hole, got his hand stuck for a moment, then yanked it out so hard he pulled the sleeve back again with it.
Thud, and the bathroom door shivered again.
“Gods, how can you be so clumsy?” the gunslinger moaned, and rammed his own fist into the left sleeve of Eddie’s shirt. Eddie grabbed the cuff as the gunslinger pulled back. Now the gunslinger held the shirt for him as a butler might hold a coat for his master. Eddie put it on and groped for the lowest button.
“Not yet!” the gunslinger barked, and tore another piece away from his own diminishing shirt. “Wipe your gut!”
Eddie did the best he could. The dimple where the knife had actually pierced his skin was still welling blood. The blade was sharp, all right. Sharp enough.
He dropped the bloody wad of the gunslinger’s shirt on the sand and buttoned his shirt.
Thud. This time the door did more than shudder; it buckled in its frame. Looking through the doorway on the beach, Eddie saw the bottle of liquid soap fall from where it had been standing beside the basin. It landed on his zipper bag.
He had meant to stuff his shirt, which was now buttoned (and buttoned straight, for a wonder), into his pants. Suddenly a better idea struck him. He unbuckled his belt instead.
“There’s no time for that!” The gunslinger realized he was trying to scream and was unable. “That door’s only got one hit left in it!”
“I know what I’m doing,” Eddie said, hoping he did, and stepped back through the doorway between the worlds, unsnapping his jeans and raking the zipper down as he went.
After one desperate, despairing moment, the gunslinger followed him, physical and full of hot physical ache at one moment, nothing but cool ka in Eddie’s head at the next.
18
“One more,” McDonald said grimly, and Deere nodded. Now that all the passengers were out of the jetway as well as the plane itself, the Customs agents had drawn their weapons.
“Now!”
The two men drove forward and hit the door together. It flew open, a chunk of it hanging for a moment from the lock and then dropping to the floor.
And there sat Mr. 3A, with his pants around his knees and the tails of his faded paisley shirt concealing—barely—his jackhandle. Well, it sure does look like we caught him in the act, Captain McDonald thought wearily. Only trouble is, the act we caught him in wasn’t against the law, last I heard. Suddenly he could feel the throb in his shoulder where he had hit the door—what? three times? four?
Out loud he barked, “What in hell’s name are you doing in there, mister?”
“Well, I was taking a crap,” 3A said, “but if all you guys got a bad problem, I guess I could wipe myself in the terminal—”
“And I suppose you didn’t hear us, smart guy?”
“Couldn’t reach the door.” 3A put out his hand to demonstrate, and although the door was now hanging askew against the wall to his left, McDonald could see his point. “I suppose I could have gotten up, but I, like, had a desperate situation on my hands. Except it wasn’t exactly on my hands, if you get my drift. Nor did I want it on my hands, if you catch my further drift.” 3A smiled a winning, slightly daffy smile which looked to Captain McDonald approximately as real as a nine-dollar bill. Listening to him, you’d think no one had ever taught him the simple trick of leaning forward.
“Get up,” McDonald said.
“Be happy to. If you could just move the ladies back a little?” 3A smiled charmingly. “I know it’s outdated in this day and age, but I can’t help it. I’m modest. Fact is, I’ve got a lot to be modest about.” He held up his left hand, thumb and forefinger roughly half an inch apart, and winked at Jane Dorning, who blushed bright red and immediately disappeared up the jetway, closely followed by Susy.
You don’t look modest, Captain McDonald thought. You look like a cat that just got the cream, that’s what you look like.
When the stews were out of sight, 3A stood
Thud, and the bathroom door shivered again.
“Gods, how can you be so clumsy?” the gunslinger moaned, and rammed his own fist into the left sleeve of Eddie’s shirt. Eddie grabbed the cuff as the gunslinger pulled back. Now the gunslinger held the shirt for him as a butler might hold a coat for his master. Eddie put it on and groped for the lowest button.
“Not yet!” the gunslinger barked, and tore another piece away from his own diminishing shirt. “Wipe your gut!”
Eddie did the best he could. The dimple where the knife had actually pierced his skin was still welling blood. The blade was sharp, all right. Sharp enough.
He dropped the bloody wad of the gunslinger’s shirt on the sand and buttoned his shirt.
Thud. This time the door did more than shudder; it buckled in its frame. Looking through the doorway on the beach, Eddie saw the bottle of liquid soap fall from where it had been standing beside the basin. It landed on his zipper bag.
He had meant to stuff his shirt, which was now buttoned (and buttoned straight, for a wonder), into his pants. Suddenly a better idea struck him. He unbuckled his belt instead.
“There’s no time for that!” The gunslinger realized he was trying to scream and was unable. “That door’s only got one hit left in it!”
“I know what I’m doing,” Eddie said, hoping he did, and stepped back through the doorway between the worlds, unsnapping his jeans and raking the zipper down as he went.
After one desperate, despairing moment, the gunslinger followed him, physical and full of hot physical ache at one moment, nothing but cool ka in Eddie’s head at the next.
18
“One more,” McDonald said grimly, and Deere nodded. Now that all the passengers were out of the jetway as well as the plane itself, the Customs agents had drawn their weapons.
“Now!”
The two men drove forward and hit the door together. It flew open, a chunk of it hanging for a moment from the lock and then dropping to the floor.
And there sat Mr. 3A, with his pants around his knees and the tails of his faded paisley shirt concealing—barely—his jackhandle. Well, it sure does look like we caught him in the act, Captain McDonald thought wearily. Only trouble is, the act we caught him in wasn’t against the law, last I heard. Suddenly he could feel the throb in his shoulder where he had hit the door—what? three times? four?
Out loud he barked, “What in hell’s name are you doing in there, mister?”
“Well, I was taking a crap,” 3A said, “but if all you guys got a bad problem, I guess I could wipe myself in the terminal—”
“And I suppose you didn’t hear us, smart guy?”
“Couldn’t reach the door.” 3A put out his hand to demonstrate, and although the door was now hanging askew against the wall to his left, McDonald could see his point. “I suppose I could have gotten up, but I, like, had a desperate situation on my hands. Except it wasn’t exactly on my hands, if you get my drift. Nor did I want it on my hands, if you catch my further drift.” 3A smiled a winning, slightly daffy smile which looked to Captain McDonald approximately as real as a nine-dollar bill. Listening to him, you’d think no one had ever taught him the simple trick of leaning forward.
“Get up,” McDonald said.
“Be happy to. If you could just move the ladies back a little?” 3A smiled charmingly. “I know it’s outdated in this day and age, but I can’t help it. I’m modest. Fact is, I’ve got a lot to be modest about.” He held up his left hand, thumb and forefinger roughly half an inch apart, and winked at Jane Dorning, who blushed bright red and immediately disappeared up the jetway, closely followed by Susy.
You don’t look modest, Captain McDonald thought. You look like a cat that just got the cream, that’s what you look like.
When the stews were out of sight, 3A stood
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