Stardust(180)

“Oh my god,” one of the lawyers said.

“Where are his pills?” Ben said, searching, not even aware he’d said it aloud.

“Here.” Fay, dropping to her knees next to him, clawing at her purse, behind them a roar of noise.

“Give him air! Call an ambulance,” Ben yelled to the circle around them, grabbing the pills and shoving two into Lasner’s mouth. “Water.”

A glass appeared out of the air and Ben forced water between Lasner’s lips, waiting to hear him choke, afraid the white, sweaty face was beyond responding. But there was a kind of hiccup, a faint sign of life, not yet gone. Ben undid the tie, tearing the collar open, as if the problem were air, not his heart. Lasner had cut his head in the fall, so now there was blood, too, seeping in a small stream, inching toward Fay’s nylons. She was clutching Lasner’s hand, watching Ben as he undid the collar, then massaged Lasner’s chest, the rhythm a makeshift substitute for the heart, a pretense that you could keep life going from the outside. He bent down to Lasner’s mouth, listening for air.

“Give him room.”

Behind them the crowd tried to back up without really moving, pressing against each other. Polly had wedged her way to the front.

“Oh,” she said, distressed, her hand at her mouth. “Is he dead?”

“Give him air,” Ben said.

Lasner’s eyelids fluttered open for a second, taking in Ben and Fay, the circle of faces, then closed again.

“Did you get them down?” Ben said to him. “Try one more.” He pushed the pill between Lasner’s lips. “Swallow. Try.”

Lasner opened his mouth a little, obedient, and Ben watched his throat move, his face tightening with the strain.

The committee had now reached them, Minot pushing his way through. He stood for a second looking down, appalled and confused, then stepped back when he felt the flashbulbs go off, catching him looming over Lasner, an unintended boxing ring pose.

Ben took out a handkerchief and wiped Lasner’s forehead, then held it against the cut to stanch the bleeding. “They need a minute to kick in,” he said to Fay, then grabbed a folded paper and started fanning Lasner’s face, forcing air toward him.

“Breathe,” she said to Lasner. “Sol, can you hear me? The ambulance is coming.” She tightened her hand on his.

Now that Lasner had responded, the crowd grew louder with talk. “All of the sudden, like that,” someone said, snapping his fingers. Ben opened another button on Lasner’s shirt.

Fay glanced up at one of the studio people. “Did anybody call Rosen? Dr. Rosen. Bunny knows the number.” She turned to Ben. “You knew about the pills. What, on the train?”

He nodded. “It’s worse this time. We have to get him to the hospital.” He felt Lasner’s wrist. “It’s weak.”

“I’m not dead,” Lasner said, then winced.

The ambulance was there in a few minutes. As the crew lifted Lasner onto a stretcher, more flashbulbs went off. Fay grabbed Ben’s hand, drawing him along with her. Lasner opened his eyes, aware of the movement.

“They’re here,” Fay said. “Just hold on.”

Lasner struggled to say something, but managed only an indistinct sound.

“Don’t try to talk,” Fay said. “You’ve said enough.”

Lasner glanced at her and started to smile.

In the ambulance, Fay and Ben in the back with him, Lasner began breathing more regularly, his color better.

“That’s twice you’re there,” he said to Ben, his voice scratchy but intelligible.

“Shh. Don’t excite yourself,” Fay said.

“You see his face?” Lasner said.

“Quite a finish,” Ben said.

“I told you. He didn’t know how to play it. He’s done.”

“Don’t talk crazy,” Fay said.

“He should fucking go out and shoot himself. Like Claude Rains.”

Ben laughed. Fay shot him a look, but Lasner, pleased, smiled and closed his eyes again.

“What did you give him?” the doctor said as they brought the gurney into the emergency room.

Ben handed him the pills. “Two, three.”

The doctor nodded then said something to a nurse, ordering an IV, and after that nothing made sense, medicine its own foreign language. Ben and Fay were shunted aside into a waiting room, the air stale with smoke. Ben opened a window. Fay sat down, covering her eyes with her hand.

“Thank you,” she said, and then neither of them spoke, trying to slow things down, all the urgency of the last half hour finally wheeled away somewhere else.

Ben glanced around the room: a pastel seascape on the wall and a stack of Reader’s Digests on a coffee table. No wonder people paced.