“That’s all there is.” The sallow thing looked more sulky than ever.

“I have a reservation out tomorrow,” Eddie said. This was a lie, but he didn’t believe the sallow thing had the resources to check it. “TWA. I did it on my own, just in case the contact happened to be a fuck-up like you. I don’t mind. It’ll be a relief, actually. I wasn’t cut out for this sort of work.”

The sallow thing sat and cogitated. Eddie sat and concentrated on not moving. He felt like moving; felt like slipping and sliding, bipping and bopping, shucking and jiving, scratching his scratches and cracking his crackers. He even felt his eyes wanting to slide back to the pile of brown powder, although he knew it was poison. He had fixed at ten that morning; the same number of hours had gone by since then. But if he did any of those things, the situation would change. The sallow thing was doing more than cogitating; it was watching him, trying to calculate the depth of him.

“I might be able to find something,” it said at last.

“Why don’t you try?” Eddie said. “But come eleven, I turn out the light and put the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door, and anybody that knocks after I do that, I call the desk and say someone’s bothering me, send a security guy.”

“You are a fuck,” the sallow thing said in its impeccable British accent.

“No,” Eddie said, “a fuck is what you expected. I came with my legs crossed. You want to be here before eleven with something that I can use—it doesn’t have to be great, just something I can use—or you will be one dead scuzz.”

7

The sallow thing was back long before eleven; he was back by nine-thirty. Eddie guessed the other stuff had been in his car all along.

A little more powder this time. Not white, but at least a dull ivory color, which was mildly hopeful.

Eddie tasted. It seemed all right. Actually better than all right. Pretty good. He rolled a bill and snorted.

“Well, then, until Sunday,” the sallow thing said briskly, getting to its feet.

“Wait,” Eddie said, as if he were the one with the gun. In a way he was. The gun was Balazar. Emilio Balazar was a high-caliber big shot in New York’s wonderful world of drugs.

“Wait?” the sallow thing turned and looked at Eddie as if he believed Eddie must be insane. “For what?”

“Well, I was actually thinking of you,” Eddie said. “If I get really sick from what I just put into my body, it’s off. If I die, of course it’s off. I was just thinking that, if I only get a little sick, I might give you another chance. You know, like that story about how some kid rubs a lamp and gets three wishes.”

“It will not make you sick. That’s China White.”

“If that’s China White,” Eddie said, “I’m Dwight Gooden.”