What of Terry Conniston? Read Free Page B

carpenter in overalls—sat on bar stools hunched over lonely drinks. The gaudy jukebox’s heavy speakers pulsed with the loud bass notes of a rock and roll tune.
    Floyd propped himself on a stool, one leg stretched to the floor, and ordered two beers. He looked at the clock. Mitch watched the bartender draw beers and bring them forward. A dumpy woman came into the place, looked at nobody, went straight through to the bathroom at the back.
    Floyd took a slow sip from his beer, yawned, and got off the stool. “Come on.”
    â€œWhat?”
    Floyd started toward the back of the room. Baffled, Mitch followed him into the rancid yellow dimness of the bathroom.
    Floyd let him through and shut the door. The dumpy woman stood just outside the toilet booth; she had a plain round face, a bulbous blob of a nose, a little sweetheart rose on the collar of her cotton dress. Her eyes expressed tired contempt. “I hope you ain’t wasting my time because I don’t do business on the cuff.”
    Floyd unrolled the paper bag and took out a fistful of cash. The woman watched with polite bovine interest. “You’ve just said the magic word,” she said. “How much stuff do you want?”
    Mitch glanced at the door; he felt irritated and apprehensive. He looked at the woman and at Floyd. Floyd stood motionless, the smoke of a cigarette making a vague suspended cloud before his cold face. “Enough to take care of a big habit for a week or so,” he said.
    â€œTen pops?”
    â€œMake it fifteen.”
    â€œCost you ten apiece,” she said with no show of emotion. “A hundred and fifty.”
    Floyd counted it off in twenties and tens, squared up the sheaf and put the rest back in the paper bag. He handed the bag to Mitch. The woman reached for the money but Floyd drew back. “Where’s the stuff?”
    â€œI’ll get it to you.”
    â€œNo,” Floyd said.
    â€œYou don’t trust me?” She smiled a little. “Look, my mother didn’t raise any stupid kids. I’m not going to walk into a place like this with that much junk in my handbag.”
    â€œThen get it.”
    The woman pinched her lower lip between two fingers. Her studious gaze shifted from Floyd to Mitch; several beats went by before she said, “You’re not users, either one of you. How do I know you’re not cops?”
    â€œWe’re not cops,” Floyd said dryly.
    Uncertainty quivered, in her eyes; finally Floyd smiled and shook his head and said, “Use your head. Did I turn you in last time?”
    â€œAll right, all right. It’s outside in the car. Follow me out in a minute.”
    When she left the bathroom Floyd made no move to follow her. The door squeaked shut and Mitch said immediately, “I didn’t know your brother had a habit that big. How long can he last like that?”
    â€œHow should I know?”
    â€œDon’t you care at all?”
    Floyd just looked at him. There was no reading his face. Mitch said, “Why in hell don’t you send him in for a cure?”
    â€œHe’s had the cure twice,” Floyd muttered, and turned, his mind on something else. He washed his hands at the sink and dried them on a paper towel. “All right,” he said, and went out.
    Mitch paid for the beers on the way out. They found the dumpy woman waiting in a dusty new station wagon. She had the engine running, the lights switched off, the door shut and the window open. It was getting dark fast. She handed Floyd a small package and Mitch saw Floyd turn over the money—it disappeared immediately inside her dress, which was probably where she’d had the goods hidden all along. She pulled the gear lever into reverse. Floyd said in a mild way, “If this stuff’s no good I’ll know where to find you.”
    The station wagon backed out and swung around into the street before she turned the lights on. It fishtailed away with a