It was obvious the man’s kidneys were failing fast. He stank of decay, and the fingers gripping the wheels were so swollen they looked ready to split like sausages roasting on a fire. It was too disgusting. Dying by the inch. Ghastly. Moving his feet out of the path of the wheels, Gordon pressed a perfumed handkerchief to his nose as the blind old man fumbled and bumped his way past him toward his fine cherrywood desk. It was amusing in a macabre sort of way. Like watching a trussed and blindfolded child try to find his way out of a cage. It might be fun to send the old man careening down a hill or bouncing down a flight of stairs. Higgledy, bouncity, pop. Gordon smiled, picturing it in his mind. What a mess that would make. Once Rustin was situated behind the desk and his labored breathing had settled into rapid, shallow gasps that reminded Gordon of steam escaping the pop valves on a locomotive, he leaned forward and said, “Well, Hennessey? Have you found them?” Gordon watched the palsied fingers move restlessly on the desktop like fat, blind worms.
