“Jesus,” Eddie moaned. “What do we do now?”
“Now you get exactly as much of the （devil-powder the gunslinger said; cocaine Eddie heard） as you promised the man Balazar,” Roland said, “no more and no less. And we go back.” He looked levelly at Eddie. “Only this time I have to go back with you. As myself.”
“Jesus Christ,” Eddie said. “Can you do that?” And at once answered his own question. “Sure you can. But why?”
“Because you can’t handle this alone,” Roland said. “Come here.”
Eddie looked back at the squirming hump of clawed creatures on the beach. He had never liked Jack Andolini, but he felt his stomach roll over just the same.
“Come here,” Roland said impatiently. “We’ve little time, and I have little liking for what I must do now. It’s something I’ve never done before. Never thought I would do.” His lips twisted bitterly. “I’m getting used to doing things like that.”
Eddie approached the scrawny figure slowly, on legs that felt more and more like rubber. His bare skin was white and glimmering in the alien dark. Just who are you, Roland? he thought. What are you? And that heat I feel baking off you—is it just fever? Or some kind of madness? I think it might be both.
God, he needed a fix. More: he deserved a fix.
“Never done what before?” he asked. “What are you talking about?”
“Take this,” Roland said, and gestured at the ancient revolver slung low on his right hip. Did not point; there was no finger to point with, only a bulky, rag-wrapped bundle. “It’s no good to me. Not now, perhaps never again.”
“I . . .” Eddie swallowed. “I don’t want to touch it.”
“I don’t want you to either,” the gunslinger said with curious gentleness, “but I’m afraid neither of us has a choice. There’s going to be shooting.”
“There is?”
“Yes.” The gunslinger looked serenely at Eddie. “Quite a lot of it, I think.”
18
Balazar had become more and more uneasy. Too long. They had been in there too long and it was too quiet. Distantly, maybe on the next block, he could hear people shouting at each other and then a couple of rattling reports that were probably firecrackers . . . but when you were in the sort of business Balazar was in, firecrackers weren’t the first thing you thought of.
A scream. Was that a scream?
Never mind. Whatever’s happening on the next block has nothing to do with you. You’re turning into an old woman.
All the same, the signs were bad. Very bad.
“Jack?” he yelled at the closed bathroom door.
There was no answer.
Balazar opened the left front drawer of his desk and took out the gun. This was no Colt Cobra, cozy enough to fit in a clamshell holster; it was a .357 Magnum.
“ ’Cimi!” he shouted. “I want you!”
He slammed the drawer. The tower of cards fell with a soft, sighing thump. Balazar didn’t even notice.
’Cimi Dretto, all two hundred and fifty pounds of him, filled the doorway. He saw that Da Boss had pulled his gun out of the drawer, and ’Cimi immediately pulled his own from beneath a plaid jacket so loud it could have caused flash-burns on anyone who made the mistake of looking at it too long.
“I want Claudio and Tricks,” he said. “Get them quick. The kid is up to something.”
“We got a problem,” ’Cimi said.
Balazar’s eyes flicked from the bathroom door to ’Cimi. “Oh, I got plenty of those already,” he said. “What’s this new one, ’Cimi?”