enough time to have been through it three times. You’ve been through my stuff. I bent over and let one of you stick the world’s longest finger up my ass. If a prostate check is an exam, that was a motherfucking safari. I was scared to look down. I thought I’d see that guy’s fingernail sticking out of my cock.”
He glared around at them.
“You’ve been up my ass, you’ve been through my stuff, and I’m sitting here in a pair of Jockies with you guys blowing smoke in my face. You want a bloodtest? Kay. Bring in someone to do it.”