The Drawing of the Three (17 page)

“Kill him, Jack!”
he shouted.

There was no response. Then he heard the kid say it again: “They killed my brother. They killed Henry.”

Balazar suddenly knew
—knew
—it wasn’t Jack the kid was talking to.

“Get all the gentlemen,” he said to ’Cimi. “
All
of them. We’re gonna burn his ass and when he’s dead we’re gonna take him in the kitchen and I’m gonna personally chop his head off.”

“They killed my brother,” the prisoner said. The gunslinger said nothing. He only watched and thought:
The bottles. In the sink. That’s what I need, or what he thinks I need. The packets. Don’t forget. Don’t forget.

From the other room:
“Kill him, Jack!”

Neither Eddie nor the gunslinger took any notice of this.

“They killed my brother. They killed Henry.”

In the other room Balazar was now talking about taking Eddie’s head as a trophy. The gunslinger found some odd comfort in this: not everything in this world was different from his own, it seemed.

The one called ’Cimi began shouting hoarsely for the others. There was an ungentlemanly thunder of running feet.

“Do you want to do something about it, or do you just want to stand here?” Roland asked.

“Oh, I want to do something about it,” Eddie said, and raised the gunslinger’s revolver. Although only moments ago he had believed he would need both hands to do it, he found that he could do it easily.

“And what is it you want to do?” Roland asked, and his voice seemed distant to his own ears. He was sick, full of fever, but what was happening to him now was the onset of a different fever, one which was all too familiar. It was the fever that had overtaken him in Tull. It was battle-fire, hazing all thought, leaving only the need to stop thinking and start shooting.

“I want to go to war,” Eddie Dean said calmly.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Roland said, “but you are going to find out. When we go through the door, you go right. I have to go left. My hand.”

Eddie nodded. They went to their war.

Balazar had expected Eddie, or Andolini, or both of them. He had not expected Eddie and an utter stranger, a tall man with dirty gray-black hair and a face that looked as if it had been chiseled from obdurate stone by some savage god. For a moment he was not sure which way to fire.

’Cimi, however, had no such problems.
Da Boss
was mad at Eddie. Therefore, he would punch Eddie’s clock first and worry about the other
catzarro
later. ’Cimi turned ponderously toward Eddie and pulled the trigger of his automatic three times. The casings jumped and gleamed in the air. Eddie saw the big man turning and went into a mad slide along the floor, whizzing along like some kid in a disco contest, a kid so jived-up he didn’t realize he’d left his entire John Travolta outfit, underwear included, behind; he went with his wang wagging and his bare knees first heating and then scorching as the friction built up. Holes punched through plastic that was supposed to look like knotty pine just above him. Slivers of it rained down on his shoulders and into his hair.

Don’t let me die naked and needing a fix, God,
he prayed, knowing such a prayer was more than blasphemous; it was an absurdity. Still he was unable to stop it.
I’ll die, but please, just let me have one more
—

The revolver in the gunslinger’s left hand crashed. On the open beach it had been loud; over here it was deafening.

“Oh Jeez!”
Cimi Dretto screamed in a strangled, breathy voice. It was a wonder he could scream at all. His chest suddenly caved in, as if someone had swung a sledgehammer at a barrel. His white shirt began to turn red in patches, as if poppies were blooming on it.
“Oh Jeez! Oh Jeez! Oh J—”

Claudio Andolini shoved him aside. ’Cimi fell with a thud. Two of the framed pictures on Balazar’s wall crashed down. The one showing
Da Boss
presenting the Sportsman of the Year trophy to a grinning kid at a Police Athletic League banquet landed on ’Cimi’s head. Shattered glass fell on his shoulders.

“oh jeez”
he whispered in a fainting little voice, and blood began to bubble from his lips.

Claudio was followed by Tricks and one of the men who had been waiting in the storage room. Claudio had an automatic in each hand; the guy from the storage room had a Remington shotgun sawed off so short that it looked like a derringer with a case of the mumps; Tricks Postino was carrying what he called The Wonderful Rambo Machine—this was an M-16 rapid-fire assault weapon.

“Where’s my brother, you fucking needle-freak?” Claudio screamed. “What’d you do to Jack?” He could not have been terribly interested in an answer, because he began to fire with both weapons while he was still yelling.
I’m dead,
Eddie thought, and then Roland fired again. Claudio Andolini was propelled backwards in a cloud of his own blood. The automatics flew from his hands and slid across Balazar’s desk. They thumped to the carpet amid a flutter of playing cards. Most of Claudio’s guts hit the wall a second before Claudio caught up with them.

“Get him!”
Balazar was shrieking.
“Get the spook! The kid ain’t dangerous! He’s nothing but a bare-ass junkie! Get the spook! Blow him away!”

He pulled the trigger on the .357 twice. The Magnum was almost as loud as Roland’s revolver. It did not make neat holes in the wall against which Roland crouched; the slugs smashed gaping wounds in
the fake wood to either side of Roland’s head. White light from the bathroom shone through the holes in ragged rays.

Roland pulled the trigger of his revolver.

Only a dry click.

Misfire.

“Eddie!”
the gunslinger yelled, and Eddie raised his own gun and pulled the trigger.

The crash was so loud that for a moment he thought the gun had blown up in his hand, as Jack’s had done. The recoil did not drive him back through the wall, but it did snap his arm up in a savage arc that jerked all the tendons under his arm.

He saw part of Balazar’s shoulder disintegrate into red spray, heard Balazar screech like a wounded cat, and yelled,
“The junkie ain’t dangerous, was that what you said? Was that it, you numb fuck? You want to mess with me and my brother? I’ll show you who’s dangerous! I’ll sh—”

There was a boom like a grenade as the guy from the storage room fired the sawed-off. Eddie rolled as the blast tore a hundred tiny holes in the walls and bathroom door. His naked skin was seared by shot in several places, and Eddie understood that if the guy had been closer, where the thing’s pattern was tight, he would have been vaporized.

Hell, I’m dead anyway,
he thought, watching as the guy from the storage room worked the Remington’s jack, pumping in fresh cartridges, then laying it over his forearm. He was grinning. His teeth were very yellow—Eddie didn’t think they had been acquainted with a toothbrush in quite some time.

Christ, I’m going to get killed by some fuckhead with yellow teeth and I don’t even know his name,
Eddie thought dimly.
At least I put one in Balazar. At least I did that much.
He wondered if Roland had another shot. He couldn’t remember.

“I got him!” Tricks Postino yelled cheerfully. “Gimme a clear field, Dario!” And before the man named Dario could give him a clear field or anything else, Tricks opened up with The Wonderful Rambo
Machine. The heavy thunder of machine-gun fire filled Balazar’s office. The first result of this barrage was to save Eddie Dean’s life. Dario had drawn a bead on him with the sawed-off, but before he could pull its double triggers, Tricks cut him in half.

“Stop it, you idiot!”
Balazar screamed.

But Tricks either didn’t hear, couldn’t stop, or
wouldn’t
stop. Lips pulled back from his teeth so that his spit-shining teeth were bared in a huge shark’s grin, he raked the room from one end to the other, blowing two of the wall panels to dust, turning framed photographs into clouds of flying glass fragments, hammering the bathroom door off its hinges. The frosted glass of Balazar’s shower stall exploded. The March of Dimes trophy Balazar had gotten the year before bonged like a bell as a slug drove through it.

In the movies, people actually kill other people with hand-held rapid-fire weapons. In real life, this rarely happens. If it does, it happens with the first four or five slugs fired (as the unfortunate Dario could have testified, if he had ever been capable of testifying to anything again). After the first four or five, two things happen to a man—even a powerful one—trying to control such a weapon. The muzzle begins to rise, and the shooter himself begins to turn either right or left, depending on which unfortunate shoulder he has decided to bludgeon with the weapon’s recoil. In short, only a moron or a movie star would attempt the use of such a gun; it was like trying to shoot someone with a pneumatic drill.

For a moment Eddie was incapable of any action more constructive than staring at this perfect marvel of idiocy. Then he saw other men crowding through the door behind Tricks, and raised Roland’s revolver.

“Got him!”
Tricks was screaming with the joyous hysteria of a man who has seen too many movies to be able to distinguish between what the script in his head says should be happening and what really is.
“Got him! I got him! I g—”

Eddie pulled the trigger and vaporized Tricks from the eyebrows up. Judging from the man’s behavior, that was not a great deal.

Jesus Christ, when these things
do
shoot, they really blow holes in things,
he thought.

There was a loud
KA-BLAM
from Eddie’s left. Something tore a hot gouge in his underdeveloped left bicep. He saw Balazar pointing the Mag at him from behind the corner of his card-littered desk. His shoulder was a dripping red mass. Eddie ducked as the Magnum crashed again.

Roland managed to get into a crouch, aimed at the first of the new men coming in through the door, and squeezed the trigger. He had rolled the cylinder, dumped the used loads and the duds onto the carpet, and had loaded this one fresh shell. He had done it with his teeth. Balazar had pinned Eddie down.
If this one’s a dud, I think we’re both gone.

It wasn’t. The gun roared, recoiled in his hand, and Jimmy Haspio spun aside, the .45 he had been holding falling from his dying fingers.

Roland saw the other man duck back and then he was crawling through the splinters of wood and glass that littered the floor. He dropped his revolver back into its holster. The idea of reloading again with two of his right fingers missing was a joke.

Eddie was doing well. The gunslinger measured just how well by the fact that he was fighting naked. That was hard for a man. Sometimes impossible.

The gunslinger grabbed one of the automatic pistols Claudio Andolini had dropped.

“What are the rest of you guys waiting for?”
Balazar screamed.
“Jesus!
Eat
these guys!”

Big George Biondi and the other man from the supply room charged in through the door. The man from the supply room was bawling something in Italian.

Roland crawled to the corner of the desk. Eddie rose, aiming
toward the door and the charging men.
He knows Balazar’s there, waiting, but he thinks he’s the only one of us with a gun now,
Roland thought.
Here is another one ready to die for you, Roland. What great wrong did you ever do that you should inspire such terrible loyalty in so many?

Balazar rose, not seeing the gunslinger was now on his flank. Balazar was thinking of only one thing: finally putting an end to the goddam junkie who had brought this ruin down on his head.

“No,” the gunslinger said, and Balazar looked around at him, surprise stamped on his features.

“Fuck y—” Balazar began, bringing the Magnum around. The gunslinger shot him four times with Claudio’s automatic. It was a cheap little thing, not much better than a toy, and touching it made his hand feel dirty, but it was perhaps fitting to kill a despicable man with a despicable weapon.

Enrico Balazar died with an expression of terminal surprise on what remained of his face.

“Hi, George!” Eddie said, and pulled the trigger of the gunslinger’s revolver. That satisfying crash came again.
No duds in this baby,
Eddie thought crazily.
I guess I must have gotten the good one.
George got off one shot before Eddie’s bullet drove him back into the screaming man, bowling him over like a ninepin, but it went wild. An irrational but utterly persuasive feeling had come over him: a feeling that Roland’s gun held some magical, talismanic power of protection. As long as he held it, he couldn’t be hurt.

Silence fell then, a silence in which Eddie could hear only the man under Big George moaning (when George landed on Rudy Vechhio, which was this unfortunate fellow’s name, he had fractured three of Vechhio’s ribs) and the high ringing in his own ears. He wondered if he would ever hear right again. The shooting spree which now seemed to be over made the loudest rock concert Eddie had ever been to sound like a radio playing two blocks over by comparison.

Balazar’s office was no longer recognizable as a room of any kind. Its previous function had ceased to matter. Eddie looked around with
the wide, wondering eyes of a very young man seeing something like this for the first time, but Roland knew the look, and the look was always the same. Whether it was an open field of battle where thousands had died by cannon, rifle, sword, and halberd or a small room where five or six had shot each other, it was the same place, always the same place in the end: another deadhouse, stinking of gunpowder and raw meat.

The wall between the bathroom and the office was gone except for a few struts. Broken glass twinkled everywhere. Ceiling panels that had been shredded by Tricks Postino’s gaudy but useless M-16 fireworks display hung down like pieces of peeled skin.

Eddie coughed dryly. Now he could hear other sounds—a babble of excited conversation, shouted voices outside the bar, and, in the distance, the warble of sirens.