“He put all four in me,” he said calmly, bending to press both forearms against his lower body.
“Get a doc,” I told Mickey.
“No good,” Reno said. “I got no more belly left than Peter Collins.”
I pulled a folding chair over and sat him down on it, so he could lean forward and hold himself together.
Mickey ran out and down the stairs.
“Did you know he wasn’t croaked?” Reno asked.
“No. I gave it to you the way I got it from Ted Wright.”
“Ted left too soon,” he said. “I was leery of something like that, and came to make sure. He trapped me pretty, playing dead till I was under the gun.” He stared dully at Whisper’s corpse. “Game at that, damn him. Dead, but wouldn’t lay down, bandaging hisself, laying here waiting by hisself.” He smiled, the only smile I had ever seen him use. “But he’s just meat and not much of it now.”
His voice was thickening. A little red puddle formed under the edge of his chair. I was afraid to touch him. Only the pressure of his arms, and his bent-forward position, were keeping him from falling apart.
He stared at the puddle and asked:
“How the hell did you figure you didn’t croak her?”
“I had to take it out in hoping I hadn’t, till just now,” I said. “I had you pegged for it, but couldn’t be sure. I was all hopped up that night, and had a lot of dreams, with bells ringing and voices calling, and a lot of stuff like that. I got an idea maybe it wasn’t straight dreaming so much as