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There
was
a
package
of
Kents
in
the
breast
pocket
of
Queems
’
s
sheer
yellow
shirt
.
He
reached
one
out
of
the
pocket
without
removing
the
pack
,
tweezing
it
out
,
and
bit
down
morosely
on
the
patented
Micronite
filter
.
He
lit
it
with
his
desktop
Cricket
.
"
So
do
I
,
"
he
said
.
"
But
what
’
s
on
your
mind
?
"
"
I
need
three
days
,
"
Hallorann
repeated
.
"
It
’
s
my
boy
.
"
Queems
’
s
eyes
dropped
to
Hallorann
’
s
left
hand
,
which
was
ringless
.
"
I
been
divorced
since
1964
,
"
Hallorann
said
patiently
.
"
Dick
,
you
know
what
the
weekend
situation
is
.
We
’
re
full
.
To
the
gunnels
.
Even
the
cheap
seats
.
We
’
re
even
filled
up
in
the
Florida
Room
on
Sunday
night
.
So
take
my
watch
,
my
wallet
,
my
pension
fund
.
Hell
,
you
can
even
take
my
wife
if
you
can
stand
the
sharp
edges
.
But
please
don
’
t
ask
me
for
time
off
.
What
is
he
,
sick
?
"
"
Yes
,
sir
,
"
Hallorann
said
,
still
trying
to
visualize
himself
twisting
a
cheap
cloth
hat
and
rolling
his
eyeballs
.
"
He
shot
.
"
"
Shot
!
"
Queems
said
.
He
put
his
Kent
down
in
an
ashtray
which
bore
the
emblem
of
Ole
Miss
,
of
which
he
was
a
business
admin
graduate
.
"
Yes
,
sir
,
"
Hallorann
said
somberly
.
"
Hunting
accident
?
"
