Four Past Midnight - Stephen King [230]
NO DRINKING ALLOWED AT THIS SHELTER!
IF YOU HAVE A BOTTLE, IT MUST GO HERE BEFORE YOU ENTER!
His luck was in. Although Saturday night had almost arrived and the ginmills and beerjoints of Junction City awaited, Dirty Dave was here, and he was sober. He was, in fact, sitting on the porch with two other winos. They were engaged in making posters on large rectangles of white cardboard, and enjoying varying degrees of success. The fellow sitting on the floor at the far end of the porch was holding his right wrist with his left hand in an effort to offset a bad case of the shakes. The one in the middle worked with his tongue peeking from the corner of his mouth, and looked like a very old nursery child trying his level best to draw a tree which would earn him a gold star to show Mommy. Dirty Dave, sitting in a splintered rocking chair near the porch steps, was easily in the best shape, but all three of them looked folded, stapled, and mutilated.
'Hello, Dave,' Sam said, mounting the steps.
Dave looked up, squinted, and then offered a tentative smile. All of his remaining teeth were in front. The smile revealed all five of them.
'Mr Peebles?'
'Yes,' he said. 'How you doing, Dave?'
'Oh, purty fair, I guess. Purty fair.' He looked around. 'Say, you guys! Say hello to Mr Peebles! He's a lawyer!'
The fellow with the tip of his tongue sticking out looked up, nodded briefly, and went back to his poster. A long runner of snot depended from his left nostril.
'Actually,' Sam said, 'real estate's my game, Dave. Real estate and insur-'
'You got me my Slim Jim?' the man with the shakes asked abruptly. He did not look up at all, but his frown of concentration deepened. Sam could see his poster from where he stood; it was covered with long orange squiggles which vaguely resembled words.
'Pardon?' Sam asked.
'That's Lukey,' Dave said in a low voice. 'He ain't havin one of his better days, Mr Peebles.'
'Got me my Slim Jim, got me my Slim Jim, got me my Slim Fuckin Slim Jim?' Lukey chanted without looking up.
'Uh, I'm sorry - ' Sam began.
'He ain't got no Slim Jims!' Dirty Dave yelled. 'Shut up and do your poster, Lukey! Sarah wants em by six! She's comin out special!'
'I'll get me a fuckin Slim Jim,' Luckey said in a low intense voice. 'If I don't, I guess I'll eat rat-turds.'
'Don't mind him, Mr Peebles,' Dave said. 'What's up?'
'Well, I was just wondering if you might have found a couple of books when you picked up the newspapers last Thursday. I've misplaced them, and I thought I'd check. They're overdue at the Library.'
'You got a quarter?' the man with the tip of his tongue sticking out asked abruptly. 'What's the word? Thunderbird!'
Sam reached automatically into his pocket. Dave reached out and touched his wrist, almost apologetically.
'Don't give him any money, Mr Peebles,' he said. 'That's Rudolph. He don't need no Thunderbird. Him and the Bird don't agree no more. He just needs a night's sleep.'
'I'm sorry,' Sam said. 'I'm tapped, Rudolph.'
'Yeah, you and everybody else,' Rudolph said. As he went back to his poster he muttered: 'What's the price? Fifty twice.'
'I didn't see any books,' Dirty Dave said. 'I'm sorry. I just got the papers, like usual. Missus V. was there, and she can tell you. I didn't do nothing wrong.' But his rheumy, unhappy eyes said he did not expect Sam to believe this. Unlike Mary, Dirty Dave Duncan did not live in a world where doom lay just up the road or around the corner; his surrounded him. He lived in it with what little dignity he could muster.
'I believe you.' Sam laid a hand on Dave's shoulder.
'I just dumped your box of papers into one of my bags, like always,' Dave said.
'If I had a thousand Slim Jims, I'd eat them all,' Lukey said abruptly. 'I