The Museum of Desire: An Alex Delaware Novel(8)

The taller medic said, “His blood pressure’s been all over the place and his atrial beats are premature. We recommend hospitalization for observation.”

“Fuck that,” said Walters. “I’ll outlive you, asshole.”

Milo said, “Up to him.”

“Fucking-A.”

“Your decision, sir.” The EMTs returned to their ambulance and drove off.

Enos Walters said, “Shitheads strap me down, wanna take me to some hospital where they wanna fuck me up.”

Raspy voice accustomed to anger, speech slightly fuzzed as it emanated from between sunken lips. No teeth on top, a few on the bottom, cracked and brown.

Milo said, “Sorry for the inconvenience—can I call you Enos?”

“Ee-no,” said Walters. “Ee-nos sounds too much like…I had enough of that—okay? Got it? Ee-no. Can I call myself what I want?”

One scrawny hand balled, the other scratched a deflated cheek. Crude blue-black tattoos climbed up a stringy neck: lopsided crucifix, tiny devil, incongruously pretty pink rose in full bloom. Under the beard, a haggard hatchet face was dotted by eruptions of nasty-looking pimples. Meth rash.

Walters’s eyes bounced and roamed. “Believe this shit? Build a castle and let assholes party in it?”

“Crazy,” said Milo.

Walters tensed and stepped back, nearly tripping but waving off Milo’s helping hand. “I ain’t crazy. My heart’s okay, too, I’m not celling up in some fucking ward.”

“No offense intended, Mr. Walters. I meant the situation.”

“Yeah. Whatever.” Eyelids twitched. “I need to get out of here.”

Milo produced another panatela. “Smoke?”

“Don’t do that shit, used to do Viceroys,” said Walters. “Quit last year. Being healthy. Been here since six thirty, gotta get the fuck out.”

“Sorry for your inconvenience. Could you please tell us what happened when you got here at six thirty?”

“More like six twenty.” Walters looked at the cigar, snatched it, and slipped it into a jean pocket. “Why not, you tried to stick me in that death wagon so yeah, you owe me.”

His eyes bounced around. “I’m being a citizen and you hold me. You guys are something.”

Milo said, “When you got here at six twenty—”

“Yeah, yeah yeah,” said Walters. “Listen carefully, I ain’t repeating.”

Rocking on his feet and fighting for concentration, he told the story, the pace picking up with each sentence until he was racing, spewing out words, barely intelligible.

Brain alleyways detoured permanently by speed. When the verbal flash flood stopped, Walters was mouth-breathing hard.

Lots of words, no revelations.

Milo said, “Thanks. Could I please have your address and phone number?”

“Why?”

“For the record.”

“I don’t do the record,” said Walters. “And I don’t got no phone.”

“You called 911—”

“On this.” Fishing a burner out of his jeans. “Runs out in a few minutes, you won’t reach me so don’t waste my time.”

“How about your address?”

“The Cyril.”

“On Main?”

“Yeah.”

“Room number?”

“It changes,” said Walters. “Now let me outta—”

“The company you work for, Bright Dawn—”

“Bright Dawn Assholes Corporated. I’m finished with that shit.”

“?’Cause of this?” said Milo.

“?’Cause of everything. Start early, end late, fuck-all pay.”

“You ever clean this property before?”

“First time. Last time.”

“Who’s the owner of the company?”

“How should I know?” said Walters.

“Who pays you?”

“Irma.”

“Last name?”

“How should I know? Why’s it matter?”

“Filling in details, sir.”

“I was a sir, you wouldn’t detain me like a fucking prisoner. For doing the right thing.”

“Appreciate your help, Mr. Walters. Irma—”

“In the office. Ask for the bitch with the fat ass.”

Milo smiled.

Walters said, “You think I’m kidding? Like this.” Stretching his arms.

“The people in the limo, recognize any of them?”

“Why would I?”

“Okay, thanks, Mr. Walters. You can go now.”

Walters’s gnarled hands slapped his hips. He stood there.

“Something the matter?” said Milo.

“How the hell’m I gonna do that? I got dropped off.”

“The company won’t pick you up?”

“I’m over with them. Don’t want nothin’ from them.” Walters jutted his negligible mandible and stretched out a palm. Tattoo on his inside wrist. Ridiculously buxom naked woman smoking a cigarette. Below that: Viceroys. Taste That’s Right.

Below that what could have been an old razor scar.

Milo pulled out his wallet and handed over two twenties.