Desperate Measures

26

In a musty upstairs hallway that smelled of cabbage, Pittman knocked on the door. When he didn’t get an answer, he knocked again. This time, he heard a groan. His third knock caused a louder groan. He tried the door. It wasn’t locked. Pushing it open, he found a sparse room with its shades closed, its lights off, and Sean O’Reilly sprawled on the floor.

“The light, the light,” Sean groaned.

Pittman thought that the dim light from the hallway must be hurting Sean’s eyes. He quickly shut the door. In darkness, he listened to Sean keep moaning, “The light, the light.”

“There isn’t any,” Pittman said.

“I’ve gone blind. Can’t see anything. The light, the light.”

“You mean you want me to turn the lights on?”

“Blind. Gone blind.”

Pittman groped along the wall, found a light switch, and flicked it. The unshielded yellow light that dangled from the ceiling gleamed and made Sean start thrashing while he pawed at his face.

He wailed, “Blind. You’re trying to make me blind.”

Oh, for God’s sake, Pittman thought. He knelt and pulled one of Sean’s hands away from his face, exposing his left eye, which was very bloodshot. “Here. Drink this.”

“What?”

“Something the bartender sent up.”

Sean clutched the glass and took several swallows, then suddenly made a gagging sound. “What is it? Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, there’s no vodka in this.”

“Sit up. Drink more of this.”

After a struggle, Pittman managed to make Sean empty the glass.

Sean squirmed so that his back was against the side of the bed and scowled. His short stature still reminded Pittman of a jockey. He was as thin as ever. But alcohol had aged him, putting gray in his hair and ravaging his face. “Who are you?”

“A friend.”

“Can’t remember.”

“That’s because you need something to eat.”

“Couldn’t keep it down.”

Pittman picked up the phone. “Order something, anyhow.”