"We were sent," Larry said. "To kill Flagg, I think."
"Not much chance of that, buddy. You and your friends are going right into the Las Vegas County Jail. Do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred dollars. He's got a special interest in you. He knew you were coming." He paused. "You just want to hope he makes it quick for you. But I don't think he will. He hasn't been in a very good mood lately."
"Why not?" Larry asked.
But Dorgan seemed to feel he had said enough - too much, maybe. He turned around without answering, and Larry and Ralph watched the desert flow by. In just three weeks, speed had become a novelty all over again.
It actually took them six hours to reach Vegas. It lay in the middle of the desert like some improbable gem. There were a lot of people on the streets; the workday was over, and they were enjoying the early evening cool on lawns and benches and at bus stops, or sitting in the doorways of defunct wedding chapels and hockshops. They rubber-necked the Utah S.P. cars as they went by and then went back to whatever they had been talking about.
Larry was looking around thoughtfully. The electricity was on, the streets were cleared, and the rubble of looting was gone. "Glen was right," he said. "He's got the trains running on time. But still I wonder if this is any way to run a railroad. Your people all look like they've got the nervous complaint, Dorgan."
Dorgan didn't reply.
They arrived at the county jail and drove around to the rear. The two police cars parked in a cement courtyard. When Larry got out, wincing at the stiffness that had settled into his muscles, he saw that Dorgan had two sets of handcuffs.
"Hey, come on," he said. "Really."
"Sorry. His orders."
Ralph said, "I ain't never been handcuffed in my life. I was picked up and throwed in the drunk tank a couple of times before I was married, but never was I cuffed." Ralph was speaking slowly, his Oklahoma accent becoming more pronounced, and Larry realized he was totally furious.
"I have my orders," Dorgan said. "Don't make it any tougher than it has to be."
"Your orders," Ralph said. "I know who gives your orders. He murdered my friend Nick. What are you doing hooked up with that hellhound? You seem like a nice enough fella when you're by yourself." He was looking at Dorgan with such an expression of angry interrogation that Dorgan shook his head and looked away.
"This is my job," he said, "and I do it. End of story. Put your wrists out or I'll have somebody do it for you."
Larry put his hands out and Dorgan cuffed him. "What were you?" Larry asked curiously. "Before?"
"Santa Monica Police. Detective second."
"And you're with him. It's... forgive me for saying so, but it's really sort of funny."
Glen Bateman was pushed over to join them.
"What are you shoving him around for?" Dorgan asked angrily.
"If you had to listen to six hours of this guy's bullshit, you'd do some pushing, too," one of the men said.
"I don't care how much bullshit you had to listen to, keep your hands to yourself." Dorgan looked at Larry. "Why is it funny that I should be with him? I was a cop for ten years before Captain Trips. I saw what happens when guys like you are in charge, you see."
"Young man," Glen said mildly, "your experiences with a few battered babies and drug abusers does not justify your embrace of a monster."
"Get them out of here," Dorgan said evenly. "Separate cells, separate wings."
"I don't think you'll be able to live with your choice, young man," Glen said. "There doesn't seem to be quite enough Nazi in you."
This time Dorgan pushed Glen himself.
Larry was separated from the other two and taken down an empty corridor graced with signs reading NO SPITTING, THIS WAY TO SHOWERS & DELOUSING, and one that read, YOU ARE NOT A GUEST.
"I wouldn't mind a shower," he said.
"Maybe," Dorgan said. "We'll see."
"See what?"
"How cooperative you can be."
Dorgan opened a cell at the end of the corridor and ushered Larry in.
"How about the bracelets?" Larry asked, holding them out.
"Sure." Dorgan unlocked them and took them off. "Better?"
"Much."
"Still want that shower?"
"I sure do." More than that, Larry didn't want to be left alone, listening to the echoey sound of footfalls going away. If he was left alone, the fear would start to come back.
Dorgan produced a small notebook. "How many are you? In the Zone?"
"Six thousand," Larry said. "We all play Bingo every Thursday night and the prize in the cover-all game is a twenty-pound turkey."
"Do you want that shower or not?"
"I want it." But he no longer thought he was going to get it.
"How many of you over there?"
"Twenty-five thousand, but four thousand are under twelve and get in free at the drive-in. Economically speaking, it's a bummer."
Dorgan snapped his notebook shut and looked at him.