Knowing her, I’m beginning to think maybe it’s me and not Whisper that’s being trapped.”
Mickey came in, telling us he had phoned for an ambulance.
Reno used the interruption to rest his voice, and then continued with his story:
“Later, I find that Whisper did phone her he was coming, and got there before me. You were coked. She was afraid to let him in, so he beat it. She don’t tell me that, scared I’ll go and leave her. You’re hopped and she wants protection against Whisper coming back. I don’t know none of that then. I’m leery that I’ve walked into something, knowing her. I think I’ll take hold of her and slap the truth out of her. I try it, and she grabs the pick and screams. When she squawks, I hear a man’s feet hitting the floor. The trap’s sprung, I think.”
He spoke slower, taking more time and pains to turn each word out calmly and deliberately, as talking became harder. His voice had become blurred, but if he knew it he pretended he didn’t.
“I don’t mean to be the only one that’s hurt. I twist the pick out of her hand and stick it in her. You gallop out, coked to the edges, charging at the whole world with both eyes shut. She tumbles into you. You go down, roll around till your hand hits the butt of the pick. Holding on to that, you go to sleep, peaceful as she is. I see it then, what I’ve done. But hell! she’s croaked. There’s nothing to do about it. I turn off the lights and go home. When you—”
A tired looking ambulance crew—Poisonville gave them plenty of work—brought a litter into the room, ending Reno’s tale. I was glad of it. I had all the information I wanted, and sitting there listening to and watching him talk himself to death wasn’t pleasant.
I took Mickey over to a corner of the room and muttered in his ear: