Part 18 (1/2)

The man sighed with relief, then demanded, ”How am I gonna take the shot without a spike?”

”Take it first; then get out.”

Andy followed the addict into the bathroom and watched him heat the powder on a spoon. Then he filled the syringe and shot it into the vein in his arm. It hit immediately, and he relaxed.

”Thanks,” he said. He handed the syringe to Andy. ”Thanks.”

”Get out.” The addict left, and Andy closed the door after him.

He washed the syringe in hot water, then put some heroin on a spoon. He deftly filled the syringe and gave himself a shot in the fleshy part of his arm.

It was far more satisfying than sniffing the powder. It was stronger and faster. He felt good.

As the heroin became more and more a part of his life, he switched to the mainline, shooting it directly into the vein. It was necessary to him now, and he itched to build up his trade until he controlled narcotics in the town. He knew he could handle it. Already, he had virtually replaced Sara. She was the messenger now, while he handled the important end. But she still called the shots, for she still held the trump card. And no matter how he argued, she would simply rub herself up against him and kiss him, and the argument would be finished. So he could do nothing but wait.

And, at last, he was one day ready.

He took a long, sharp knife from the kitchen drawer and walked slowly to the bedroom, where she lay reading. She looked up from the magazine and smiled at him, stretching languorously.

”Hi,” she said. ”What's up?”

He returned the smile, keeping the knife behind his back. ”I have news for you,” he said. ”We're expanding, like I suggested. No more small-time stuff, Sara.”

She sighed. ”Not again, Andy. I told you before...”

”This time I'm I'm telling telling you you.”

”Oh,” she said, amused. ”Do you think you can get along without me?”

”I know I can.”

”Really?” She threw back the bedcovers and smiled up at him. ”You need me, Andy.”

He forced himself to look at her. He ran his eyes over the firm b.r.e.a.s.t.s, the soft curves of her hips. He looked at her carefully, waiting for the familiar stir within him. It didn't come.

”I don't need you,” he said, slowly. ”Look.”

He held out his right hand, the hand that held the knife. He unb.u.t.toned the sleeve and rolled it down slowly, showing her the marks of the needle. ”See? I'm a junkie, Sara. I only care about one thing, baby, and it isn't you. You don't show me a thing.”

But her eyes were not on the marks on his arm. They were on the knife in his hand, and they were wide with fear.

”I don't need you at all,” he went on. ”I don't need liquor, I don't need s.e.x, I don't need you. You're just dead wood, Sara.”

She rose from the bed and moved toward him. ”Andy,” she cooed. ”Andy, honey.” Her whole body seemed to reach out for him, hungrily.

He shook his head. ”Sorry,” he said. ”It just won't work anymore. I don't care about it. Just the horse is all that matters.”

She looked into his eyes, and they were flat and uncaring. ”Wait,” she said. ”We'll play it your way, Andy. We'll expand, like you said. Anything you say.”

”You don't understand. I don't need need you.” you.”

”Please!” she moaned. ”Please!”

”Sorry. It's time for my shot.” And he lowered the knife.

He moved toward her and she tried to back away, but he kept coming, the knife pointed at her. ”No!” she shrieked. And she started to say something else, but before she could get the words out the knife was in her heart.

A SHROUD FOR THE d.a.m.nED.

SIGMUND OPENED THE DOOR SLOWLY and tiptoed inside. The door squeaked shut behind him as he headed for his room. The night was still and dark and Sigmund was very tired. He wanted to sleep. and tiptoed inside. The door squeaked shut behind him as he headed for his room. The night was still and dark and Sigmund was very tired. He wanted to sleep.

”Sigmund!” He started at the voice.

She was sitting in the red armchair. At least it had been red once, many years and several owners ago. With the pa.s.sage of time the color had faded almost entirely away, and in the dim lamplight the chair was an unimaginative gray. And she looked gray in the lamplight, with her hands so busy and her eyes so still. She looked as gray and as shop-worn as the old armchair.

”Hi, Ma,” he said. ”I thought you'd be sleeping.” He smiled automatically and started once again for his room.

”Sigmund!” The voice caught him, halted him in his tracks, and turned him toward her once more.

”Come here, Sigmund.”

He tiptoed at first, until he realized that she was awake and that she had seen him, and he had no reason to walk softly. He crossed to the side of the old armchair and stood there awkwardly, looking down at her, waiting for her to speak.

”Sit down,” she said. ”In the other chair. Sit down so your mother can talk to you. You're so tall I can't talk to you when you stand up. You grew fast this last year, Sigmund.”

He started to protest, started to tell her how tired he was, then gave it up and took the seat across from her. He sat, watching her, and if her hands had not been moving all the while he would have thought that she was sleeping. But her hands moved, quick and sure, and they were as much alive as her eyes were dead.

”Sigmund,” she said at last, ”you were out late.”

He looked away. ”It's not so late.”

”Late,” she said, firmly. ”You should come home early and be with your mother. Then maybe you could wake up mornings. It's not good you should sleep so late in the mornings.” He didn't say anything. He started to tap his foot on the floor, slowly and rhythmically, but after a few experimental taps the foot stopped by itself.

”You know what I'm doing?”

”Knitting,” he said.

”Smart boy. And do you know what I'm knitting?”

He shook his head, desiring only to end the conversation and crawl into his warm bed. But she had no one else to talk to, and she seemed so horribly alone, always looking desperately and methodically for something which was no longer present.

”You don't know,” she said, accusingly. ”In the old country you would know, but here...” She shrugged briefly and left the sentence dangling, unfinished.

Here we go, he thought. The old country bit again. You'd think she was still living there.

”It's a shroud,” she said. ”You know what's a shroud for?”