“I never turned her on to no drugs, man,” the man said. “She was takin’ shit long before I met her. What I was doing, I was doing her a favor. She lives with her mother, she said. Her mother works at night, over at the beach, she said. And her father split a couple of years back for Hawaii. So Hildy asked me if she could sell some for me. She was trying to save up enough money to go to her father in Hawaii. That’s all. And the other kid, a black kid, who used to sell for me at Bethune, he took off for Jacksonville with fifty bucks he owed me. I needed someone at Bethune, and I told Hildy I’d give her a chance. She needed the bread, she said. She wanted to live with her father in Hawaii. So what I was doing, I was doing her a favor.”
He ran down. We all stared at him. Beneath his heavy tan, his face was flushed, and he perspired heavily in the air-conditioned room.
“I ain’t no worse’n you guys,” the man in the yellow jumpsuit said. “What the hell, you guys picked her up to screw her, didn’t you? Well, didn’t you?”
“You mean you were screwing her, too?” Don said.
“No — I never touched her. She might’ve gone down on me a couple of times, but I never touched her.”
“What do you mean, ‘might have’?” Don said. “Did she or didn’t she?”
“Yeah, I guess she did, a couple of times. But I never made her do it. She wanted to, she said.”
Don fired the pistol. It was like a small explosion in the crowded room. Hank, standing in the kitchenette archway, dropped his glass on the floor. It didn’t break. Eddie, sitting beside me, sucked in his breath. The man in the yellow jumpsuit clawed at his chest with both hands. He sank to his knees and his back arched as his head fell back. The back of his head hit the couch and his arms dropped loosely to his sides. He remained in that position, without toppling, his face in the air, looking up at nothing, on his knees, with his back arched and his head and neck supported by the couch. Don made a funny noise in his throat. There was a widening red circle on the man’s hairy chest, as blood bubbled from a dark round hole. I stood up, took the pistol away from Don, and returned the gun to my belt holster. The man in the yellow jumpsuit had voided and the stench filled the room. I crossed to the TV and turned up the volume.
“I didn’t—” Don said. “I didn’t touch the trigger! It went off by itself!”
“Sit down, Don,” Hank said. He crossed to Don, and gently pushed him down into the Danish chair. “We know it was an accident, Don.”
“Eddie,” I said, “open the windows, and turn the air-conditioning to fan.”
Eddie nodded, and started toward the bedroom where the thermostat was on the wall. I opened the door to the outside hallway. Keeping my hand on the knob, I looked up and down the corridor. A gunshot sounds exactly like a gunshot and nothing else. But most people don’t know that. I was prepared, in case someone stuck his head out, to ask him if he heard a car backfire. The sound from the TV, inside Hank’s apartment, was loud enough to hear in the corridor. I waited outside for a moment longer, and when no heads appeared, I ducked back inside and put the night lock on the door.
“Larry,” Hank said, “d’you think I should give Don a sedative?”
“Hell no,” I said. “Let him lie down for a while on your bed, but we don’t want him dopey on us, for Christ’s sake.”
Don was the color of old expensive parchment, as if his olive tan had been diluted with a powerful bleach. His eyes were glazed slightly, and he leaned on Hank heavily as Hank led him into the bedroom.
Eddie grinned, and shook his head. “What a night,” he said. “When I opened the damned window behind the couch, I accidentally stepped on the guy’s hand. One of his damned fingers broke.” Eddie looked away from me; his mouth was twitching at the corners.
“Don’t worry about it, Ed,” I said. “You and I are going to have to get rid of him, you know — both of them.”
“That figures. Any ideas?”
Hank came back from the bedroom. “I’m treating Don for shock,” he said. “I’ve covered him with a blanket, and now I’m going to make him some hot tea.”
“Never mind the fucking tea,” I said. “I’m not worried about Don. We’ve got to get these bodies out of here.”
“I know that,” Hank said. “What do you suggest?”
“We’ll put them into the backseat of the convertible, and then I’ll drive his car over to the Japanese Garden on the MacArthur Causeway. I’ll just park the car in the lot and leave it.” I turned to Eddie. “You can follow me in my Vega, and pick me up.”
“Okay,” Eddie said. I gave him my car keys.
“I’ll go with you, if you want,” Hank said.
“There’s no point, Hank. You can stay here after we load the bodies, and make some fucking tea for Don.”
“Wait a minute,” Hank said, “you don’t have to—”
“I don’t have to what?” I said.
“Cut it out, you guys,” Eddie said. “Go ahead, Larry. Get the convertible and park it by the fire exit. I’ll bring the girl down first, but it’ll take all three of us to carry him down.”
“All right,” I said. “Except for the money, put the girl’s bag and his wallet and all their other stuff into a paper sack.” I pointed to the stuff on the coffee table. “And we’ll need something to cover him up.”
“I’ve got a GI blanket in the closet,” Hank said.
Taking the car keys to the convertible from Eddie, I left the apartment.
While Eddie and I wedged the girl between the back and front seats on the floor of the convertible, Hank held the fire door open for us. We covered her with the beach towel, and I tucked the end under her head.
“Shouldn’t one of us stay down here with the car?” Eddie asked.
“No,” I said. “He’s too heavy. It’ll take all three of us to bring him down. It won’t take us long. We’ll just take a chance, that’s all.”
On the way back to Hank’s apartment, we ran into Marge Brewer in the corridor. She was in her nurse’s uniform, and had just come off duty at Jackson Memorial. She was coming toward us from the elevator.
“I’m beat,” she said, looking at Hank. “A twelve-hour split shift. I’m going to whomp up a big batch of martinis. D’you all want to come down in ten minutes? I’ll share.”
“Give us a rain check, Marge,” Hank said. “We’re going down to the White Shark and shoot some pool.”
“Sure,” she said. “’Night.”
We paused outside Hank’s apartment. Hank fumbled with his keys at the door until she rounded the corner at the end of the corridor.
“Go inside,” I said. “I’d better pull the emergency stop on the elevator. You can take it off after we leave, Hank.”
They went inside. I hurried down the hall, opened the elevator door, and pulled out the red knob. There was an elevator on the other side of the building, and the residents who didn’t want to climb the stairs could use that one.
Hank and I, being so much bigger than Eddie, supported the man in the yellow jumpsuit between us. We each draped an arm over our shoulders, and carried him, with his feet dragging, down the corridor. If someone saw us, it would look — at least from a distance — as if we were supporting a drunk. Eddie, a few feet in front of us, carried the folded army blanket and the sack of stuff. It was much easier going down the stairs. I went down first, carrying the feet, while Hank and Eddie supported him from behind. After we put him on top of the girl, in the back of the car, and covered him with the GI blanket, I got into the driver’s seat. The fire door had closed and locked while we loaded him, so Hank started down the sidewalk toward the apartment entrance.
“Look, Eddie,” I said. “Drive as close behind me as you can. If I’m stopped — for any reason — I’m going to leave the car and run like a striped-ass ape. And I’ll need you behind me to pick me up. Okay?”