Ed Lacy - The Men From the Boys

What was wrong with my mouth? I could hear my own voice—this joker must be deaf. I blinked.

“Mr. Bond, we've given you a... You will sleep shortly so I must be frank with you. You were—and are—badly hurt. It's only a surgical miracle you are alive at all. I am telling you this because you are strong and have a good chance of living—if you fight for it.” The lips moved faster as the voice took on a selling tone. “I know you want to live because you are the biggest name in the news these last few days, a national hero! You have a big future before you, a ...”

I shut my eyes. There was more talk I didn't listen to, something about Flo waiting for me.... Then a new voice said, “Marty, please look at me.”

I opened my eyes to see Art Dupre, the rugged earnest face before me. He had that bursting-with-good-news look in his eyes as he said, “Marty, you old iron man! I happened to be... Marty, when they brought you in all shot open, I had a sample made—you haven't got cancer!”

Art took a breath, almost shouted in my face, “Marty, do you understand, your tumor is not malignant! Truth is it's not even a tumor but a kind of pocket in the intestines in which food gets caught and decays and... Hell, Marty, you get it, you were all wrong about cancer! All you have to do is work with us and in a few weeks you'll be up and around, good as new. Marty old man, you have to ...”

I closed my eyes, the lids were starting to weigh a ton.

“Marty, tell me you've heard me, that you know you haven't cancer?”

I blinked as fast as I could, saw Art's lean puss run over with relief. Then I kept my eyes closed and after a while I was back in the pink haze, the voice lost in the distance.

For a split second I wanted to work out signals with my eyes, tell Art. But it was too tiring and complicated and it didn't matter. Net even cancer or being free of cancer mattered.

How could I ever explain to Art—or why should I?— that I had seen Marty Bond a little too clearly these last few days, that I didn't want to live. Marty the bully-boy should never have been born, never have...

The pink mist became a deeper red. The sun must be coming out stronger, but the air and the sand were damp and cold. Something jerked at the rod real sharp, then another big jerk. I dropped my beach blanket as I stood up, grabbed the rod. I sure had a fighter hooked, I could barely hold the rod. I said, “Watch me reel this baby in. Got something big, maybe a baby tuna or a hell of a blue. Will you look at the battle the slimy fool is giving me—damn near snapping the rod.”

“His pulse is getting weaker. Mr. Bond! Mr. Bond!”

The rod was straining so I couldn't turn to see who was talking. The fish never slacked up. Instead it seemed to grow stronger, hitting the line again and again with a steady pull. It was a hell of a fish. My arms began to ache, the rod was slipping out of my hands. It was a regular damn whale. I don't know how the line held, but the jerking was too much for me to haul in, or even hold on to.

The rod began to shake and I made one last effort to hold it—

Then I let go.