Larry stood just before the bed, his fists clenched.
"Why am I a prisoner?" he shouted.
"You're not a prisoner," Byrnes said calmly.
"No? Then what is it when the door's locked? What the hell, am I a criminal or something?"
"To be technical, yes, you are."
"Dad, listen, don't play games with me today. I'm not in any goddamn mood to be playing games."
"You were found by a law-enforcement officer to be carrying a hypodermic syringe. That's against the law. That law-enforcement officer also found an eighth of an ounce of heroin in your dresser drawer, and that's against the law. So you are, in effect, a criminal, and I am aiding and abetting you—so shut up, Larry."
"Don't tell me to shut up, Dad. What was that crap your friend gave me?"
"What?"
"Your big friend. Your big-shot doctor friend. He's probably never seen an addict in his whole life. What'd you drag him in for? What makes you think I need him? I told you I could drop the stuff any time I wanted to, didn't I? So what'd you have to call him in for? I hate that son of a bitch."
"He happened to bring you into the world, Larry."
"So what am I supposed to do? Give him a medal or something? He got paid for the delivery, didn't he?"
"He's a friend, Larry."
"Then why'd he tell you to lock me in my room?"
"Because he doesn't want you to leave this house. You're sick."
"Oh, Jesus, I'm sick. I'm sick, all right. I'm sick of everybody's attitude around here. I told you I'm not hooked! Now what do I have to do to prove it?"
"You're hooked, Larry," Byrnes said quietly.
"I'm hooked, I'm hooked, I'm hooked, is that the only goddamn song you know? Is that the only one you and your big-shot doctor friend rehearsed? Jesus Christ, how'd I ever get such a goddamn square for a father?"
"I'm sorry I disappoint you," Byrnes said.
"Oh boy, here we go. Here comes the martyred-father-hood routine! I saw this in the movies ever since I was eight. Turn it off, Pop, it doesn't reach me."
"I'm not trying to reach you," Byrnes said. "I'm trying to cure you."
"How? With that crap your friend gave me? What was that crap, anyway?"
"A substitute drug of some sort."
"Yeah? Well, it's no damn good. I feel exactly the same. You could have saved your money. Listen, you want to do me a real favor? You really want to cure me?"
"You know I do."
"All right, go out and scare me up some junk. There must be plenty of it down at the station house. Listen, I got a better idea. Give me back that eighth you took from my dresser."
"No."
"Why not? Damnit, you just said you wanted to help me! Okay, so why won't you help me? Don't you want to help me?"
"I want to help you."
"Then get me the stuff."
"No."
"You big son of a bitch," Larry said, and the tears suddenly started on his face. "Why don't you help me? Get out of here! Get out of here! Get out of here, you lousy…" and the last sentence dissolved into a series of animal sobs.
"Larry…"
"Get out!" Larry shrieked.
"Son…"
"Don't call me your son! Don't call me that! What the hell do you care about me? You're just afraid you'll lose your cushy job because I'm a junkie, that's all."
"That's not true, Larry."
"It is true! You're scared crap because you think somebody'll find out about my habit and about those fingerprints on the syringe! Okay, you bastard, okay, you just wait 'til I get to a telephone."
"You're not getting to a phone until you're cured, Larry."
"That's what you think! When I get to a phone, I'm gonna call the newspapers, and I'm gonna tell them all about it. Now, how about that? How about it, Dad? HOW ABOUT IT? Do I get that eighth?"
"You're not getting the heroin, and you're not getting near a phone, either. Now relax, son."
"I don't want to relax!" Larry shouted. "I can't relax! Listen, you! Now listen to me, you! Now you just listen to me!" He stood facing his father, his face streaked with tears, his eyes red, pointing his finger up at his father's face, shaking the finger as if it were a dagger. "Now listen to me! I want that stuff, do you hear me? Now you get that stuff for me, do you hear?"
"I hear you. You're not getting any heroin. If you want me to, I'll call John again."
"I don't want your snotnose doctor here again!"
"He's going to keep treating you until you're cured, Larry."
"Cured of what? Can't you get it through your head that I'm not sick? What's he going to cure?"
"If you're not sick, why do you want a shot?"
"To tide me over, you damn jerk!"
"Over what?"
"Until I'm okay again. Damnit, do I have to spell everything out? What's the matter, are you stupid? I thought you were a cop, I thought cops were supposed to be smart!"
"I'll call Johnny," Byrnes said. He turned and started for the door.
"No!" Larry screamed. "I don't want him here again! That's it! That's final! Now that's it!"
"He might be able to lessen your pain."
"What pain? Don't talk to me about pain. What do you know about pain? You've been living all your stupid life, and you don't know half the pain I know. I'm eighteen, and I know more pain than you'll ever know. So don't tell me about pain. You don't know pain, you bastard!"
"Larry, do you want me to knock you down?" Byrnes asked quietly.
"What? What? You going to hit me? Okay, go ahead. Be a big muscle man, what the hell will that get you? You going to beat me out of this?"
"Out of what?"
"Out of what, out of what, I don't know what! Oh, you're a tricky bastard. You're trying to get me to say I'm sick, ain't you? You're trying to get me to say I'm hooked, I know. I know. Well, I'm not!"
"I'm not trying to get you to say anything."
"No, huh? Well then, go ahead, why don't you beat me? Why don't you make believe this is your squad room, go ahead, start using your fists, start beating me up. You can take me easy. You can…" He stopped suddenly and clutched at his stomach. He stood doubled over, his arm crossing his middle. Byrnes watched him helplessly.
"Larry…"
"Shhh," Larry said softly.
"Son, what…?"
"Shhhh, shhhh." He stood rocking on his heels, back and forth, clutching his stomach, and then finally he lifted his head, and his eyes were wet, and this time the tears coursed down his face, and he said, "Dad, I'm sick, I'm very sick."
Byrnes went to him and put his arm around his shoulder. He tried to think of something comforting to say, but nothing would come to his tongue.
"Dad, I'm asking you, please. Please, Dad, would you please get me something? Dad, please, I'm very sick, and I need a fix. So please, Dad, please, I'm begging you, get me something. Please get me something, just a little bit to tide me over, please, Dad, please. I'll never, never ask you for anything else as long as I live. I'll leave home, I'll do whatever you say, but please get me something, Dad. If you love me, please get me something."
"I'll call Johnny," Byrnes said.
"No, Dad, please, please, that stuff he gave me is no good, it doesn't help."
"He'll try something else."
"No, please, please, please, please…"
"Larry, Larry, son…"
"Dad, if you love me…"
"I love you, Larry," Byrnes said, and he held his son's shoulder tightly, and there were tears on his own face now, and his son shuddered and then said, "I have to go to the bathroom. I have to… Dad, help me, help me."
And Byrnes took his son to the bathroom across the hall, and Larry was very sick. At the foot of the stairs, Harriet stood with her hands wrung together, and after a while her husband and her son crossed the hall again, and then Byrnes came out of Larry's bedroom and locked the door on the outside and went down the steps to his wife.