Part 98 (2/2)

Pete watched him. Stevie's body was stick-thin. His legs angled

awkwardly out from it and ended in five-hundred-pound snakeskin boots.

His face as he pushed himself up was gray and pasty with lines dug deep

and dug hard. The whites of his eyes were streaked fiery red. There

was a trickle of blood from his lip where he had hit the floor. And he

stank.

”Man, I'm sick.” He began to pull himself up, hand over sweaty hand on

the bars. ”I got the flu.”

The junkie flu, Pete thought dispa.s.sionately.

”You got to get me out.” Stevie wrapped his trembling fingers around the

bars. Though his breath was stale, Pete didn't back away. ”It's tucking

crazy. They came into my house. Into my G.o.dd.a.m.n house like a bunch of

b.l.o.o.d.y n.a.z.is. They waved some kind of paper in front of my face and

started pulling out drawers. Jesus, Pete, they dragged me in here like

I was some kind of freaking murderer. They put handcuffs on me.” He

began to cry again and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. ”People

were watching when they took me out of my own house with handcuffs on

me. They were taking pictures. It ain't f.u.c.king right, Pete. It ain't

tucking right. You got to get me out.”

During the outburst Pete had stayed very still. His voice was low and

calm. He'd handled crises before, and knew how to turn them in his

favor. ”They found heroin, Stevie, and what's politely called drug

paraphernalia. They're going to charge you with possession.”

”Just get me the tick out.”

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