Rusty managed a smile.'Not unless you've got a couple of aspirin you can toss me. Darvocet would be even better.'
'Fresh out. They didn't give you anything?'
'No, but the pain's down a bit. I'll survive.'This talk was a good deal braver than he actually felt; the pain was very bad, and he was about to make it worse.'I've got to do something about these fingers, though.'
'pood luck.'
For a wonder, none of the fingers was broken, although a bone in his' hand was. It was a metacarpal, the fifth. The only thing he could do about that was tear strips from his tee-shirt and use them as a splint. But first...
He grasped his left index finger, which was dislocated at the proximal interphalangeal joint. In the movies, this stuff always happened fast. Fast was dramatic. Unfortunately, fast could make things worse insteajd of better. He applied slow, steady, increasing pressure. The pain was gruesome; he felt it all the way up to the hinges of his jaw. He could hear the finger creaking like the hinge of a door that hasn't been opened in a long time. Somewhere, both close by and in another country, he glimpsed Barbie standing at the door of his cell and watching.
Then, suddenly, the finger was magically straight again and the pain was less. In that one, anyway. He sat down on the bunk, gasping like a man who has just run a race.
'Done?' Barbie asked.
'Not quite. I also have to fix my f**k-you finger. I may need it.'
Rusty grasped his second finger and began again. And again, just when it seemed the pain could get no worse, the dislocated joint slipped back into place. Now there was just the matter of his pinkie, which was sticking out as if he meant to make a toast.
And I would if I could, he thought. 'To the most f**ked-up day in history.' In the history of Eric Everett, at least.
He began to wrap the finger. This also hurt, and for this there was no quick fix.
'What'd you do?' Barbie asked, then snapped his fingers twice, sharply. He pointed at the ceiling, then cupped one hand to his ear. Did he actually know the Coop was bugged, or only suspect it? Rusty decided it didn't matter. It would be best to behave as if it were, although it was hard to believe anyone in this fumble-bunch had thought of it yet.
'Made the mistake of trying to get Big Jim to step down,' Rusty said. 'I have no doubt they'll add a dozen or so other charges, but basically I got jailed for telling him to quit pushing so hard or he'd have a heart attack.'
This, of course, ignored the Coggins stuff, but Rusty thought that might be just as well for his continued good health.
'How's the food in here?'
'Not bad,' Barbie said. 'Rose brought me lunch. You want to watch out for the water, though. It can be a trifle salty.'
He forked the first two fingers of his right hand, pointed them at his eyes, then pointed at his own mouth: watch.
Rusty nodded.
Tomorrow night, Barbie mouthed.
I know, Rusty mouthed back. Making the exaggerated syllables caused his lips to crack open and start bleeding again.
Barbie mouthed We... need... a... safe... place.
Thanks to Joe McClatchey and his friends, Rusty thought he had that part covered.
12
Andy Sanders had a seizure.
It was inevitable, really; he was unused to glass and he'd been smoking a lot of it. He was in the WCIK studio, listening to the Our Daily Bread symphony soar through 'How Great Thou Art' and conducting along with it. He saw himself flying down eternal violin strings.
Chef was somewhere with the bong, but he'd left Andy a supply of fat hybrid cigarettes he called fry-daddies. 'You want to be careful with these, Sanders,' he said. 'They are dy***ite. "For thee not used to drinking must be gentle." First Timothy. It also applies to fries.'
Andy nodded solemnly, but smoked like a demon once Chef was gone: two of the daddies, one after the other. He puffed until they were nothing but hot nubs that burned his fingers. The roasting cat-pee smell of the glass was already rising to the top of his aromatherapy hit parade. He was halfwav through the third daddy and still conducting like Leonard Bernstein when he sucked in a particularly deep lungful and instantly blacked out. He fell to the floor and lay twitching in a river of sacred music. Spitfoam oozed between his clenched teeth. His half-open eyes rolled around in their sockets, seeing things that weren't there. At least, not yet.
Ten minutes later he was awake again, and lively enough to go flying along the path between the studio and the long red supply building out back.
'Chef!' he bawled. 'Chef, where are you? THEY'RE COMING!'
Chef Bushey stepped from the supply building's side door. His hair stood up from his head in greasy quills. He was dressed in a filthy pair of pajama pants, pee-stained at the crotch and grass-stained at the bottoms. Printed with cartoon frogs saying RIBBIT, they hung precariously from the bony flanges of his hips, displaying a fluff of pubic hair in front and the crack of his ass in back. He had his AK-47 in one hand. On the stock he had carefully painted the words GOD'S WARRIOR. The garage door opener was in his other hand. He put God's Warrior down but not God's Door Opener. He grasped Andy's shoulders and gave him a smart shake.
*Stop it, Sanders, you're hysterical.'
'They're coining! The bitter men! Just like you said!'
Chef considered this. 'Did someone call and give you a heads-up?'
'No, it was a vision! I blacked out and had a vision!'
Chef's eyes widened. Suspicion gave way to respect. He looked from Andy to Little Bitch Road, and then back to Andy again. 'What did y0u see? How many? Is it all of them, or just a few like before?'
'I... I... I...'
Chef shook him again, but much more gently this time. 'Calm down, Sanders.You're in the Lord's army now, and - '
'A Christian soldier!'
'Right, right, right. And I'm your superior. So report.'