His eyes closed, then opened and he said, "Hurry." He never closed them again. The gray film came and his stare was a lifeless one, hiding things I would have given an arm to know.
I sat there beside the bed looking at the dead man, my thoughts groping for a hold in a brain still soggy from too many bouts in too many bars. I couldn't think, so I simply looked and wondered where and when someone like him had found someone like her.
Cole had been a big man. His face, relaxed in death, had hard planes to it, a solid jaw line blue with beard and a nose that had been broken high on the bridge. There was a scar beside one eye running into the hairline that could have been made by a knife. Cole had been a hard man, all right. In a way a good-looking hardcase whose business was trouble.
His hand lay outside the sheet, the fingers big and the wrist thick. The knuckles were scarred, but none of the scars was fresh. They were old scars from old fights. The incongruous part was the nails. They were thick and square, but well cared for. They reflected all the care a manicurist could give with a treatment once a week.
The door opened and Pat and Larry came in. Together they looked at the body and stood there waiting. Then they looked at me and whatever they saw made them both go expressionless at once.
Larry made a brief inspection of the body on the bed, picked up a phone and relayed the message to someone on the other end. Within seconds another doctor was there with a pair of nurses verifying the situation, recording it all on a clipboard.
When he turned around he stared at me with a peculiar expression and said, "You feel all right?"
"I'm all right," I repeated. My voice seemed to come from someone else.
"Want another drink?"
"No."
"You'd better have one," Larry said.
"I don't want it."
Pat said, "The hell with him." His fingers slid under my arm. "Outside, Mike. Let's go outside and talk."
I wanted to tell him what he could do with his talk, but the numbness was there still, a frozen feeling that restricted thought and movement, painless but effective. So I let him steer me to the small waiting room down the hall and took the seat he pointed out.
There is no way to describe the immediate aftermath of a sudden shock. If it had come at another time in another year it would have been different, but now the stalk of despondency was withered and brittle, refusing to bend before a wind of elation.
All I could do was sit there, bringing back his words, the tone of his voice, the way his face crinkled as he saw me. Somehow he had expected something different. He wasn't looking for a guy who had the earmarks of the Bowery and every slop chute along the avenues etched into his skin.
I said, "Who was he, Pat?" in a voice soggy and hollow.
Pat didn't bother to answer my question. I could feel his eyes crawl over me until he asked, "What did he tell you?"
I shook my head. Just once. My way could be final too.
With a calm, indifferent sincerity Pat said, "You'll tell me. You'll get worked on until talking won't even be an effort. It will come out of you because there won't be a nerve ending left to stop it. You know that."
I heard Larry's strained voice say, "Come off it, Pat. He can't take much."
"Who cares. He's no good to anybody. He's a louse, a stinking, drinking louse. Now he's got something I have to have. You think I'm going to worry about him? Larry, buddy, you just don't know me very well anymore."
I said, "Who was he?"
The wall in front of me was a friendly pale green. It was blank from one end to the other. It was a vast, meadowlike area, totally unspoiled. There were no foreign markings, no distracting pictures. Unsympathetic. Antiseptic.
I felt Pat's shrug and his fingers bit into my arm once more. "Okay, wise guy. Now we'll do it my way."
"I told you, Pat--"
"Damn it, Larry, you knock it off. This bum is a lead to a killer. He learned something from that guy and I'm going to get it out of him. Don't hand me any pious crap or medical junk about what can happen. I know guys like this. I've been dealing with them all my life. They go on getting banged around from saloon to saloon, hit by cars, rolled by muggers and all they ever come up with are fresh scars. I can beat hell out of him and maybe he'll talk. Maybe he won't, but man, let me tell you this--I'm going to have my crack at him and when I'm through the medics can pick up the pieces for their go. Only first me, understand?"
Larry didn't answer him for a moment, then he said quietly. "Sure, I understand. Maybe you could use a little medical help yourself."
I heard Pat's breath hiss in softly. Like a snake. His hand relaxed on my arm and without looking I knew what his face was like. I had seen him go like that before and a second later he had shot a guy.
And this time it was me he listened to when I said, "He's right, old buddy. You're real sick."
I knew it would come and there wouldn't be any way of getting away from it. It was quick, it was hard, but it didn't hurt a bit. It was like flying away to never-never land where all is quiet and peaceful and awakening is under protest because then it will really hurt and you don't want that to happen.
Larry said, "How do you feel now?"
It was a silly question. I closed my eyes again.
"We kept you here in the hospital."
"Don't do me any more favors," I told him.
"No trouble. You're a public charge. You're on the books as an acute alcoholic with a D and D to boot and if you're real careful you might talk your way out on the street again. However, I have my doubts about it. Captain Chambers is pushing you hard."
"The hell with him."
"He's not the only one."
"So what's new?" My voice was raspy, almost gone.
"The D.A., his assistant and some unidentified personnel from higher headquarters are interested in whatever statement you'd care to make."
"The hell with them too."
"It could be instrumental in getting you out of here."
"Nuts. It's the first time I've been to bed in a long time. I like it here."
"Mike--" His voice had changed. There was something there now that wasn't that of the professional medic at a bedside. It was worried and urgent and I let my eyes slit open and looked at him.
"I don't like what's happening to Pat."
"Tough."
"A good word, but don't apply it to him. You're the tough one. You're not like him at all."
"He's tough."
"In a sense. He's a pro. He's been trained and can perform certain skills most men can't. He's a policeman and most men aren't that. Pat is a normal sensitive human. At least he was. I met him after you went to pot. I heard a lot about you, mister. I watched Pat change character day by day and what caused the change was you and what you did to Velda."
The name again. In one second I lived every day the name was alive and with me. Big, Valkyrian and with hair as black as night.
"Why should he care?"
"He says she was his friend."
Very slowly I squeezed my eyes open. "You know what she was to me?"
"I think so."
"Okay."
"But it could be he was in love with her too," he said.
I couldn't laugh like I wanted to. "She was in love with me, Doc."
"Nevertheless, he was in love with her. Maybe you never realized it, but that's the impression I got. He's still a bachelor, you know."
"Ah! He's in love with his job. I know him."
"Do you?"
I thought back to that night ago and couldn't help the grin that tried to climb up my face. "Maybe not, Doc, may be not. But it's an interesting thought. It explains a lot of things."
"He's after you now. To him, you killed her. His whole personality, his entire character has changed. You're the focal point. Until now he's never had a way to get to you to make you pay for what happened. Now he has you in a nice tight bind and, believe me, you're going to be racked back first class."