The drawing of the three - Stephen King [36]
“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.”
“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 blood-test 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.