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cursed profusely when they realized Roger had vanished. “He took my Husk,” Aggie said, as he searched under the seat.
    “Stupid sonofabitch,” Calvin kept saying. “I hope he’s dead.”
    They swept glass off the seat and drove away, anxious to get out of downtown Memphis. There was a quick conversation about looking for Roger, but they were fed up with him. The Mexican girl at the information desk had given them directions to Central Hospital, the most likely place to find Bailey.
    The lady at the desk at Central explained that the blood unit was closed for the night, would reopen at 8:00 a.m., and had a rigid policy against accepting donations from those who were obviously intoxicated. The hospital did not currently have a patient with either the first or the last name of Bailey. As she was dismissingthem, a uniformed security guard appeared from nowhere and asked them to leave. They cooperated, and he walked them out of the front door. As they were saying good night, Calvin asked him, “Say, you know where we might be able to sell a pint of blood?”
    “There’s a blood bank on Watkins, not too far.”
    “You think it’s open?”
    “Yes, it’s open all night.”
    “How do you get there?” Aggie asked.
    He pointed this way and that, then said, “Be careful, though. It’s where all the addicts go when they need cash. Rough place.”
    The blood bank was the only destination Aggie found on the first attempt, and by the time they stopped on the street beside it, they were hoping it would be closed. It was not. The reception area was a grungy little room with a row of plastic chairs and magazines scattered everywhere. An addict of some variety was in one corner, on the floor, under a coffee table, curled into the fetal position, and obviously dying. A grim-faced man in surgical scrubs worked the desk, and he greeted them with a nasty “What do you want?”
    Aggie cleared his throat, took another glance at the addict in the corner, and managed to spit out, “Ya’ll buy blood around here?”
    “We will pay for it, and we will accept it for free.”
    “How much?”
    “Fifty bucks a pint.”
    To Calvin, with $6.25 in his pocket, the price meant a cover charge, three watered-down beers, and another memorable lapdance with Amber. To Aggie, with $18 in his pocket and no credit cards, the deal meant another quick visit to the strip club and enough gas to get home. Both had forgotten about poor Bailey.
    Clipboards were handed over. As they filled in the blanks, the attendant asked, “What type of blood?”
    The question drew two blank faces.
    “What type of blood?” he repeated.
    “Red,” Aggie said, and Calvin laughed loudly. The attendant did not crack a smile.
    “You boys been drinking?” he asked.
    “We’ve had a few,” Aggie said.
    “But we won’t charge you extra for the alcohol,” Calvin added quickly, then both roared with laughter.
    “What size needle you want?” the man asked, and all humor vanished.
    They swore in writing that they had no known allergies or diseases. “Who’s first?”
    Neither budged. “Mr. Agnor,” the man said, “follow me.” Aggie followed him through a door and into a large square room with two beds on the right side and three on the left. Lying on the first bed on the right was a thick-chested white woman in gym sweats and hiking boots. A tube ran from her left arm down to a clear plastic bag that was half-filled with a dark red liquid. Aggie glanced at the tube, the bag, the arm, then realized that there was a needle stuck through the skin. He fainted headfirst and landed with a loud thud on the tiled floor.
    Calvin, in a plastic chair near the front door nervously flippingthrough a magazine with one eye on the dying addict, heard a loud noise in the back but thought nothing of it.
    Cold water and ammonia brought Aggie around, and he eventually managed to crawl onto one of the beds where a tiny Asian lady with her mouth covered by white gauze began