No country for old men - By Cormac McCarthy Page 0,42
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 come down from the hotel. He walked back to the hotel and sat on the steps and looked at the street. The sun was coming 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. She’d 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.
I’ve 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, I’d say there’s only one you’ve got to worry about right now.
You.
Yes.
What about that guy that come 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.
You’re entitled to your opinions.
If Acosta’s 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 that’s 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. It’s a measurement.
It’s about three quarters of an inch.
All right.
That’s the distance that round missed your liver by.