I said, "There's just one way you can help, Stuke. I—"
"Huh-uh," he said, firmly. "That's out, keed. I couldn't do it. I ain't goin' to. So forget it. You're goin' to snap out of it, Brownie. You're goin' to get your mind off of that—off of yourself, and start thinkin' about something else. That—it ain't everything. It—"
"Isn't it?" I said. "Isn't it rather easy for you to talk, Stuke?"
"It'd be easier not to, keed. A hell of a lot easier."
"But you don't know! You don't know what it's like to—"
"Keed"—he tapped me on the chest—"don't tell me what I don't know. You'd be talking for the next forty years and we ain't got much time. You've got to get cleaned up, get yourself something to eat and a little sleep. You've got to be in here on the job in the morning, and you've got to work harder than you ever worked before. You're going to go on swinging your weight against the rats and the cheaters in this town, but this time you're going to swing it the right way. It ain't going to be a needle job. It's going to mean something. .. . Remember what I told you the other night? Well, I meant it. If the graft wasn't here to take, I wouldn't be taking it."
"But you don't know—I can't! God, how can I?"
"You ain't got no choice," he said.
His eyes were soft, sympathetic, friendly. They were firm and unwavering.
A lower tier Jim Thompson novel about a bitter and cynical journalist worried that people––especially women––will learn his secret: that his dick was shot off during the war. It's a secret he's willing to kill for...
