“Fuckin’ come on, man,” he said in a low voice. “I got all this shit here”—he patted the backpack—“from that house. Remember, man, we were in the car, talking. You were telling me all that shit. All that shit you wrote down in that notebook. Said like, someone else should know this shit. And right now the only someone else is my black ass. And you said that this whacked-out guy lived with this gook woman and that his bud shot up Hanover and that you wanted to check out the place, you know?”

Dunne’s mouth moved. His eyes flickered open, then closed.

“Come on. We busted in there. Not much there. Man, a mountain of empties. Some nasty-ass magazines with freaky motorcycle bitches. It stunk, man. But we Hoovered the place. Found this bag with all this shit in it. Letters. Newspaper shit. C’mon, wake up. I can’t park my ass here all day.”

Starrell glanced toward the door. He took Dunne’s hand from underneath the covers and put it on the bag.

“What the fuck do we do with this? You tell me.”

Dunne’s eyes opened. His lips parted. A phlegmy croaking came out.

“Fuck,” Starrell said. “You can’t say nothing. Shit, this sucks. I should get myself out of here.”

Dunne moved his hand off the backpack and placed it on top of Starrell’s hand. His grip was weak.

“Can’t sit around here and hold hands.”

Dunne’s eyes glared at him. With much effort, he shook his head. Then he tapped Starrell’s hand once. He paused. He tapped it twice. He paused. He tapped it three times. He stopped and blinked hard at Starrell. Then he tapped it four times. Then five. Then six. He blinked hard again.

“Shit, what do you want man?” Starrell asked. “Just fuckin’ tell me.”

Dunne’s finger poked Starrell’s palm seven times, then eight, then nine. He blinked. He then tapped once and grunted at the same time, making a short “ah” sound. He grimaced with the pain.

“Come on, fuckin’ say something.”

Dunne tapped and grunted once more, wincing.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I’m thinkin’, thinkin’.”

Dunne lifted his finger to start again.

“A … B … C …” Starrell said.

Dunne blinked his eyes fast several times.

“Okay, okay, alphabet city.”

Dunne tapped out one, then four, then three—

The door opened. Starrell jumped back. Margaret Hanover and the black woman in the blue dress—Dunne’s wife—entered. In the hallway behind them was a crowd of people: the doctor, Dunne’s sons, several nurses, men in dark suits, and the policeman. The door swung shut.

Starrell stood up.

“Who the hell are you?” Alma Dunne asked.

Oh shit, he thought. Oh—

“Who let you in?” She turned toward the door.

Oh—

“I’m going to see about this.”

Starrell held out his hands, palms up.

“Praise, Jesus!” he shouted, drawing out the words. “Praise the Lord!”