The drawing of the three - Stephen King [37]
“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 blood-test?” 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.”
They murmured, looked at each other. Surprised. Uneasy.
“But if you want to do it without a court order,” Eddie said, “whoever does it better bring a lot of extra hypos and vials, because I’ll be damned if I’m gonna piss alone. I want a Federal marshal in here, and I want each one of you to take the same goddam test, and I want your names and IDs on each vial, and I want them to go into that Federal marshal’s custody. And whatever you test mine for—cocaine, heroin, bennies, pot, whatever—I want those same tests performed on the samples from you guys. And then I want the results turned over to my lawyer.”
“Oh boy, YOUR LAWYER,” one of them cried. “That’s what it always comes down to with you shitbags, doesn’t it, Eddie? You’ll hear from MY LAWYER. I’ll sic MY LAWYER on you. That crap makes me want to puke!”
“As a matter of fact I don’t currently have one,” Eddie said, and this was the truth. “I didn’t think I needed one. You guys changed my mind. You got nothing because I have nothing, but the rock and roll just doesn’t stop, does it? So you want me to dance? Great. I’ll dance. But I’m not gonna do it alone. You guys’ll have to dance, too.”
There was a thick, difficult silence.
“I’d like you to take down your shorts again, please, Mr. Dean,” one of them said. This guy was older. This guy looked like he was in charge of things. Eddie thought that maybe—just maybe—this guy had finally realized where the fresh tracks might be. Until now they hadn’t checked. His arms, his shoulders, his legs . . . but not there. They had been too sure they had a bust.
“I’m through taking things off, taking things down, and eating this shit,” Eddie said. “You get someone in here and we’ll do a bunch of blood-tests or I’m getting out. Now which do you want?”
That silence again. And when they started looking at each other, Eddie knew he had won.
WE won, he amended. What’s your name, fella?
Roland. Yours is Eddie. Eddie Dean.
You listen good.
Listen and watch.
“Give him his clothes,” the older man said disgustedly. He looked at Eddie. “I don’t know what you had or how you got rid of it, but I want