front of him. Christ, it was a long way off. He looked up. Everybody was way off, clear the hell over there around the table. He felt light. His head felt like cotton. He thought of his head floating up toward the ceiling and his neck stretching after it like a string on a balloon. He laughed at the thought. He saw Sharkey looming closer, his heavy face suddenly growing larger in Tony’s eyes. Sharkey’s red lips, those stupid damn lips, were moving, but he wasn’t saying anything, just mumbling. What was he saying? He looked scared.
Suddenly Tony felt panicky, a slow, erratic pulse ticking, the blood squirting from his heart and slapping against the hollow of his throat. He looked around. Everybody was staring at him, Sharkey’s white face seeming closest, lips still moving. Tony needed a drink; he reached for the glass and saw it tip slowly as if somebody were pulling it by an invisible cord. It fell soundlessly to the green felt and the liquor spread in a dark stain. Tony saw the stain cover the card before him; he fumbled for the card, picked it up and put it with the others in his hand. He felt sick, dizzy, his head was floating. He was moving around the table, they were all moving, the table was spinning, spinning slowly in a tight circle, gathering speed, the frozen faces all around him blurring, melting, congealing.
Tony gasped and shook his head, squeezing his eyes together. He opened his eyes and stared; for a moment everything was clear and he saw Sharkey start to get up, saw Marzo reach out with his long, delicate-fingered hand and grasp Sharkey’s shoulder, saw Sharkey look around him, his lips moving and twisting as he sank back into his chair. Tony tried to get up but his legs wouldn’t push him up; it was as if his legs weren’t there. The table started spinning again, faster and faster until everything was a blur and there were no faces, nothing except confused color, which deepened, became darker, and then was black, a soundless black, soft, quiet, deeper than night.
Blackness became grayness, then a pinkish glow beyond his eyelids. He forced them open as something shook him roughly. A man’s face was close to his own, short stiff whiskers poking from the chin. Tony hadn’t seen him before. The man moved away and Tony tried to sit up, got to one elbow. He was on a couch, and he pulled himself around till his back was against the cushions, the exertion increasing a knifing pain in his skull.
He could see the man now. A policeman. A uniformed policeman whom Tony didn’t recognize. Tony shut his eyes again and put his hand against his forehead. It felt icy cold and hard to the touch. Once as a kid Tony had been dehrious, sick, dreaming while awake that he was running on the tiny earth as it spun beneath his feet while all the others of the world chased him for something he had done; he had cried out in the night and nobody answered and he was afraid. His head, then, had felt this way, cold and damp and hard, and now he felt again the same fear in his mind and body.
Someone struck him across the cheek, whipping his head around with pain roaring inside it. He opened his eyes and looked at the policeman standing over him. He looked past the man, around the room. Everybody else was there. What had happened? He’d passed out, got sick and blanked out. He saw long wiry Frame, pouchy-faced Joyce with the blank gray eyes blinking at him. Pudge, Marzo. There’d been somebody else. Sharkey. Where was the Shark?
Tony looked to his right and saw him. The poker table had been moved, and he could see Shark lying face down on the floor, oddly crumpled, the back of his head gone. Tony stared at him, uncomprehending for one moment, his mind dazed and sluggish. He realized after a while that Shark must have been shot in the forehead, the bullet ripping away the back of his skull as it smashed through. Tony raised his eyes to the wall. There was a bullet hole there, surrounded with the stain of red and ugly
Suddenly Tony felt panicky, a slow, erratic pulse ticking, the blood squirting from his heart and slapping against the hollow of his throat. He looked around. Everybody was staring at him, Sharkey’s white face seeming closest, lips still moving. Tony needed a drink; he reached for the glass and saw it tip slowly as if somebody were pulling it by an invisible cord. It fell soundlessly to the green felt and the liquor spread in a dark stain. Tony saw the stain cover the card before him; he fumbled for the card, picked it up and put it with the others in his hand. He felt sick, dizzy, his head was floating. He was moving around the table, they were all moving, the table was spinning, spinning slowly in a tight circle, gathering speed, the frozen faces all around him blurring, melting, congealing.
Tony gasped and shook his head, squeezing his eyes together. He opened his eyes and stared; for a moment everything was clear and he saw Sharkey start to get up, saw Marzo reach out with his long, delicate-fingered hand and grasp Sharkey’s shoulder, saw Sharkey look around him, his lips moving and twisting as he sank back into his chair. Tony tried to get up but his legs wouldn’t push him up; it was as if his legs weren’t there. The table started spinning again, faster and faster until everything was a blur and there were no faces, nothing except confused color, which deepened, became darker, and then was black, a soundless black, soft, quiet, deeper than night.
Blackness became grayness, then a pinkish glow beyond his eyelids. He forced them open as something shook him roughly. A man’s face was close to his own, short stiff whiskers poking from the chin. Tony hadn’t seen him before. The man moved away and Tony tried to sit up, got to one elbow. He was on a couch, and he pulled himself around till his back was against the cushions, the exertion increasing a knifing pain in his skull.
He could see the man now. A policeman. A uniformed policeman whom Tony didn’t recognize. Tony shut his eyes again and put his hand against his forehead. It felt icy cold and hard to the touch. Once as a kid Tony had been dehrious, sick, dreaming while awake that he was running on the tiny earth as it spun beneath his feet while all the others of the world chased him for something he had done; he had cried out in the night and nobody answered and he was afraid. His head, then, had felt this way, cold and damp and hard, and now he felt again the same fear in his mind and body.
Someone struck him across the cheek, whipping his head around with pain roaring inside it. He opened his eyes and looked at the policeman standing over him. He looked past the man, around the room. Everybody else was there. What had happened? He’d passed out, got sick and blanked out. He saw long wiry Frame, pouchy-faced Joyce with the blank gray eyes blinking at him. Pudge, Marzo. There’d been somebody else. Sharkey. Where was the Shark?
Tony looked to his right and saw him. The poker table had been moved, and he could see Shark lying face down on the floor, oddly crumpled, the back of his head gone. Tony stared at him, uncomprehending for one moment, his mind dazed and sluggish. He realized after a while that Shark must have been shot in the forehead, the bullet ripping away the back of his skull as it smashed through. Tony raised his eyes to the wall. There was a bullet hole there, surrounded with the stain of red and ugly
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