Needful Things - Stephen King [164]
YOUR PLAN TO TURN THIS TOWN INTO A DEN OF THIEVES AND GAMBLERS OR YOU
WILL SMELL THE HELLFIRE! YOU WILL SMELL THE BRIMSTONE!
"The wicked shall be turned into hell, and all the nations that forget God." Psalm 9:17.
HEAR AND HEED, OR YOUR CRIES OF LAMENTATION WILL BE LOUD INDEED.
THE CONCERNED BAPTIST MEN OF CASTLE ROCK
"Shit on toast," Albert said at last, and crumpled the note into one ham-sized fist. "That idiotic little Baptist shoe-salesman has finally gone out of his mind."
His first order of business after opening his office was to call Father John and tell him the game might be getting a little rougher between now and Casino Nite.
"Don't worry, Albert," Father Brigham said calmly. "If the idiot bumps us, he's going to find out how hard we mackerel-snappers can bump back am I right?"
"Right you are, Father," Albert said. He was still holding the crumpled note in one hand. Now he looked down at it and an unpleasant little smile surfaced below his walrus moustache. "Right you are."
5
By quarter past ten that morning, the digital read-out in front of the bank announced the temperature in Castle Rock as seventy-seven degrees. On the far side of the Tin Bridge, the unseasonably hot sun produced a bright twinkle, a daystar at the place where Route 117 came over the horizon and headed toward town. Alan Pangborn was in his office, going over reports on the Cobb-jerzyck murders, and did not see that reflection of sun on metal and glass.
It wouldn't have interested him much if he had-it was, after all, only an approaching car. Nevertheless, the savagely bright twinkle of chrome and glass, heading toward the bridge at better than seventy miles an hour, heralded the arrival of a significant part of Alan Pangborn's destiny and that of the whole town.
In the show window of Needful Things, the sign reading CLOSED COLUMBUS DAY was taken down by a long-fingered hand which emerged from the sleeve of a fawn sport-jacket. A new sign went up in its place.
This one read
HELP WANTED.
6
The car was still doing fifty in a zone posted for twenty-five when it crossed the bridge. It was a unit the high school kids would have regarded with awe and envy: a lime-green Dodge Challenger that had been jacked in the back so the nose pointed toward the road.
Through the smoked-glass windows, one could dimly make out the roll-bar which arched across the roof between the front and back seats.
The rear end was covered with stickers:
HEARST, FUELLY, FRAM, QUAKER STATE, GOODYEAR WIDE OVALS, RAM CHARGER.
The straight-pipes burbled contentedly, fat on the ninety-six-octane fuel which could be purchased only at Oxford Plains Speedway once you got north of Portland.
It slowed a little at the intersection of Main and Laurel, then pulled into one of the slant-parking spaces in front of The Clip Joint with a low squeal of tires. There was no one in the shop getting a haircut just then; both Bill Fullerton and Henry Gendron, his number-two barber, were seated in the customers' chairs under the old Brylcreem and Wildroot Creme Oil signs. They had shared the morning paper out between them. As the driver gunned his engine briefly, causing exhaust to crackle and bang through the pipes, both looked up.
"A death-machine if I ever saw one," Henry said.
Bill nodded and plucked at his lower lip with the thumb and index finger of his right hand. "Ayuh."
They both watched expectantly as the engine died and the driver's door opened. A foot encased in a scuffed black engineer boot emerged from the Challenger's dark innards. It was attached to a leg clad in tight, faded denim. A moment later the driver got out and stood in the unseasonably hot daylight, removing his sunglasses and tucking them into the V of his shirt as he looked around in leisurely, contemptuous fashion.
"Uh-oh," Henry said. "Looks like a bad penny just turned up."
Bill Fullerton