Ghouls

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Voices. Reduced now, by time, to the discourse of ghosts. Your voice.

— It’s true. I swear to God it’s true. —

— Of course it is, Sergeant. —

— You think I’m schizzing out, you think I’m crazy. You don’t believe me. —

— Of course we believe you, Sergeant. We believe that you’ve been under a tremendous amount of stress, and while doing your duty —

— No, no, don’t hand me that shit again. It’s the truth. I’m not crazy, goddamn it. It’s the truth. —

— You’re disillusioned, Sergeant. You’re upset, and you’re hurt. We know what happened. —

— Bullfuckingshit! I know what I saw. And it wasn’t any goddamned…whatever the fucking hell you called it. —

— Hypnagogic delirium. Your symptomatology is classic, we’ve no doubts. And let me assure you that hypnagogic hallucinations are by no means synonymous with any mode of psychosis. It can happen to anyone, Sergeant. And it’s what happened to you. —

Aside then. Doctor to Doctor. — What with the delusions and of course the shock reaction to his physical injuries, the unipolar manifestation comes as no real surprise. —

The other doctor nods. — Then we both agree, at least from a rudimentary standpoint, on a typical dysfunction of biogenic amines? —

— Certainly. But that’s just scratching the surface. —

— What of the rest, then? —

— Could be a lot of things, could be right under our noses. I’ve ordered basic bloodwork already, scanning for nutritional imbalances seems a good place to start. It could be something as simple as low folic acid, or excess levels of B12. Statistically, most service-related cases of pellagra are attributed to a high rate of C-ration consumption… Sergeant, do you eat a lot of C-rations? —

You frown. Your face itches. — No. I haven’t had any c’s since the last Reforger years ago. They’re all MRE’s now. —

— And where was that? —

— Erlangen. Germany. Alpha 2/37, 2nd Brigade, 1st Armored Division. You know, my last duty station before I came here. Don’t you fucking people have records? —

— No C-rations in years, then? —

— No! —

The doctors turn to one another again, like children trying to be discreet. — Supplemental nicontinamide can’t hurt. They say most of the West is deficient to begin with. —

The other doctor nods. —But that wouldn’t explain the rest of it. —

— Porphyria, maybe? Wernicke-Korsakoff syndrome? —

The other doctor nods. He seems well-practiced at nodding, as though such an acknowledgment is proof of diagnostic competence. — I hadn’t even considered alcoholic hallucinosis. That might account for the obvious confabulation. —

— Sergeant, do you drink? —

— No, but if this keeps up, I’m gonna start. —

— You don’t drink at all? —

Your face is beginning to hurt from frowning. —Look, Major, it’s all in my records. I had a drinking problem a long time ago, when I got transferred from 1st Cav to 716th MP’s. But when I came back to the World I beat it.—

The doctors seem delighted at this, and you sense they don’t believe you’ve stopped drinking. You look at them hard. One is in khakis, a dorkish, fat 0-4 with crumpled pants and corfam shoes. His hair is longer than regulation, and his sideburns well past the bottom of the opening of his ear. Wimp, you think. A fat, out-of-shape turd wearing the uniform of a soldier. It makes you sick. The other doctor, the nodder, is the scary one. His fatigues shine from starch, though his boots, too, are patent leather, the trademark of all medical officers. He has a stiff, thick mustache and very short hair. He reminds you of Shakespeare’s description of Cassius.

— I’d love to see what he’d do with a TAT and an MMPI. —

— Due time, Captain. Due time. The next MED EVAC is Wednesday; we’ll let Forest Glen worry about a diagnosis. Did you look at his DD service file? I’d hate to see a TDRL at this point in his military career, but I suppose separation is indicated. —

The captain turns back to you. — Sergeant, I want you to think hard about what we’re telling you. We’re not here to steer you wrong. There’s no need to be so implacable. —

— You guys sound like Oxford dictionaries. Implacable. What the hell does that mean? —

— It means stubborn, Sergeant. You’re being stubborn. And if you don’t calm down and collect your thoughts, you may find yourself in a very unpleasant situation. And don’t think you can hide behind your Silver Star and Distinguished Service Cross. —

You snap. — You fucking guys think you can walk all over people just because you wear brass. Having a degree makes you superior, right? Well I’ve seen trainee washouts who’re better men than you. You’ve got no right to even wear the uniform. I was fighting North Vietnamese Regulars when I was eighteen, and you were in diapers playing with your own poop. You don’t know the difference between a HEAT round and a round of golf, you couldn’t operate a field radio to save your life, and you probably think CBN is a television network. And now you’ve got the balls to imply that I’m using my commendations as a shield. I’ll kick you in the dick so hard you’ll have to open your mouth every time you want to piss. —

Now the major. — You’re on thin ice, Sergeant. Talk like that can get you an AR 635-100. I don’t care if you fought in the Revolution, we’re officers, and you will afford us proper military courtesy as per regulations. —

— My God. Regulations? You’re fat, you’re weak, you couldn’t pass a PT test if your life depended on it. Your belt buckle’s misaligned, your pockets are unbuttoned, your hair’s too long, and your pants look like you pressed them with a tank track. Don’t tell me about regulations, Major. You’re in violation of at least a dozen just standing there. I could have you written up in less time than it takes to eat your next pack of Twinkies. And if you want to file a 635-100 against me, go ahead. You’ll be able to hear the Adjutant General laughing all the way from the Pentagon. He happens to be a good friend of mine. —

The major backs off, like the pussy he is. His face glows pink from embarrassment. — Really, Sergeant, this is getting us nowhere. We understand how you must feel, and how angry you must be. You just don’t remember, that’s all, and loss of memory and disorientation are common in a situation like this. We’re here to help you, Sergeant, we’re on your side. Please try and realize that this story of yours is fantasy. —

All you can do is look back at them. You detect a strange heaviness over your face, the dull ache in your chest. You notice then that you are viewing the doctors through one eye. The other eye is overlapped by a thick bandage.

— There, excellent… Now, as I was saying. We know all about O’Brien and Kinnet, CID gave us all the details. And we know all about the black market collaboration. No one’s saying you were part of it, quite the contrary. You knew that O’Brien and Kinnet were stealing from the armory, so you followed them to their pick-up point. The men who brought you in tonight have already given their statements. —

— Van? —

— Yes. Tech Sergeant Van Holtz. He and an airman were on perimeter patrols; they’re the ones who found you and brought you in. Van Holtz said that yesterday you told him you had found out about the plan to rob the armory, and that since it was your armory, you wanted to take care of it on your own. So you armed yourself and followed the two Marines, O’Brien and Kinnet, after they’d stolen the weapons from the vault. Unfortunately, a gunfight ensued, and the two Marines escaped along with their middlemen. —

— No, no, Van was bullshitting. I didn’t even talk to him yesterday. He could see I was in deep shit, so he made up the story about the armory bust to protect me. I was the one who took the weapons and ammunition out of the armory. —

— Please, Sergeant, please. That’s ridiculous. The SP’s have testified to what happened. Van Holtz has verified everything. —

The captain is smirking, — Don’t argue with him, he’s delusional. He doesn’t know what really happened. Retrograde amnesia. He’s filling the blank spot with a nightmare. —

Frustration and rage make your throat swell. Your face is burning beneath the gauze. Why don’t they believe you? — Would you people listen for one fucking second. Van Holtz lied, to cover me. O’Brien and Kinnet weren’t selling guns. It was the colonel’s idea! Get the colonel! —

— Sergeant, this colonel is no longer even in the service. He ETS’d weeks ago. —

— I know, I know, but he stayed behind without telling anyone. We arranged it that way, he stayed behind for this. He said he was going to pay us if we helped him, a hundred K split four ways between me, O’Brien, Kinnet, and Van. Van chickened out at the last minute, so it was just the three of us. O’Brien and Kinnet are dead. Can’t I get that through your thick heads? —

— I repeat, Sergeant. Your colonel left this country weeks ago. His signature is on all his TA-50 turn in, supply, the clinic, and also on the departure logs at the CQ and the airport. As for O’Brien and Kinnet, they are AWOL· and being sought for collusion with a terrorist faction and theft of government property. —

The pain in your face is cutting down like blades. You don’t even bother to shout anymore. — I already told you. They didn’t go AWOL, they didn’t steal guns. They were killed helping me. Go look. Send the SP’s. Their bodies might still be there. Some evidence, at least. —

— We’ve already sent some men, Sergeant, hours ago. Van Holtz took an armed squad to the exact location you specified. There were no bodies, no…limbs. All they found were several discharged grenade canisters, some guns, and a lot of empty bullet casings. —

— Look, I know it sounds crazy, but it’s true. They exist. I saw them. Van Holtz is lying .—

— Don’t worry, Sergeant. A little relaxation, a little of the right kind of treatment, and you’ll be as good as new. You’ve been through quite a lot in your career. A multitude of combat tours, duty stations all over the world, extensive training. A soldier can only do so much before the pressure and the memories get the best of him. —

Suddenly you don’t care anymore about the bandages, the damage, or the pain. Something in you, the structure of your sense of reason, perhaps, detonates. — You think I’m nuts, but I don’t give a shit! Fuck you! Fuck you both! How many times do I have to tell you goddamned asses! It’s the ghala! The ghala! —

— Not this again. Get the duty nurse! —

— The ghala! The ghala! —

— Sergeant, you’re going to tear out your stitches if you don’t stop. Captain, I’ll need something to put him out. Hurry. —

— The ghala! The ghala! —

««—»»

“The ghala,” he whispered to himself. Behind him a long, pitchless car horn blared. In the rearview he saw a fat black woman mouthing obscenities in the windshield of her car. Traffic was moving again, but Sanders hadn’t noticed. He’d been immersed in the daydream, forced to recall a scene he’d hoped was forgotten entirely. The black woman was leaning on her horn now. It brayed at him like a beast caught in a trap.

Sanders accelerated, for all the good it did. Less than a minute later, another stoplight turned red, and the traffic on West Pratt Street stopped again. It was one thing he’d taken for granted in the military; Army bases didn’t have traffic jams. He wondered if he’d ever get to East Baltimore Street.

He’d had an involving day, though little to show for it thus far. First thing that morning he’d taken a bus to BWI Airport. There, he’d crossed the LONG-TERM lot, as if heading for the terminal, when a beige Plymouth station wagon—the car which he now drove—parked and discharged its sole occupant, a well-dressed, stoic-faced lawyer type. Sanders knew that the minimum parking time in the long-term lot was three days. He hoped that would be enough time to do what he had to do, and if so, he wasn’t really stealing the car, but annexing it temporarily. He had every intention of returning it; he’d chosen the long-term lot because it gave him a minimum seventy-two hour head start before the vehicle would be reported stolen. When he was through with it, he’d simply park it somewhere reasonably safe. An anonymous letter would then be mailed to the owner, containing a just amount of cash, as compensation for any inconvenience, plus the location of the vehicle.

Sanders had followed the owner into the terminal; he’d managed to overhear the flight number, and eventually the owner had boarded. Five minutes after the flight’s departure time, Sanders had then walked back out to the long-term lot. He approached the car as if he owned it, his tension wrench and favorite “hook” already concealed in the proper hands. He preferred picking pre-88 Plymouths, not because there was a significant difference in lock design, but because over the years, as a locksmith, he’d simply developed a knack for them.

He opened the car door as quickly as if he’d had the key, and he did the same with the ignition. He’d already noted that the entrance gate was unmanned; therefore, the guard at the exit booth would not know that Sanders wasn’t the same person who’d driven this car onto the lot just minutes before. He’d handed out the ticket stub, claiming he’d forgotten his luggage and would return shortly. He paid the minimal fare and drove away.

He would memorize the owner’s name and address off the registration; if stopped he could more than likely stonewall an excuse of borrowing the car from a friend, since it would not yet be listed as stolen in the police computers. While in the Army, he’d never let his Florida driver’s license expire. He would just have to be very careful, but then that was a natural trait. And since his fingerprints were on federal file, he’d wipe the car down with isopropanol when he was done with it.

Next he drove to an NTW in Laurel and had four new steel-belted radials put on the Plymouth. At the nearest service station, he topped the tank, and got a complete tune-up, oil change and lube, and brake inspection. He also purchased and filled two five-gallon jerry cans.

And after all that, he’d driven to the heart of Baltimore and gotten stuck in the worst traffic jam he’d ever seen.

Potholes here were as large as grenade sumps. On some streets he couldn’t avoid them no matter how expertly he zigzagged. He sensed in Baltimore a vast, graying state of decomposition, spiritual as well as physical. The city offended every angle of perception. Traffic noise clawed his nerves. Streets melded into a labyrinth of compressed gloom. Boarded, gutted row houses stood decrepitly, left to collapse. All around him were abandoned road repairs; packs of scavenging, gut-sucked dogs; garbage-filled alleys; and columns of high, drab buildings streaked by rust. Street people stared into space, swaddled in rotting clothes. Pedestrians traversed the sidewalks in a parade of leering, unfriendly faces. The city stank. Sanders had smelled better open sewers; it was even worse than Paris. Something vile and membranous filmed the inside of his mouth. He could actually taste the carbon monoxide, the trash vapor, and the overall rot in the air. He could taste it. They ought to nuke this place, he thought. Then just fill the crater with toxic sludge. This isn’t a city. It’s an ass-crack.

Midday now, though it could’ve been rush hour. South Gay Street didn’t proceed—it crawled. Half the stoplights were malfunctioning, others seemed to remain red forever. Constantly he was forced to stop again and wait to shift lanes for road repairs. MEN WORKING, the fluorescent orange signs warned. Pile drivers and barricades boxed him in. Grime-coated Blaw Knox road pavers sat aside, unused, like squashed tanks. He looked dismayed at a city ad, SUPPORT BALTIMORE’S ADOPT A POTHOLE PROGRAM, and then heard his own teeth clack from the jolt of still another pothole. What killed him was that, in spite of so many work crews, no one seemed to be working. Men just stood there in overalls and tar boots, leaning on shovels, smoking and chewing, pissing away time. It seemed criminal that millions could be unemployed while these lazy, sluffing shammers earned top dollar for doing nothing. MEN NOT WORKING, the signs should say, Sanders thought. Even better, MEN JERKING OFF.

He threaded a maze of side roads and at last turned right onto East Baltimore Street. Here he was dumbstruck; the street was a vanishing point of adult bookstores and bottomless bars, colored lights in every window flashing insanely like Christmas in Babylon. PEEPS 25¢, one sign buzzed. HOLMES, SCAT, FISTING, THE HOT WET BEST OF SHAUNA GRANT. Fisting? Sanders thought. Thin teenage prostitutes strode back and forth, waxen-fleshed. One smiled as if to beckon, a mouth full of cracked teeth. At the corner a potbellied door hustler barked, “Tits, clits, and ice-cold Schlitz!”

“Abandon all hope, ye who enter here,” Sanders recited, amused. But he’d seen much worse. “What a garbage heap.”

Baltimore Police Headquarters occupied the end of the block, the entire end. It shadowed the whole street, a huge Bauhaus square of polished granite and gun-slit windows. This was the ultimate irony, that the city’s nerve center for law enforcement existed on the same block as the porno-tenderloin drag. Sanders stretched the irony further, by parking his stolen car in the police visitors’ lot.

In the lobby a female admin cop smiled up from the other side of a long, curved counter. The grip of her sidearm had a notch.

“I’m looking for a guy named Jack Wilson.” He positioned himself so to hide his bad side. “He still works here, doesn’t he?”

“Sergeant Wilson runs the property office. He’s on duty till three o’clock.”

“I’d like to see him, if it’s all right.”

“Is this police business?”

“Well, no. We’re friends from the Army. I haven’t seen him in a long time.”

She picked up a phone. “Name?”

“John Sanders.”

Vivid, brightly colored paintings caught his eye; they were mural-sized, huge. She hung up the phone. Had she spoken to Wilson directly? He produced two articles of identification, then she signed him in and pinned a visitor’s pass to his collar. Her smile turned crooked when she saw the left side of his face.

He descended to the basement in an Otis elevator with a security camera in it. Caged light bulbs led him through several angles of corridors. Block letters over an arrow on the wall read, PROPERTY DISPOSAL. When he turned, he saw a figure in a doorway at the end of the corridor. The figure stood at parade rest.

It was a chilling, emotional moment.

“Somebody tell me I’m dreaming,” echoed a wiry, nasal voice. “I must be seein’ things.”

They shook hands in the darkness. Sanders said, “Good to see you, Jack. It’s been too long.”

“Yeah, it has. I thought maybe you’d bitten it. Come on in, check out my new PDY.”

Sanders saw that the years had not touched his friend. Wilson’s compactness still held the same scary qualities; Sanders had never known the man to be afraid, even the day he’d saved his life. Wilson’s hair was shiny dark blond and still service-short. His mustache, as it had always been, was much darker than his hair.

“Some things never change,” Sanders said. He seated himself on two banded cardboard cartons. “When are you going to shave off that soldier-of-fortune mustache?”

“When my harelip goes away. At least I can grow one. Haw, haw. Say, you still off the joy juice?”

“Not a drop since TuDo Street. Throwing up gets old fast. But I’ll rip the shit out of a case of soda water.”

Wilson sat behind a surprisingly clear desk. “Coffee’s my new deal. You know, I just read somewhere that the Vietnamese used formaldehyde to keep their beer from rotting. Fifty p a glass. We drank enough of that shit to fill a fuel gore.”

“At least we won’t have to be embalmed when we die.”

“You know it… So how long’s it been?”

Sanders looked to the ceiling lights. “Shit, I don’t know. ’75? ’76?”

“That’s it!” Wilson exclaimed and slapped the desk. “’76. Beautiful beautiful Bamberg in the snow. That was my last FTX.”

“Yeah, I remember now. The Canadians beat the shit out of everybody, 1st AD included. I couldn’t hit an elephant’s ass with a bass fiddle that day. Some war games they turned out to be.”

“Haw haw,” Wilson erupted. “And those crazy German pilots in their F-105’s; they’d fly so low they’d knock the balls off our antennas. You got it, some things never change . . . After that, I went to Aberdeen Proving Grounds, and you went to…bumfuck Saudi Arabia?”

“That’s right. And bumfuck’s the word.”

“You’re not still in the pickle, are you?”

“With a haircut like this, are you kidding? I was medically retired, a couple shy of twenty.”

“Medical, huh? What for?”

“Bad back,” Sanders lied. Only because the truth wouldn’t work.

“Yeah, me, I put in my twenty and blew. Battalion CO at Aberdeen offered me E-9 to re-up for four more, but I said fuck no. When the Army went from starch to permanent press, I figured it wasn’t worth being in anymore. My record and MOS got me this job. Between my retired pay and the bread they give me here, I’m sitting on a fair pile. Got myself a house in Glen Burnie, too. Paid for.”

“Sounds like you’re doing all right,” Sanders said. Finally, “Aren’t you going to ask what happened to my face?”

Wilson squinted at him, then shrugged. “Hell, you and me always were a pair of ugly sons of bitches. Let me guess. You blew a cherry-juice line in an M60? Or did that C-4 get the best of you?”

Again he had to lie. It bothered him to lie to a friend. He couldn’t very well tell Wilson about the ghala. “Neither,” he said. “Though I did know a guy who got his lower lip sheared off on a 105 breechblock. No, I got mugged by some ’Rabs in Riyadh. When they took my wallet, I told them Saudi Arabians were proof that humans fuck camels. Guess the fellas couldn’t take a joke, ’cause then they gave me a little quick cosmetic surgery. With switchblades.”

“Yeah? But if I know this John Sanders, a couple of ’em went home minus cock and balls.”

Wilson poured two cups of coffee from a thermos that had Smurfs on it. “Police coffee’s the worst,” he said. “You’ll love it. Now if I remember right, your hometown is somewhere in Florida. I can’t believe you came all the way to Maryland to trade old times with me.”

Sanders looked down at open hands. “You’re right, Jack… I need a favor.”

“Name it. Money?”

“No, no. I’ve got five years of fifty-percent base pay in the bank, and I’m drawing more from VA than I would from straight retirement.” He paused. His face felt tight. “I need a weapon.”

Wilson understood instantly. Weapon here didn’t mean pistol, gun, cannon, or knife. It was the universal code to anyone who’d been in the Army. This is your weapon, the senior drill instructors would say on day one. This is an M16A1. You will know it, you will love it. You will be able to take it apart and put it back together, blind. It will be part of you, as vital to you as your brain. It is not a rifle. It is not a gun. It is your weapon.

Wilson appeared disappointed. “That’s all?”

“You have one?”

“I have plenty. You used to be an armorer, John. You know what kind of shit we can get away with. At Aberdeen, I was NCOIC of one of the largest gun vaults and ammo points in the U.S.” Wilson hunched forward and lowered his voice. “I do the same thing here. Permanent disposal of seized evidence is my 706. You name it, I see it. Everything from homemade blackjacks to factory-packed submachine guns. I’m not telling you anything new. When you get a chance at something, you pluck it. Armorers are the best-armed men in the world.”

“I know. That’s why I came.”

Wilson chuckled without a trace of guilt. “I’ll be honest with you, most of what I get in here is pretty dull, lots of brass knuckles, butterfly knives, SNS’s. But it gets hot once in a while. Summer of ’78, I think, narcotics seized a moving van full of Uzis and MAC’s. Colombians, you know? Sent them to the federal can for a thousand years. And two winters ago they caught some fence with an M2 and tripod in his garage. Can you believe it?”

“And you sent it to the crusher?”

“Not on your life,” Wilson said. ”A little monkeying around with the paperwork and presto—the fucker’s buried in my backyard along with 1,500 rounds of caliber-fifty. I’ve got enough guns and ordnance to rearm the Wehrmacht. Parts, too. Upper receivers, lower receivers, gas lines, bolts, barrels, clips, auto sears. Enough to fill a couple of bussel racks. Shit, John, my backyard would blow the top off a metal detector.”

“But why?” Sanders asked. “You’re not selling?”

“Oh, hell no. I’m no criminal, I’m just a thief. I’d never give or sell guns to the wrong people. I save ’em. Got a fortune invested in bury boxes, and I’m even thinking about a shelter. You just wait till World War III hits the fans. Be damned if I’m gonna get caught holding my lizard. I’m gonna live. And I’ll have the firepower to do it.”

Now it all made sense. Sanders was aware of the current survivalist movement, a legitimate school of thought were it not subverted by so many of today’s idiots. Nevertheless, the idea of living in the aftermath of nuclear devastation seemed pointless to him. Wilson’s fanaticism, though, had just become Sanders’s good fortune.

“So that’s all you need?” Wilson asked. ”A 16A1?”

“Or a facsimile.”

“I wouldn’t give a buddy anything but the real McCoy. That would be like asking for Coors and getting a nonalcoholic malt beverage.”

“I’ll also need rounds. I understand you can’t buy ammunition in Maryland without signing your name.”

“That’s a fact. Every punk in high school would be making guns out of mousetraps and car aerials. Don’t worry about rounds, I’ve got rounds.”

“And maybe some bangballs, or Hoffmann charges, if you happen to have any. Something good for some racket, that won’t do much damage.”

Wilson grinned, nodding. “Bangballs, then. I pinched a case at Aberdeen.”

Is there anything he doesn’t have? Sanders thought. He cleared his throat. “One thing, though… How cold is this stuff?”

“Colder than a bag lady in K-Town. Remember Use’s cooze? That cold.”

“I don’t want you to think I’m going to go out and snipe people,” Sanders said. “The only reason I ask is because if something, you know, goes wrong, I don’t want the shit coming back to you. On the off chance I have to dump the stuff. Or—”

“Kill someone,” Wilson finished. “Yeah, sure. But don’t fret. Ain’t no acid test in the world could get the serial numbers off my guns. Clean and cold as ice. Of course, I don’t have to tell you the rest. If you smoke someone and lose the stuff, my fingerprints ain’t gonna be on any of it. Yours will.”

“I’m careful, you know that. And if I get caught, I’ll take the wrap.”

Wilson kicked back and placed his heels on the desk. He looked at Sanders speculatively. “If you don’t mind my asking, what exactly are you up to?”

“I haven’t gone bad, if that’s what you mean,” Sanders said. At least I hope not. “A guy owes me money and an explanation for something that happened a long time ago. I don’t even care about the money, if you want to know the truth. I just want to see what this fella’s been up to for the last seven or so years, and he’s always been good in the way of surprises, so I don’t want to go in there without some decent heat. I swear to you, it’s just to be on the safe side, just in case I have to defend myself. I doubt that I’ll have to fire a single shot.”

“Why does he owe you money?”

“I can’t tell you that—just trust me. If I told you, you’d never believe me. It’s the kind of thing you’d have to see for yourself, which you’re welcome to do. If you want to cammie up and come along, I’ll split the money with you. It might be a lot.”

“Sounds like some party. But I’ll have to pass on the action. The hill’s way behind me now, and I’m going down fast.”

“Me, too, but what the hell? Just tell me how much you want. Like I said, I got cash.”

“Cash?” Wilson said. “Don’t insult me. You pulled my dick out of the fire once, or have you forgotten? It takes some kind of balls to go into a burning 88 and haul your buddy out. Everyone else left me to sizzle like bacon.”

“You’d have done the same for me.”

“At least I’d like to think so,” Wilson said, and laughed. “The fact remains—thanks to you, I’m the only man alive who knows what a direct hit from a Sagger sounds like from the inside. Any time you need something, you come to me. What’s mine is yours.”

“Thanks,” Sanders said.

“Now, here’s what we’ll do,” Wilson went on. “Meet me in the lobby at three; that’s when I get off. If you’re in no big hurry, we’ll grab a couple of Pollacks for dinner, and maybe stop by the 408 Club to belt down a few 7-Ups and gander the pussy. Then we’ll go back to my place, and I’ll fix you up with all the hardware you need.”

— | — | —