“Hold onto that,” he told the wounded man. “Press hard.” “Who shot me, one of your gunsel buddies?” asked Burley. His sunburned face was spotted with perspiration, and the moonlight coming through the glass dome gave it a lifeless, white tinge. “Get your arm up higher,” said Easy. He had Burley propped against the bandstand and had helped the wounded man raise the arm up and rest it on the rim of the low stand. “Keep pressing that pad with your good hand.” Perry Burley was hunched down beside them, getting back into her car coat after having taken off her shirt-blouse to tear into bandage strips. “We’ll have to get Bud to a hospital.” “Eventually,” said Easy. “It’s murder if you let me die here, you son of a bitch,” said Burley, grimacing at the slashed sleeve of his jacket and shirt. “The slug isn’t in there,” Easy reminded him. “All you have to worry about now is stopping the bleeding.” He pulled off his sweater and draped it over Burley.
