But Roland needed no voice to tell him what that other reason was. He had seen that in Jake’s eyes when the boy finally began to understand his purpose.
Don’t make the mistake of putting your heart near his hand.
Good advice. You did yourself ill to feel well of those to whom ill must eventually be done.
Remember your duty, Roland.
“I’ve never forgotten it,” he husked as the stars shone pitilessly down and the waves grated on the shore and the lobster monstrosities cried their idiot questions. “I’m damned for my duty. And why should the damned turn aside?”
He began to eat the meat popkins which Eddie called “dogs.”
Roland didn’t much care for the idea of eating dog, and these things tasted like gutter-leavings compared to the tooter-fish, but after that marvellous drink, did he have any right to complain? He thought not. Besides, it was late in the game to worry overmuch about such niceties.
He ate everything and then returned to the place where now Eddie was, in some magical vehicle that rushed along a metal road filled with other such vehicles . . . dozens, maybe hundreds, and not a horse pulling a single one.
7
Eddie stood ready as the pizza truck pulled up; Roland stood even more ready inside of him.
Just another version of Diana’s Dream, Roland thought. What was in the box? The golden bowl or the biter-snake? And just as she turns the key and puts her hands upon the lid she hears her mother calling “Wake up, Diana! It’s time to milk!”
Okay, Eddie thought. Which is it gonna be? The lady or the tiger?
A man with a pale, pimply face and big buck teeth looked out of the pizza truck’s passenger window. It was a face Eddie knew.
“Hi, Col,” Eddie said without much enthusiasm. Beyond Col Vincent, sitting behind the wheel, was Old Double-Ugly, which was what Henry called Jack Andolini.
But Henry never called him that to his face, Eddie thought. No, of course not. Calling Jack something like that to his face would be a wonderful way to get yourself killed. He was a huge man with a bulging caveman’s forehead and a prothagonous jaw to match. He was related to Enrico Balazar by marriage . . . a niece, a cousin, some fucking thing. His gigantic hands clung to the wheel of the delivery truck like the hands of a monkey clinging to a branch. Coarse sprouts of hair grew from his ears. Eddie could only see one of those ears now because Jack Andolini remained in profile, never looking around.
Old Double-Ugly. But not even Henry （who, Eddie had to admit, was not always the most perceptive guy in the world） had ever made the mistake of calling him Old Double-Stupid. Colin Vincent was no more than a glorified gofer. Jack, however, had enough smarts behind that Neanderthal brow to be Balazar’s number one lieutenant. Eddie didn’t like the fact that Balazar had sent a man of such importance. He didn’t like it at all.
“Hi, Eddie,” Col said. “Heard you had some trouble.”
“Nothing I couldn’t handle,” Eddie said. He realized he was scratching first one arm then the other, one of the typical junkie moves he had tried so hard to keep away from while they had him in custody. He made himself stop. But Col was smiling, and Eddie felt an urge to slam a fist all the way through that smile and out the other side. He might have done it, too . . . except for Jack. Jack was still staring straight ahead, a man who seemed to be thinking his own rudimentary thoughts as he observed the world in the simple primary colors and elementary motions which were all a man of such intellect （or so you’d think, looking at him） could perceive. Yet Eddie thought Jack saw more in a single day than Col Vincent would in his whole life.
“Well, good,” Col said. “That’s good.”
Silence. Col looked at Eddie, smiling, waiting for Eddie to start the Junkie Shuffle again, scratching, shifting from foot to foot like a kid who needs to go to the bathroom, waiting mostly for Eddie to ask what was up, and by the way, did they just happen to have any stuff on them?