This would take some work. Somewhere in the middle of a night of revelry with sportswriters and photographers in a huge suite of rooms at a Memphis Hotel, Rock knew his insulin was back in Levy. He didn't even have to check his bags. He knew.
A basketball tournament they were there to cover would start the next day, and he had traveled to it in a rental vehicle with the other journalists. Several were in the van at that moment, down on Beale Street he assumed. They would all need it in the morning for trips back and forth from the tournament site. After brief consideration, Rock decided he would need to rent a car for the four-hour round trip to retrieve his insulin.
The suite was furnished and dimly lighted as if it were a modern night spot. The walls and ceiling were black, and all the significant surfaces were glass framed in chrome, including an L-shaped bar around a large kitchen area that surrounded transparent tubs of beer and several large platters stacked high with hors d'oeuvres. Rock thought it was beautiful and certainly nothing he wanted to leave.
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