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er to the wardrobe and opened the doors and looked in and closed them again。
he went into the bathroom。 he ran his forefinger around the sink。 a washcloth and handtowel had been used but not the soap。 he ran his finger down the side of the tub and then wiped it along the seam of his trousers。 he sat on the edge of the tub and tapped his foot on the tiles。
the other room was number 227。 he went in and closed the door and turned and stood。
the bed had not been slept in。 the bathroom door was open。 a bloody towel lay in the floor。
he walked over and pushed the door all the way back。 there was a bloodstained washcloth in the sink。 the other towel was missing。 bloody handprints。 a bloody handprint on the edge of the showercurtain。 i hope you havent crawled off in a hole somewhere； he said。 i sure would like to get paid。
he was abroad in the morning at first light walking the streets and making notes in his head。 the pavement had been hosed off but you could still see bloodstains in the concrete of the walkway where moss had been shot。 he went back to main street and started again。 bits of glass in the gutters and along the sidewalks。 some of it windowglass and some of it from curbside automobiles。 the windows that had been shot out were boarded up with plywood but you could see the pocks in the brickwork or the teardrop smears of lead that had e down from the hotel。 he walked back to the hotel and sat on the steps and looked at the street。 the sun was ing up over the aztec theatre。 something caught his eye at the second floor level。 he got up and walked down and crossed the street and climbed the stairs。 two bulletholes in the windowglass。 he tapped at the door and waited。 then he opened the door and went in。
a darkened room。 faint smell of rot。 he stood until his eyes were accustomed to the dimness。 a parlor。 a pianola or small organ against the far wall。 a chifforobe。 a rockingchair by the window where an old woman sat slumped。
wells stood over the woman studying her。 shed been shot through the forehead and had tilted forward leaving part of the back of her skull and a good bit of dried brainmatter stuck to the slat of the rocker behind her。 she had a newspaper in her lap and she was wearing a cotton robe that was black with dried blood。 it was cold in the room。 wells looked around。 a second shot had marked a date on a calendar on the wall behind her that was three days hence。 you could not help but notice。 he looked around the rest of the room。 he took a small camera from his jacket pocket and took a couple of pictures of the dead woman and put the camera back in his pocket again。 not what you had in mind at all； was it darling？ he told her。
moss woke in a ward with sheeting hung between him and the bed to his left。 a shadowshow of figures there。 voices in spanish。 dim noises from the street。 a motorcycle。 a dog。 he turned his face on the pillow and looked into the eyes of a man sitting on a metal chair against the wall holding a bouquet of flowers。 how are you feeling？ the man said。
ive felt better。 who are you？
my name is carson wells。
who are you？
i think you know who i am。 i brought you some flowers。
moss turned his head and lay staring at the ceiling。 how many of you people are there？
well； id say theres only one youve got to worry about right now。
you。
yes。
what about that guy that e to the hotel。
we can talk about him。
talk then。
i can make him go away。
i can do that myself。
i dont think so。
youre entitled to your opinions。
if acostas people hadnt shown up when they did i dont think you would have made out so good。
i didnt make out so good。
yes you did。 you made out extremely well。
moss turned his head and looked at the man again。 how long have you been here？
about an hour。
just settin there。
yes。
you dont have much to do； do you？
i like to do one thing at a time； if thats what you mean。
you look dumbern hell settin there。
wells smiled。
why dont you put them damn flowers down。
all right。
he rose and laid the bouquet on the bedside table and sat back in the chair again。
do you know what two centimeters is？
yeah。 its a measurement。
its about three quarters of an inch。
all right。
thats the distance that round missed your liver by。
is that what the doctor told you？
yes。 you know what the liver does？
no。
it keeps you alive。 do you know who the man is who shot you？
maybe he didnt shoot me。 maybe it was one of the mexicans。
do you know who the man is？
no。 am i supposed to？
because hes not somebody you really want to know。 the people he meets tend to have very short futures。 nonexistent； in fact。
well good for him。
youre not listening。 you need to pay attention。 this man wont stop looking for you。
even if he gets the money back。 it wont make any difference to him。 even if you went to him and gave him the money he would still kill you。 just for having inconvenienced him。
i think i done a little more than inconvenience him。
how do you mean。
i think i hit him。
why do you think that？
i sprayed double ought buckshot all over him。 i cant believe it done him a whole lot of good。
wells sat back in the chair。 he studied moss。 you think you killed him？
i dont know。
because you didnt。 he came out into the street and killed every one of the mexicans and then went back into the hotel。 like you might go out and get a paper or something。
he didnt kill ever one of them。
he killed the ones that were left。
you tellin me he wasnt hit？
i dont know。
you mean why would you tell me。
if you like。
is he a buddy of yours？
no。
i thought maybe he was a buddy of yours。
no you didnt。 how do you know hes not on his way to odessa？
why would he go to odessa？
to kill your wife。
moss didnt answer。 he lay on the rough linen looking at the ceiling。 he was in pain and it was getting worse。 you dont know what the hell youre talkin about； he said。
i brought you a couple of photographs。
he rose and laid two photos on the bed and sat back down again。 moss glanced at them。
what am i supposed to make of that