The Drawing of the Three (14 page)

He thought. He wondered.

Eddie’s brother was a zombie, but Eddie was still smart, Eddie was still tough. He wouldn’t have turned in just two hours . . . unless it was his brother. Something about his brother.

But still, how come no 43rd Street? How come no Customs van, the ones that looked like Post Office trucks except for the wire grilles on the back windows? Because Eddie really
had
done something with the goods? Ditched them? Hidden them?

Impossible to hide goods on an airplane.

Impossible to ditch them.

Of course it was also impossible to escape from certain prisons, rob certain banks, beat certain raps. But people did. Harry Houdini had escaped from straitjackets, locked trunks, fucking bank vaults. But Eddie Dean was no Houdini.

Was he?

He could have had Henry killed in the apartment, could have had Eddie cut down on the L.I.E. or, better yet,
also
in the apartment, where it would look to the cops like a couple of junkies who got desperate enough to forget they were brothers and killed each other. But it would leave too many questions unanswered.

He would get the answers here, prepare for the future or merely satisfy his curiosity, depending on what the answers were, and then kill both of them.

A few more answers, two less junkies. Some gain and no great loss.

In the other room, the game had gotten around to Henry again. “Okay, Henry,” George Biondi said. “Be careful, because this one is tricky. The category is Geography. The question is, ‘What is the only continent where kangaroos are a native form of life?”

A hushed pause.

“Johnny Cash,” Henry said, and this was followed by a bull-throated roar of laughter.

The walls shook.

’Cimi tensed, waiting for Balazar’s house of cards (which would become a tower only if God, or the blind forces that ran the universe in His name, willed it), to fall down.

The cards trembled a bit. If one fell, all would fall.

None did.

Balazar looked up and smiled at ’Cimi.
“Piasan,”
he said.
“Il Dio est bono; il Dio est malo; temps est poco-poco; tu est une grande peeparollo.”

’Cimi smiled.
“Si, senor,”
he said.
“Io grande peeparollo; Io va fanculo por tu.”

“None va fanculo, catzarro,”
Balazar said.
“Eddie Dean va fanculo.”
He smiled gently, and began on the second level of his tower of cards.

When the van pulled to the curb near Balazar’s place, Col Vincent happened to be looking at Eddie. He saw something impossible. He tried to speak and found himself unable. His tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth and all he could get out was a muffled grunt.

He saw Eddie’s eyes change from brown to blue.

This time Roland made no conscious decision to
come forward.
He simply leaped without thinking, a movement as involuntary as rolling out of a chair and going for his guns when someone burst into a room.

The Tower!
he thought fiercely.
It’s the Tower, my God, the Tower is in the sky, the Tower! I see the Tower in the sky, drawn in lines of red fire! Cuthbert! Alan! Desmond! The Tower! The T—

But this time he felt Eddie struggling—not against him, but trying to talk to him, trying desperately to explain something to him.

The gunslinger retreated, listening—listening desperately, as above a beach some unknown distance away in space and time, his mindless body twitched and trembled like the body of a man experiencing a dream of highest ecstasy or deepest horror.

Sign!
Eddie was screaming into his own head . . . and into the head of that
other.

It’s a sign, just a neon sign, I don’t know what tower it is you’re thinking about but this is just a bar, Balazar’s place, The Leaning Tower, he named it that after the one in Pisa! It’s just a sign that’s supposed to look like the fucking Leaning Tower of Pisa! Let up! Let up! You want to get us killed before we have a chance to go at them?

Pitsa?
the gunslinger replied doubtfully, and looked again.

A sign. Yes, all right, he could see now: it was not the Tower, but a Signpost. It leaned to one side, and there were many scalloped curves, and it was a marvel, but that was all. He could see now that the sign was a thing made of tubes, tubes which had somehow been filled with glowing red swamp-fire. In some places there seemed to be less of it than others; in those places the lines of fire pulsed and buzzed.

He now saw letters below the tower which had been made of shaped tubes; most of them were Great Letters.
TOWER
he could read,
and yes,
LEANING
.
LEANING TOWER
. The first word was three letters, the first T, the last E, the middle one which he had never seen.

Tre?
he asked Eddie.

THE. It doesn’t matter. Do you see it’s just a sign? That’s what matters!

I see,
the gunslinger answered, wondering if the prisoner really believed what he was saying or was only saying it to keep the situation from spilling over as the tower depicted in those lines of fire seemed about to do, wondering if Eddie believed
any
sign could be a trivial thing.

Then ease off! Do you hear me? Ease off!

Be cool?
Roland asked, and both felt Roland smile a little in Eddie’s mind.

Be cool, right. Let me handle things.

Yes. All right.
He would let Eddie handle things.

For awhile.

Col Vincent finally managed to get his tongue off the roof of his mouth. “Jack.” His voice was as thick as shag carpet.

Andolini turned off the motor and looked at him, irritated.

“His eyes.”

“What about his eyes?”

“Yeah, what about my eyes?” Eddie asked.

Col looked at him.

The sun had gone down, leaving nothing in the air but the day’s ashes, but there was light enough for Col to see that Eddie’s eyes were brown again.

If they had ever been anything else.

You saw it,
part of his mind insisted, but had he? Col was twenty-four, and for the last twenty-one of those years no one had really believed him trustworthy. Useful sometimes. Obedient almost
always . . . if kept on a short leash. Trustworthy? No. Col had eventually come to believe it himself.

“Nothing,” he muttered.

“Then let’s go,” Andolini said.

They got out of the pizza van. With Andolini on their left and Vincent on their right, Eddie and the gunslinger walked into The Leaning Tower.

In a blues tune from the twenties Billie Holiday, who would one day discover the truth for herself, sang:
“Doctor tole me daughter you got to quit it fast/Because one more rocket gonna be your last.”
Henry Dean’s last rocket went up just five minutes before the van pulled up in front of The Leaning Tower and his brother was herded inside.

Because he was on Henry’s right, George Biondi—known to his friends as “Big George” and to his enemies as “Big Nose”—asked Henry’s questions. Now, as Henry sat nodding and blinking owlishly over the board, Tricks Postino put the die in a hand which had already gone the dusty color that results in the extremities after long-term heroin addiction, the dusty color which is the precursor of gangrene.

“Your turn, Henry,” Tricks said, and Henry let the die fall from his hand.

When he went on staring into space and showed no intention of moving his game piece, Jimmy Haspio moved it for him. “Look at this, Henry,” he said. “You got a chance to score a piece of the pie.”

“Reese’s Pieces,” Henry said dreamily, and then looked around, as if awakening. “Where’s Eddie?”

“He’ll be here pretty soon,” Tricks soothed him. “Just play the game.”

“How about a fix?”

“Play the game, Henry.”

“Okay, okay, stop
leaning
on me.”

“Don’t
lean
on him,” Kevin Blake said to Jimmy.

“Okay, I won’t,” Jimmy said.

“You ready?” George Biondi said, and gave the others an enormous wink as Henry’s chin floated down to his breastbone and then slowly rose once more—it was like watching a soaked log not quite ready to give in and sink for good.

“Yeah,” Henry said. “Bring it on.”

“Bring it on!” Jimmy Haspio cried happily.

“You
bring
that fucker!” Tricks agreed, and they all roared with laughter (in the other room Balazar’s edifice, now three levels high, trembled again, but did not fall).

“Okay, listen close,” George said, and winked again. Although Henry was on a Sports category, George announced the category was Arts and Entertainment. “What popular country and western singer had hits with ‘A Boy Named Sue,’ ‘Folsom Prison Blues,’ and numerous other shitkicking songs?”

Kevin Blake, who actually
could
add seven and nine (if you gave him poker chips to do it with), howled with laughter, clutching his knees and nearly upsetting the board.

Still pretending to scan the card in his hand, George continued: “This popular singer is also known as The Man in Black. His first name means the same as a place you go to take a piss and his last name means what you got in your wallet unless you’re a fucking needle freak.”

There was a long expectant silence.

“Walter Brennan,” Henry said at last.

Bellows of laughter. Jimmy Haspio clutched Kevin Blake. Kevin punched Jimmy in the shoulder repeatedly. In Balazar’s office, the house of cards which was now becoming a tower of cards trembled again.

“Quiet down!” ’Cimi yelled. “
Da Boss
is buildin!”

They quieted at once.

“Right,” George said. “You got that one right, Henry. It was a toughie, but you came through.”

“Always do,” Henry said. “Always come through in the fuckin clutch. How about a fix?”

“Good idea!” George said, and took a Roi-Tan cigar box from behind him. From it he produced a hypo. He stuck it into the scarred vein above Henry’s elbow, and Henry’s last rocket took off.

The pizza van’s exterior was grungy, but underneath the road-filth and spray-paint was a high-tech marvel the DEA guys would have envied. As Balazar had said on more than one occasion, you couldn’t beat the bastards unless you could compete with the bastards—unless you could match their equipment. It was expensive stuff, but Balazar’s side had an advantage: they stole what the DEA had to buy at grossly inflated prices. There were electronics company employees all the way down the Eastern Seaboard willing to sell you top secret stuff at bargain basement prices. These
catzzaroni
(Jack Andolini called them Silicon Valley Coke-Heads) practically
threw
the stuff at you.

Under the dash was a fuzz-buster; a UHF police radar jammer; a high-range/high-frequency radio transmissions detector; an h-r/hf jammer; a transponder-amplifier that would make anyone trying to track the van by standard triangulation methods decide it was simultaneously in Connecticut, Harlem, and Montauk Sound; a radiotelephone . . . and a small red button which Andolini pushed as soon as Eddie Dean got out of the van.

In Balazar’s office the intercom uttered a single short buzz.

“That’s them,” he said. “Claudio, let them in. ’Cimi, you tell everyone to dummy up. So far as Eddie Dean knows, no one’s with me but you and Claudio. ’Cimi, go in the storeroom with the other gentlemen.”

They went, ’Cimi turning left, Claudio Andolini going right.

Calmly, Balazar started on another level of his edifice.

Just let me handle it,
Eddie said again as Claudio opened the door.

Yes,
the gunslinger said, but remained alert, ready to
come forward
the instant it seemed necessary.

Keys rattled. The gunslinger was very aware of odors—old sweat from Col Vincent on his right, some sharp, almost acerbic aftershave from Jack Andolini on his left, and, as they stepped into the dimness, the sour tang of beer.

The smell of beer was all he recognized. This was no tumble-down saloon with sawdust on the floor and planks set across sawhorses for a bar—it was as far from a place like Sheb’s in Tull as you could get, the gunslinger reckoned. Glass gleamed mellowly everywhere, more glass in this one room than he had seen in all the years since his childhood, when supply-lines had begun to break down, partially because of interdicting raids carried out by the rebel forces of Farson, the Good Man, but mostly, he thought, simply because the world was moving on. Farson had been a symptom of that great movement, not the cause.

He saw their reflections everywhere—on the walls, on the glass-faced bar and the long mirror behind it; he could even see them reflected as curved miniatures in the graceful bell-shapes of wine glasses hung upside down above the bar . . . glasses as gorgeous and fragile as festival ornaments.

In one corner was a sculpted creation of lights that rose and changed, rose and changed, rose and changed. Gold to green; green to yellow; yellow to red; red to gold again. Written across it in Great Letters was a word he could read but which meant nothing to him:
ROCKOLA
.

Never mind. There was business to be done here. He was no tourist; he must not allow himself the luxury of behaving like one, no matter how wonderful or strange these things might be.

The man who had let them in was clearly the brother of the man who drove what Eddie called the van (as in
vanguard,
Roland
supposed), although he was much taller and perhaps five years younger. He wore a gun in a shoulder-rig.

“Where’s Henry?” Eddie asked. “I want to see Henry.” He raised his voice. “Henry!
Hey, Henry!
”

No reply; only silence in which the glasses hung over the bar seemed to shiver with a delicacy that was just beyond the range of a human ear.

“Mr. Balazar would like to speak to you first.”

“You got him gagged and tied up somewhere, don’t you?” Eddie asked, and before Claudio could do more than open his mouth to reply, Eddie laughed. “No, what am I thinking about—you got him stoned, that’s all. Why would you bother with ropes and gags when all you have to do to keep Henry quiet is needle him? Okay. Take me to Balazar. Let’s get this over with.”

The gunslinger looked at the tower of cards on Balazar’s desk and thought:
Another sign.

Balazar did not look up—the tower of cards had grown too tall for that to be necessary—but rather over the top. His expression was one of pleasure and warmth.

“Eddie,” he said. “I’m glad to see you, son. I heard you had some trouble at Kennedy.”

“I ain’t your son,” Eddie said flatly.

Balazar made a little gesture that was at the same time comic, sad, and untrustworthy:
You hurt me, Eddie,
it said,
you hurt me when you say a thing like that.

“Let’s cut through it,” Eddie said. “You know it comes down to one thing or the other: either the Feds are running me or they had to let me go. You know they didn’t sweat it out of me in just two hours. And you know if they had I’d be down at 43rd Street, answering questions between an occasional break to puke in the basin.”

“
Are
they running you, Eddie?” Balazar asked mildly.

“No. They had to let me go. They’re following, but I’m not leading.”

“So you ditched the stuff,” Balazar said. “That’s fascinating. You must tell me how one ditches two pounds of coke when that one is on a jet plane. It would be handy information to have. It’s like a locked room mystery story.”

“I didn’t ditch it,” Eddie said, “but I don’t have it anymore, either.”

“So who does?” Claudio asked, then blushed when his brother looked at him with dour ferocity.

“
He
does,” Eddie said, smiling, and pointed at Enrico Balazar over the tower of cards. “It’s already been delivered.”

For the first time since Eddie had been escorted into the office, a genuine expression illuminated Balazar’s face: surprise. Then it was gone. He smiled politely.

“Yes,” he said. “To a location which will be revealed later, after you have your brother and your goods and are gone. To Iceland, maybe. Is that how it’s supposed to go?”

“No,” Eddie said. “You don’t understand. It’s
here.
Delivery right to your door. Just like we agreed. Because even in this day and age, there are some people who still believe in living up to the deal as it was originally cut. Amazing, I know, but true.”

They were all staring at him.

How’m I doing, Roland?
Eddie asked.

I think you are doing very well. But don’t let this man Balazar get his balance, Eddie. I think he’s dangerous.

You think so, huh? Well, I’m one up on you there, my friend. I
know
he’s dangerous. Very fucking dangerous.

He looked at Balazar again, and dropped him a little wink. “That’s why
you’re
the one who’s gotta be concerned with the Feds now, not me. If they turn up with a search warrant, you could suddenly find yourself fucked without even opening your legs, Mr. Balazar.”

Balazar had picked up two cards. His hands suddenly shook and
he put them aside. It was minute, but Roland saw it and Eddie saw it, too. An expression of uncertainty—even momentary fear, perhaps—appeared and then disappeared on his face.

“Watch your mouth with me, Eddie. Watch how you express yourself, and please remember that my time and my tolerance for nonsense are both short.”

Jack Andolini looked alarmed.

“He made a deal with them, Mr. Balazar! This little shit turned over the coke and they planted it while they were pretending to question him!”

“No one has been in here,” Balazar said. “No one could get close, Jack, and you know it. Beepers go when a pigeon farts on the roof.”

“But—”

“Even if they had managed to set us up somehow, we have so many people in their organization we could drill fifteen holes in their case in three days. We’d know who, when, and how.”

Balazar looked back at Eddie.

“Eddie,” he said, “you have fifteen seconds to stop bullshitting. Then I’m going to have ’Cimi Dretto step in here and hurt you. Then, after he hurts
you
for awhile, he will leave, and from a room close by you will hear him hurting your brother.”

Eddie stiffened.

Easy,
the gunslinger murmured, and thought,
All you have to do to hurt him is to say his brother’s name. It’s like poking an open sore with a stick.

“I’m going to walk into your bathroom,” Eddie said. He pointed at a door in the far left corner of the room, a door so unobtrusive it could almost have been one of the wall panels. “I’m going in by myself. Then I’m going to walk back out with a pound of your cocaine. Half the shipment. You test it. Then you bring Henry in here where I can look at him. When I see him, see he’s okay, you are going to give him our goods and he’s going to ride home with one of your gentlemen. While he does, me and . . .”
Roland,
he almost said, “. . . me and the rest of the guys we both know you got here can watch you build that thing. When Henry’s home and safe—which means no one
standing there with a gun in his ear—he’s going to call and say a certain word. This is something we worked out before I left. Just in case.”

The gunslinger checked Eddie’s mind to see if this was true or bluff. It was true, or at least Eddie thought it was. Roland saw Eddie really believed his brother Henry would die before saying that word in falsity. The gunslinger was not so sure.

“You must think I still believe in Santa Claus,” Balazar said.

“I know you don’t.”

“Claudio. Search him. Jack, you go in my bathroom and search
it.
Everything.”

“Is there any place in there I wouldn’t know about?” Andolini asked.

Balazar paused for a long moment, considering Andolini carefully with his dark brown eyes. “There is a small panel on the back wall of the medicine cabinet,” he said. “I keep a few personal things in there. It is not big enough to hide a pound of dope in, but maybe you better check it.”

Jack left, and as he entered the little privy, the gunslinger saw a flash of the same frozen white light that had illuminated the privy of the air-carriage. Then the door shut.

Balazar’s eyes flicked back to Eddie.

“Why do you want to tell such crazy lies?” he asked, almost sorrowfully. “I thought you were smart.”

“Look in my face,” Eddie said quietly, “and tell me that I am lying.”

Balazar did as Eddie asked. He looked for a long time. Then he turned away, hands stuffed in his pockets so deeply that the crack of his peasant’s ass showed a little. His posture was one of sorrow—sorrow over an erring son—but before he turned Roland had seen an expression on Balazar’s face that had not been sorrow. What Balazar had seen in Eddie’s face had left him not sorrowful but profoundly disturbed.