He glared around at them.

“You’ve been up my ass, you’ve been through my stuff, and I’m sitting here in a pair of Jockies with you guys blowing smoke in my face. You want a blood-test? Kay. Bring in someone to do it.”

They murmured, looked at each other. Surprised. Uneasy.

“But if you want to do it without a court order,” Eddie said, “whoever does it better bring a lot of extra hypos and vials, because I’ll be damned if I’m gonna piss alone. I want a Federal marshal in here, and I want each one of you to take the same goddam test, and I want your names and IDs on each vial, and I want them to go into that Federal marshal’s custody. And whatever you test mine for—cocaine, heroin, bennies, pot, whatever—I want those same tests performed on the samples from you guys. And then I want the results turned over to my lawyer.”

“Oh boy, YOUR LAWYER,” one of them cried. “That’s what it always comes down to with you shit-bags, doesn’t it, Eddie? You’ll hear from MY LAWYER. I’ll sic MY LAWYER on you. That crap makes me want to puke!”

“As a matter of fact I don’t currently have one,” Eddie said, and this was the truth. “I didn’t think I needed one. You guys changed my mind. You got nothing because I have nothing, but the rock and roll just doesn’t stop, does it? So you want me to dance? Great. I’ll dance. But I’m not gonna do it alone. You guys’ll have to dance, too.”

There was a thick, difficult silence.

“I’d like you to take down your shorts again, please, Mr. Dean,” one of them said. This guy was older. This guy looked like he was in charge of things. Eddie thought that maybe—just maybe—this guy had finally realized where the fresh tracks might be. Until now they hadn’t checked. His arms, his shoulders, his legs . . . but not there. They had been too sure they had a bust.

“I’m through taking things off, taking things down, and eating this shit,” Eddie said. “You get someone in here and we’ll do a bunch of blood-tests or I’m getting out. Now which do you want?”

That silence again. And when they started looking at each other, Eddie knew he had won.

WE won, he amended. What’s your name, fella?

Roland. Yours is Eddie. Eddie Dean.

You listen good.

Listen and watch.

“Give him his clothes,” the older man said disgustedly. He looked at Eddie. “I don’t know what you had or how you got rid of it, but I want you to know that we’re going to find out.”

The old dude surveyed him.

“So there you sit. There you sit, almost grinning. What you say doesn’t make me want to puke. What you are does.”

“I make you want to puke.”

“That’s affirmative.”

“Oh, boy,” Eddie said. “I love it. I’m sitting here in a little room and I’ve got nothing on but my underwear and there’s seven guys around me with guns on their hips and I make you want to puke? Man, you have got a problem.”