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That's how skeptical Marty was. "Marty?" said O'Brien. "Can you score from him?" "Sure I can." They were suspicious. A man can't be a cop all his life without developing a special set of intuitions. "O.K.," said Hauser finally. "But you'd better deliver, Lee." "I'll deliver all right. Believe me I appreciate this." I tied up for a shot, my hands trembling with eager- ness, an archetype dope fiend. "Just an old junky, boys, a harmless old shaking wreck of a junky." That's the way I put it down. As I had hoped, Hauser looked away when I started probing for a vein. It's a wildly unpretty spectacle. O'Brien was sitting on the arm of a chair smoking an Old Gold, looking out the window with that dreamy what I'll do when I get my pension look. I hit a vein right away. A column of blood shot up into the syringe for an instant sharp and solid as a red cord. I pressed the plunger down with my thumb, feel- ing the junk pound through my veins to feed a million junk-hungry cells, to bring strength and alertness to every nerve and muscle. They were not watching me. I filled the syringe with alcohol. Hauser was juggling his snub-nosed detective special, a Colt, and looking around the room. He could smell danger like an animal With his left hand he pushed the closet door open and glanced inside. My stomach contracted. I thought, "If he looks in the suitcase now I'm done." Hauser turned to me abruptly. "You through yet?" he snarled. "You'd better not try to shit us on Marty." The words came out so ugly he surprised and shocked himself. I picked up the syringe full of alcohol, twisting the needle to make sure it was tight. "Just two seconds," I said. I squirted a thin jet of alcohol, whipping it across his eyes with a sideways shake of the syringe. He let out a bellow of pain. I could see him pawing at his eyes with the left hand like he was tearing off an invisible bandage as I dropped to the floor on one knee, reaching for my suitcase. I pushed the suitcase open, and my left hand closed over the gun butt -- I am righthanded but I shoot with my left hand. I felt the concussion of Hauser's shot before I heard it. His slug slammed into the wall behind me. Shooting from the floor, I snapped two quick shots into Hauser's belly where his vest had pulled up showing an inch of white shirt. |
