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“The suitcase.”
Clete took the suitcase off the baggage stand and dumped it on the bed. He picked through the folded shirts and trousers and underwear and socks and swim trunks and snorkel gear.
“You can’t find it?” Johnny said.
“Yeah, I can’t find it because it’s not there.”
“Must have used it up.”
“I hate dropping the dime on you,” Clete said, “but I don’t want to go to your funeral.”
Johnny looked at Clete as though he were having a dream and Clete was not real. “I’ll go to Raiford.”
“They don’t put people in Raiford for holding.”
“I’m already on probation.”
“Get up!” Clete said.
“No.”
“I’m taking you to the hospital. While you’re there, you’re D, D, and D. Got that?”
“What?”
“Deaf, dumb, and don’t know.”
“Whatever you say.”
“Ready?” Clete said. He worked his arms under Johnny’s and lifted him from the chair. He could smell Johnny’s body odor, the funk in his breath, the cigarette smoke in his hair and clothes. Johnny’s tongue had turned gray. Clete lost his balance, and Johnny hit the floor on the base of his spine.
“I’m sorry, kid,” Clete said. “I’m as fucked up as you are.”
“No, you’re not. You’re a good guy,” Johnny said. “I got to get Isolde back, Mr. Clete.”
Clete went to the phone and rang the desk. “Call an ambulance and tell them you got a code red.”
He found Johnny’s stash of China white on the closet shelf. It was the size of a baseball and double-bagged in a Ziploc. Clete gathered up the syringe and the rubber tubing and a burned spoon he found on the lavatory, wrapped them in a towel and went outside and dropped them in a trash barrel, then walked out on the dock and shook the Ziploc empty over a passing wave. The white granules dissolved like snow on a woodstove. He looked at the horizon and thought he saw the Southern Cross pulsing in the heavens, but he knew it was impossible to see the Cross from this latitude and he wondered if he was becoming delusional. The wind was as warm as a wet kiss on his skin. Inside the hiss of the waves sliding through the pilings, he thought he heard wood knocking against wood, then the sound thinned and stopped when a wave smacked against a piling.
He walked back to Johnny’s room. In the distance he saw the heavy, boxlike shape of an emergency vehicle coming down the two-lane, its flashers floating through the darkness as silently as tracer rounds. Why was the siren off? Why did he seem trapped under a black-green starlit Plexiglas dome, one that could suck the oxygen from his lungs? His father had died a wet-brain. Was it now his turn?
* * *
TEN MINUTES PASSED. Clete kept going to the window, trying to catch sight of the emergency vehicle he had seen. He had pulled back the covers on the bed, laid Johnny down and covered him up, then put his hand on Johnny’s forehead. His temperature felt normal and the color had started to come back in his face. Maybe I should cancel the 911, Clete thought. It was the kind of decision that nobody wants, but one that is forced regularly on the friends and families of addict-alcoholics. Every minute in an addict-alcoholic’s life is a roll of the dice: a blood clot in the brain, a seizure that leaves him frothing at the mouth on the floor, a handful of downers that reduces the heart to marmalade, an eruption in the stomach that causes him to strangle to death on his own vomit.
Fuck it, Clete said to himself. Maybe the night clerk didn’t make the call. Clete picked up the phone and rang the desk. No answer. Great. He left the door cracked so he could get back in the room, and headed up the outside walkway. The wind was stronger now, sweet with the promise of rain, the streets empty and shiny with night damp. Directly overhead, a cloud bloomed with lightning that flickered and died.
No one was at the counter. Clete patted the bell. “Hey, you back there? Where’s the meat wagon?”
No response. Clete went behind the counter and into a back office. The bathroom door was ajar. “Hey!” he said.
He pushed the door wider. The bathroom was clean, the seat up, the toilet bowl flushed. He went back through the office and saw a Styrofoam cup on the floor behind the desk, a thread of coffee leaking into the carpet.
He went back to the counter and picked up the desk phone. Just as he began punching in the 911, he saw a black police cruiser turn off the street and drive through the porte cochere and circle to the back of the motel. Clete went outside and followed the cruiser to Johnny’s room. A large man in a fedora cut the cruiser’s headlights and engine but did not get out. Clete heard the squawk of a handheld radio. Clete walked to the driver’s window. It was already rolled down. The driver had a round, fleshy face with small eyes and gaps in his teeth like the carved mouth on a jack-o’-lantern. “You called in the 911?”
“The clerk did,” Clete said, glancing at the emblem on the door. It was a dull bronze color, the kind that was hard to read against the black background and was used to nail speeders. “Where’s the ambulance?”
“Ambulance?” the man said. “We got a disturbing-the-peace complaint.”
