He stared at the red light. It grew dim. He snapped his eyes shut and opened them quickly. Now the light was a vague blur. And that damnable dizziness was back again, stronger than ever.
He shook his head to clear it. What was happening? His brain groped for an answer. There had to be one. Floyd was healthy. He was young and strong and kept himself in top condition. Why should, something like this happen when—
A voice behind him cut into his thoughts, “Say, mister, you feel okay?”
Floyd turned and faced the policemen. Fear balled up in his stomach, pushed into his throat, gagged him. The policemen were pointing to the sidewalk. “Look.”
On the concrete at Floyd’s feet were spatterings of fresh blood.
“That’s yours, mister. It’s your neck. Bleeding like hell. Didn’t you know it?”
Floyd’s hand tested the back of his neck. He pulled it away and stared stupidly at his blood-stained fingers.
“How’d it happen, buddy? Where were you?”
His mouth dried up. He couldn’t speak. He wasn’t sure what he could say even if he found his voice. His head spun crazily. He was aware of curious onlookers, but couldn’t see them.
One of the policemen said, “Grab a cab and take him to a hospital. I’ll see if I can find out where he’s been. Gotta check it out. Somebody else might be worse off.”
Floyd felt himself being lifted into a cab. For a fleeting second his blurred vision took in the cab’s rear view mirror. Then he remembered another mirror, a much larger one. Linda had tossed an ashtray and it had broken the mirror and bits of glass had sprayed out over him.
He’d been cut!
And all along he thought the moisture on the back of his neck was sweat.
The policeman in the cab with Floyd yelled to his partner, “How you gonna check it out, Pete? This guy’s practically out. You’ll never find out where he was.”
The other policeman chuckled. “It’s a cinch. All I have to do is follow his blood trail...”