Authors: James Jones
“Please stay in bed,” the sister said from the door.
“Get ‘Doctor,’” ’Bama countered. As soon as she was gone he looked at Dave and shook his head. “Jesus! If I had back half the energy, I’ve spent sweet-talkin that old biddy, I’d already be well already.” He his buttocks in the bed and groaned out loud. “Christ, I’m stiff as a board,” he said, and turned to look out the window. Outside, the dreary day was drizzling again, and ’Bama stared at it churlishly for a long moment. Dave had never seen him so grouchy and flighty before. “These damn places give me the willies,” he growled after a moment. “I’d rather be locked up for real. At least there you know yore locked up for definite and you can’t get out. But hospitals are like the Army: They give you just enough rope to make it look like yore free, only you ain’t. Christ, I’d rather be in a cage than on a leash anytime.” That was evidently as much the cause of his bearishness as the pain in his hip, and when the doctor came, his churlishness gave place to definite pugnacity.
But before the sister came back with the doctor in tow, he told Dave the full story of the shooting.
He had been playing the horses, of course—which was what he had come over for. This particular night—two nights ago, that was—he had stayed late at the bookie’s to get the results of some California night races, and it had been almost one o’clock when he left. He had driven the Packard downtown to a little restaurant where he sometimes ate late. The streets were very nearly dark by then, and were almost deserted. As he braked to pull in to the curb, a car that was behind him pulled out and went around him and stopped ahead of him down at the end of the block. A man was out of it and walking back toward him before he himself was even completely stopped. He had not thought anything about it at the time.
He never did know, ’Bama said, whether the man had just picked him out at random; or whether perhaps the man had seen him earlier at the bookie joint and had seen how much he’d won. He himself certainly did not recognize the man from anywhere. Anyway, just as the man was abreast of him, he swerved and came over to the Packard toward the open window. By the time he was to the car he already has his gun out, a snubnosed .38 Police Special. The gun came through the window first, and the man’s face appeared—outside—above it.
By that time, of course, he had known what was up. But it was too late to do anything. He very carefully kept both hands on the steering wheel. “I want your money,” the man said in a tough voice.
“You sound like you mean business,” ’Bama had said. He was still trying to figure some way out. He had over two thousand dollars on him in cold cash, and he was not about to give it to some hopped up punk of a hood, gun or no damned gun.
“I do, pal,” the man had said.
“Well, my wallet’s in my inside coat pocket,” ’Bama had said. Actually, it wasn’t. It was in his left hip pocket. The only thing inside his coat was the little .32 Smith & Wesson in its spring-clip holster; and it looked like there was nothing else for it: he was not about to turn over two thousand bucks.
“Reach in and get it,” the man had snarled, “and throw it out on the seat.”
“Yes, sir,” ’Bama had said. He reached slowly with his right hand inside the coat, keeping on talking as he did so: “I never did see the sense of gettin killed over a few lousy bucks, mister. But my driver’s license and car registration’s in there, too. Don’t take them, will you?” The last sentence was pretty well drowned out in the roar of both guns inside the car.
The little .32 had slipped easily out of its spring clip and he had flipped it out and fired. The man, looking startled, had clamped down on his .38 snub nose convulsively and fired almost simultaneously. The .38 slug struck ’Bama in the hip, slamming him back against the car door. The man dropped his gun into the car and disappeared from view, his face looking surprised and rather hurt as if he had been tricked. The bullet from the .32, ’Bama had learned later, had struck him high in the right chest, nicking the top of his lung. If he had only straightened his arm out just a hair more, he would have got him straight in his heart and killed him like he meant to. He just had been a little too hurried.
(But the look on that man’s face still made him want to laugh, ’Bama said; every time he thought about it. Here he was, tryin to take my money, and he looks resentful because I pull a gun. ’Bama threw back his head and laughed, and then groaned—at having moved his hip.)
Inside the car, feeling no pain, just numbness, ’Bama had held onto his gun and waited to see if the man got back up. When the man did not, he had laid the gun in the seat where he could get it easily and had shucked out of his coat sleeves and got the little shoulder holster off and stuffed it in the dash compartment and put his coat back on. By that time, people had begun to come out of the restaurant.
The police, of course, and an ambulance had already been called from inside. They were not long getting there. The man outside on the sidewalk was unconscious. He himself had suspected that the man was not a professional stickup man; and as it turned out this was right. The man had a burglary record, but up to now had never been involved in armed robbery. ’Bama himself had stayed in the car until the police came, even though the ambulance got there first, because he wanted the police to see everything just like it was. They arrived only a minute or so later, and he had turned the gun over to them and told them the whole story. Then he let them put him in the ambulance. The police, of course, had found the shoulder holster in the dash compartment, and he had shown them his lapsed sheriff’s permit from Illinois and explained that over there he sometimes wore the gun when he was carrying large amounts of cash and, of course, always took it off when he came over into Indiana. The gun, he had told them, had been lying beside him in the seat, because he was carrying so much money. Whether they believed it or not, it didn’t matter much; he was obviously the attacked party. And anyway, he knew a number of the cops in Indianapolis, who knew he was clean. He did not intend to press any charges. The state could do that if they wanted to, and he might have to come back later on as a witness, and they would have to pick up his gun down at the station on their way out of town. That was the whole story.
Dave listened to it all, fascinated, mainly by the coolheadedness ’Bama had displayed all through the whole thing, all just as if it were a common, everyday occurrence. He had absolutely no doubt that ’Bama had intended to kill the man, and would, in fact, have done so if he had been able to. But what fascinated him most was the way ’Bama—completely caught short—had just bullheadedly decided he was not going to give up two thousand in cash. Whether it got him killed or not. And that was the kind of thing, Dave felt, that he himself could never have done.
However, if ’Bama was proud of it, he certainly showed no signs. He finished up his story several minutes before the doctor came, eased himself into another position in the bed while he groaned, and then stared out of the window at the drizzly March weather. “And all I got to do now,” he said irately, “is get myself out of this damned, miserable, frump of a hole!” Dave had never seen him so irritable. But his irritation changed to sheer pugnacity when the doctor arrived.
The doctor was a tall, heavy-boned, self-satisfied looking man with cool commanding eyes, fiftyish, and obviously used to a great deal of respect. Perhaps this was what ’Bama didn’t like about him, Dave thought. But he didn’t look so bad to Dave. He came in behind the sister who held the door for him, carrying a clipboard chart and wearing a sort of stern-father smile. He was not wearing his white coat but an expensive and conservative business suit, a diamond stickpin conspicuous in his tie, a large diamond ring equally conspicuous on the little finger of his left hand.
“Well, Mr Dillert,” he smiled paternally. “Giving us more argument today?”
“Hi, Doc,” ’Bama said insolently. “Givin me more medicine today?” His ingrained sneer deepened appreciably.
The doctor didn’t like it, but he had admirable self-control to go with his commanding presence. “As a matter of fact, I expect we will be,” he smiled. “I have some things here I want to discuss with you,” he said, raising the clipboard. “Sister Theresa tells me you’ve been asking to leave again today.”
“’At’s right, Doc,” ’Bama said. “My friend here come to drive me home. And I ain’t
askin
to leave, Doc. I
am
leavin.”
“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” the doctor said crisply.
“Whatta you mean, impossible?” ’Bama snarled. “As I understand it, there’s no law that says you can keep me in your dump if I want to leave it.” The commanding presence obviously did not work with ’Bama. Dave thought he could see why it rubbed him the wrong way: The man was so completely sure of himself that it disturbed you. You felt as if you were only a small boy while he was a big grown-up adult. Dave himself felt a little afraid of him. But ’Bama was making an insolent ass out of himself.
“Quite so, Mr Dillert,” the doctor smiled. “All I could do would be to insist that you sign a release absolving us of any responsibility.”
“Gladly,” ’Bama snarled. “Now why don’t you give me my clothes and let me go. If I have to, Doc,” he said insolently. “I’ll go without the clothes. Believe me.”
The doctor smiled, but his face was a little stiff. “As I said, Mr Dillert, there are some things here I want to discuss with you.” He raised the clipboard portentously. He plainly did not like to be called “Doc,” and was equally plainly used to being treated with considerably more respect. The look on his face showed both, and ’Bama’s cold eyes narrowed.
“Then let’s have it, Doc,” he said. “I want to get goin.”
“You’re rather a sick man, Mr Dillert,” the doctor said bluntly. “You definitely have a rather advanced case of diabetes, and your condition is complicated by a definite cirrhosis of the liver.”
“I got what?” ’Bama said, his eyes narrowing.
“Diabetes mellitus,” the doctor said. He smiled gravely. “Sugar diabetes. We ran the usual tests on you and discovered a fairly high blood-sugar content. I note you are from Alabama, Mr Dillert, and that your father is no longer living. May I ask what he died of?”
“Gangrene of the legs,” ’Bama said, staring at him narrow-eyed. Dave, who had tried to keep himself in the background, was listening unbelievingly.
“A fairly common cause of death in cases of neglected diabetes, Mr Dillert,” the doctor smiled. He looked as if he had just won the poker hand. “Diabetes is inherited. Or rather, a tendency toward diabetes is
often
inherited. This tendency is aggravated, usually, by overeating and overdrinking until it becomes definite diabetes. That is what you have. Inherited from your father evidently.” He paused, and smiled again.
“Do you,” the doctor said, “often feel listless and weak and tired?”
“Yeah,” ’Bama said insolently. “I been feelin that ever since I was big enough to stay out at night.”
The doctor did not smile. “Do you,” he said, “have to get up often at night to pass water?”
“Yeah.”
“Have you noticed itching of the skin, particularly around the genitals?”
“Yeah,” ’Bama said. He grinned narrowly. “But I always thought that was just another dose of crabs, Doc.”
The doctor did not answer this. It was evident he thought the remark was in poor taste, especially in front of Sister Theresa. “These are all symptoms of diabetes, Mr Dillert,” he said. “The best test is, of course, the blood sugar. It definitely confirms my diagnosis.”
“So what am I supposed to do? Weep?”
The doctor did not answer this, either, and instead turned a page on the clipboard, his face set rather stiffly. “When I noted considerable alcohol in your system, also, Mr Dillert, I decided to check for cirrhosis. I shall want an X-ray, of course, also. But what you have is undoubtedly Laennec’s cirrhosis; a type formerly thought to be due to excessive use of alcohol; now known to be due to the associated nutritional disturbances. The liver is slightly nodular, with fibrosis especially in the portal spaces; characterized by degeneration and regeneration of the hepatic parenchymal cells, often accompanied by ascites, esophageal varices, and ultimately icterus.”
“What’s ascites?” ’Bama said.
“An abnormal accumulation of serous fluid in the abdominal cavity,” the doctor said.
“What’s icterus?”
“Acute jaundice,” the doctor said.
’Bama stared at him silently, asking no other questions; and the doctor stared back at him, stony-faced, authoritative. For almost half a minute, they simply stared.
It was the doctor who finally spoke. “How much whiskey do you drink a day, Mr Dillert?” he said.
“Oh, I don’t rightly know, Doc,” ’Bama said. “A fifth. Maybe more. Maybe less.”
“You will, of course, have to stop drinking immediately. Alcohol puts enormous sugar in the blood.”
“I will?” ’Bama drawled.
“Also, the rather advanced diabetes,” the doctor said, “coupled as this is with the cirrhosis, requires immediate treatment, Mr Dillert.”
‘You mean I’m liable to die?” ’Bama said bluntly, his eyes completely expressionless.
“No, Mr Dillert,” the doctor said, “not immediately at any rate. I would say you have five—maybe even ten—years of life ahead of you at the rate you’re going now. But your condition should have immediate treatment. Any further complications could be very serious and might easily kill you sooner. Those are the facts, Mr Dillert.” He looked at ’Bama with a certain satisfaction.
’Bama merely stared at him narrowly and did not say anything.
“I recommend,” the doctor said, “that you stay here in the hospital until we can run further tests and set up your insulin allowance and your diet and teach you how to use the syringe and all the other information needed by diabetics.”
“That’s what you suggest, Doc?” ’Bama said. “Okay. Now will you have Sister Theresa go down and get my clothes for me?”
For the first time since he had entered the room, the doctor lost his poise. He opened his mouth as if to say something, and then shut it again; and then he looked down at the charts in his hand. Then he looked back up at ’Bama stonily.