gap-toothed grin at him.
“Got a light?” Trace asked.
“Sure.” The man rested his push broom against his wheeled trash can and dug an old Zippo lighter from the shirt pocket of his uniform.
Casually Trace said, “I was just over in the East Building and I got lost. What’s on Three East anyway?”
“Hey, heh, you don’t want to go there, son,” the man said. He flicked the lighter and held it up so Trace could light his cigarette.
“Why not?” Trace said. “What’s there?”
“That’s the nuthouse,” the man said with a cackle. “For the crazies. You go in there, maybe you never come out, heh, heh.”
“Are they dangerous? They’ve got a guard up there.”
“Everybody’s dangerous around here,” the old man said.
“What do you mean? Who’s dangerous?”
“They’re all dangerous.” The man looked around to make sure no one was watching him. He leaned his face close to Trace’s. His whiskey breath could stop a horse coming out of the starting gate.
“They put saltpeter in the water so you can’t get it up,” the old man said.
“Oh, the dirty dogs,” Trace said.
“Been doing it for years now.” He looked around again and fired another blast of breath toward Trace. “Don’t tell them I said anything.”
“I won’t.”
“And I won’t tell them you stole Doc Matteson’s parking pass,” the old man said.
“Thanks,” said Trace.
“And stay out of Three East.”
“I’ll try,” Trace said.
12
Shaken emotionally by his bedside meeting with Mitchell Carey and the old man’s strange words, Trace stopped at a small roadside bar a half-mile from Meadow Vista Sanatorium and ordered a vodka on the rocks.
The tavern was empty and the bartender was busy watching a televised game show and seemed uninterested in intruding in Trace’s drinking. He tossed down his drink rapidly, called for a refill, and went into the men’s room, where he untaped the recorder from under his shirt and unhooked the wire leading to the golden frog microphone.
He took the recorder back into the bar. The bartender had refilled his glass and, having decided that Trace was going to be more than a one-drink customer, apparently figured he would help enrich his customer’s life with joy and camaraderie. And talk.
“What’s that, a tape recorder?”
“Yeah. You’re missing your show.”
“I hope you’re not with Candid Camera ,” the bartender said. “I didn’t wear my best shirt.” He smiled at Trace.
“Go watch your show.”
“Ahhh, I hate this show. It’s stupid. They get these two families on, see, and then they try to get them to—”
Trace coughed in the direction of the man’s face, then said with agitation, “Oh, Jesus, I’m sorry. You’d better go wash your face off right away.”
“Whatsa matter?” The bartender put a tentative hand to his cheek.
“Honolulu herpes,” Trace said. “I’ve got it and you can get it just by breathing the same air as me. Christ, I’m sorry. Quick, wash. I’ll leave you my card. If you get it and your wife wants to know why, I’ll tell her it was innocent.”
“You’ve got a hell of a nerve coming in here.”
“If you want to waste time talking, that’s your business. But I’m telling you. Wash. Right away.”
The bartender glared at Trace for a moment, then walked to the other end of the bar, ducked under the counter, and walked quickly to the men’s room.
“Gargle too,” Trace called.
Alone in the bar, now quiet except for the insipid yelping of a television emcee who thought, quite mistakenly, that he was charming, Trace rewound the tape recorder and turned up the volume.
It started playing in the middle of his interview with Nurse Simons and he fast forwarded it to the end of that section. Then he heard Carey’s voice.
“Hundred…two hundred…dying…dying…hundred hundred…no more…take it away…more dying…dying…dying.”
Then there was a pause and then the old man’s voice started again.
“Got a light?” Trace asked.
“Sure.” The man rested his push broom against his wheeled trash can and dug an old Zippo lighter from the shirt pocket of his uniform.
Casually Trace said, “I was just over in the East Building and I got lost. What’s on Three East anyway?”
“Hey, heh, you don’t want to go there, son,” the man said. He flicked the lighter and held it up so Trace could light his cigarette.
“Why not?” Trace said. “What’s there?”
“That’s the nuthouse,” the man said with a cackle. “For the crazies. You go in there, maybe you never come out, heh, heh.”
“Are they dangerous? They’ve got a guard up there.”
“Everybody’s dangerous around here,” the old man said.
“What do you mean? Who’s dangerous?”
“They’re all dangerous.” The man looked around to make sure no one was watching him. He leaned his face close to Trace’s. His whiskey breath could stop a horse coming out of the starting gate.
“They put saltpeter in the water so you can’t get it up,” the old man said.
“Oh, the dirty dogs,” Trace said.
“Been doing it for years now.” He looked around again and fired another blast of breath toward Trace. “Don’t tell them I said anything.”
“I won’t.”
“And I won’t tell them you stole Doc Matteson’s parking pass,” the old man said.
“Thanks,” said Trace.
“And stay out of Three East.”
“I’ll try,” Trace said.
12
Shaken emotionally by his bedside meeting with Mitchell Carey and the old man’s strange words, Trace stopped at a small roadside bar a half-mile from Meadow Vista Sanatorium and ordered a vodka on the rocks.
The tavern was empty and the bartender was busy watching a televised game show and seemed uninterested in intruding in Trace’s drinking. He tossed down his drink rapidly, called for a refill, and went into the men’s room, where he untaped the recorder from under his shirt and unhooked the wire leading to the golden frog microphone.
He took the recorder back into the bar. The bartender had refilled his glass and, having decided that Trace was going to be more than a one-drink customer, apparently figured he would help enrich his customer’s life with joy and camaraderie. And talk.
“What’s that, a tape recorder?”
“Yeah. You’re missing your show.”
“I hope you’re not with Candid Camera ,” the bartender said. “I didn’t wear my best shirt.” He smiled at Trace.
“Go watch your show.”
“Ahhh, I hate this show. It’s stupid. They get these two families on, see, and then they try to get them to—”
Trace coughed in the direction of the man’s face, then said with agitation, “Oh, Jesus, I’m sorry. You’d better go wash your face off right away.”
“Whatsa matter?” The bartender put a tentative hand to his cheek.
“Honolulu herpes,” Trace said. “I’ve got it and you can get it just by breathing the same air as me. Christ, I’m sorry. Quick, wash. I’ll leave you my card. If you get it and your wife wants to know why, I’ll tell her it was innocent.”
“You’ve got a hell of a nerve coming in here.”
“If you want to waste time talking, that’s your business. But I’m telling you. Wash. Right away.”
The bartender glared at Trace for a moment, then walked to the other end of the bar, ducked under the counter, and walked quickly to the men’s room.
“Gargle too,” Trace called.
Alone in the bar, now quiet except for the insipid yelping of a television emcee who thought, quite mistakenly, that he was charming, Trace rewound the tape recorder and turned up the volume.
It started playing in the middle of his interview with Nurse Simons and he fast forwarded it to the end of that section. Then he heard Carey’s voice.
“Hundred…two hundred…dying…dying…hundred hundred…no more…take it away…more dying…dying…dying.”
Then there was a pause and then the old man’s voice started again.
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