Well, we still have to be damned careful, Eddie said. They’ve got two Customs guys watching me. Us. Whatever the hell I am now.
I know we have to be careful, Roland returned. There aren’t two; there are five. Eddie suddenly felt one of the weirdest sensations of his entire life. He did not move his eyes but felt them moved. Roland moved them.
A guy in a muscle shirt talking into a telephone.
A woman sitting on a bench, rooting through her purse.
A young black guy who would have been spectacularly handsome except for the harelip which surgery had only partially repaired, looking at the tee-shirts in the newsstand Eddie had come from not long since.
There was nothing wrong about any of them on top, but Eddie recognized them for what they were nonetheless and it was like seeing those hidden images in a child’s puzzle, which, once seen, could never be unseen. He felt dull heat in his cheeks, because it had taken the other to point out what he should have seen at once. He had spotted only two. These three were a little better, but not that much; the eyes of the phoneman weren’t blank, imagining the person he was talking to but aware, actually looking, and the place where Eddie was . . . that was the place to which the phoneman’s eyes just happened to keep returning. The purse-woman didn’t find what she wanted or give up but simply went on rooting endlessly. And the shopper had had a chance to look at every shirt on the spindle-rack at least a dozen times.
All of a sudden Eddie felt five again, afraid to cross the street without Henry to hold his hand.
Never mind, Roland said. And don’t worry about the food, either. I’ve eaten bugs while they were still lively enough for some of them to go running down my throat.
Yeah, Eddie replied, but this is New York.
He took the dogs and the soda to the far end of the counter and stood with his back to the terminal’s main concourse. Then he glanced up in the left-hand corner. A convex mirror bulged there like a hypertensive eye. He could see all of his followers in it, but none was close enough to see the food and cup of soda, and that was good, because Eddie didn’t have the slightest idea what was going to happen to it.
Put the astin on the meat-things. Then hold everything in your hands.
Aspirin.
Good. Call it flutergork if you want, pr . . . Eddie. Just do it.
He took the Anacin out of the stapled bag he had stuffed in his pocket, almost put it down on one of the hotdogs, and suddenly realized that Roland would have problems just getting what Eddie thought of as the poison-proofing—off the tin, let alone opening it.
He did it himself, shook three of the pills onto one of the napkins, debated, then added three more.
Three now, three later, he said. If there is a later.
All right. Thank you.
Now what?
Hold all of it.
Eddie had glanced into the convex mirror again. Two of the agents were strolling casually toward the snack-bar, maybe not liking the way Eddie’s back was turned, maybe smelling a little prestidigitation in progress and wanting a closer look. If something was going to happen, it better happen quick.
He put his hands around everything, feeling the heat of the dogs in their soft white rolls, the chill of the Pepsi. In that moment he looked like a guy getting ready to carry a snack back to his kids . . . and then the stuff started to melt.
He stared down, eyes widening, widening, until it felt to him that they must soon fall out and dangle by their stalks.
He could see the hotdogs through the rolls. He could see the Pepsi through the cup, the ice-choked liquid curving to conform to a shape which could no longer be seen.
Then he could see the red Formica counter through the foot-longs and the white wall through the Pepsi. His hands slid toward each other, the resistance between them growing less and less . . . and then they closed against each other, palm to palm. The food . . . the napkins . . . the Pepsi-Cola . . . the six Anacin . . . all the things which had been between his hands were gone.