“Well, you’re collecting quite a crew, Roland,” Eddie said, bitterly amused. “First you got your basic white junkie, and then you got your basic black shoplif—”

But Roland was already moving toward the doorway between the worlds, moving swiftly, not looking at Eddie at all.

“I mean it!” Eddie screamed. “You go through and I’ll cut your throat, I’ll cut your fucking thr—”

Before he could finish, the gunslinger was gone. All that was left of him was his limp, breathing body lying upon the beach.

For a moment Eddie only stood there, unable to believe that Roland had done it, had really gone ahead and done this idiotic thing in spite of his promise—his sincere fucking guarantee, as far as that went—of what the consequences would be.

He stood for a moment, eyes rolling like the eyes of a frightened horse at the onset of a thunderstorm . . . except of course there was no thunderstorm, except for the one in the head.

All right. All right, goddammit.

There might only be a moment. That was all the gunslinger might give him, and Eddie damned well knew it. He glanced at the door and saw the black hands freeze with a gold necklace half in and half out of a purse that already glittered like a pirate’s cache of treasure. Although he could not hear it, Eddie sensed that Roland was speaking to the owner of the black hands.

He pulled the knife from the gunslinger’s purse and then rolled over the limp, breathing body which lay before the doorway. The eyes were open but blank, rolled up to the whites.

“Watch, Roland!” Eddie screamed. That monotonous, idiotic, never-ending wind blew in his ears. Christ, it was enough to drive anyone bugshit. “Watch very closely! I want to complete your fucking education! I want to show you what happens when you fuck over the Dean brothers!” He brought the knife down to the gunslinger’s throat.

CHAPTER 2

Ringing the Changes

1

August, 1959:

When the intern came outside half an hour later, he found Julio leaning against the ambulance which was still parked in the emergency bay of Sisters of Mercy Hospital on 23rd Street. The heel of one of Julio’s pointy-toed boots was hooked over the front fender. He had changed to a pair of glaring pink pants and a blue shirt with his name written in gold stitches over the left pocket: his bowling league outfit. George checked his watch and saw that Julio’s team—The Spics of Supremacy—would already be rolling.

“Thought you’d be gone,” George Shavers said. He was an intern at Sisters of Mercy. “How’re your guys gonna win without the Wonder Hook?”

“They got Miguel Basale to take my place. He ain’t steady, but he gets hot sometimes. They’ll be okay.” Julio paused. “I was curious about how it came out.” He was the driver, a Cubano with a sense of humor George wasn’t even sure Julio knew he had. He looked around. Neither of the paramedics who rode with them were in sight.