Needful Things - Stephen King [126]
He had slept well for the first time in months, and when he woke up, he had a glimmering of an idea about the audit. A glimmering wasn't much, of course, but it was better than the confused darkness that had been roaring through his head since that awful letter came.
All he had needed to get his brain out of neutral, it seemed, was one winning night at the track.
He could not make total restitution before the axe fell, that much was clear. Lewiston Raceway was the only track which ran nightly during the fall season, for one thing, and it was pretty small potatoes. He could tour the local county fairs and make a few thousand at the races there, but that wouldn't be enough, either.
Nor could he risk many nights like last night, even at the Raceway.
His bookie would grow wary, then refuse to accept his bets at all.
But he believed he could make partial restitution and minimize the size of the fiddles at the same time. He could also spin a tale.
A sure-fire development prospect that hadn't come off. A terrible mistake but one for which he had taken complete responsibility and for which he was now making good. He could point out that a really unscrupulous man, if placed in such a position as this, might well have used the grace period to scoop even more money out of the town treasury-as much as he possibly could-and then to run for a place (some sunny place with lots of palm trees and lots of white beaches and lots of young girls in string bikinis) from which extradition was difficult or downright impossible.
He could wax Christlike and invite those among them without sin to cast the first stone. That should give them pause. If there was a man-jack among them who had not had his fingers in the state pie from time to time, Keeton would eat that man's shorts.
Without salt.
They would have to give him time. Now that he was able to set his hysteria aside and think the situation over rationally, he was almost sure they would. After all, they were politicians, too. They would know that the press would have plenty of tar and feathers left over for them, the supposed guardians of the public trust, once they had finished with Dan Keeton. They would know the questions which would surface in the wake of a public investigation or even (God forbid) a trial for embezzlement. Questions like how longin fiscal years, if you please, gentlemen-had Mr. Keeton's little operation been going on?
Questions like how come the State Bureau of Taxation hadn't awakened and smelled the coffee some time ago? Questions ambitious men would find distressing.
He believed he could squeak through. No guarantees, but it looked possible.
All thanks to Mr. Leland Gaunt.
God, he loved Leland Gaunt.
"Danforth?" Myrt asked shyly.
He looked up. "Hmmm?"
"This is the nicest day I've had in years. I just wanted you to know that. How grateful I am to have such a nice day. With you."
"Oh!" he said. The oddest thing had just happened to him. For a moment he hadn't been able to remember the name of the woman sitting across from him. "Well, Myrt, it's been nice for me, too."
"Will you be going to the race-track tonight?"
"No," he said, "I think tonight I'll stay home."
"That's nice," she said. She found it so nice, in fact, that she had to dab at her eyes with her napkin again.
He smiled at her-it wasn't his old sweet smile, the one which had wooed and won her to begin with-but it was close. "Say, Myrt!
Want dessert?"
She giggled and flapped her napkin at him. "Oh, you!"
3
The Keeton home was a split-level