Needful Things - Stephen King [174]
As he reached the sidewalk on the far side, he saw Ace come sauntering out of the shadow cast by the green awning of Needful Things. He had something in one hand. At first Alan couldn't tell what it was, but as Ace drew closer, he decided he had been able to tell; he just hadn't been able to believe it. Ace Merrill wasn't the sort of guy you expected to see with a book in his hand.
They drew together in front of the vacant lot where the Emporium Galorium had once stood.
"Hello, Ace," Alan said.
Ace didn't seem in the least surprised to see him. He took his sunglasses from the V of his shirt, shook them out one-handed, and slipped them on. "Well, well, well-how they hangin, boss?"
"What are you doing in Castle Rock, Ace?" Alan asked evenly.
Ace looked up at the sky with exaggerated interest. Little glints of light twinkled on the lenses of his Ray-Bans. "Nice day for a ride," he said. "Summery."
"Very nice," Alan agreed. "Have you got a valid license, Ace?"
Ace looked at him reproachfully. "Would I be out driving if I didn't? That wouldn't be legal, would it?"
"I don't think that's an answer."
"I took the re-exam as soon as they gave me my pink sheet," Ace said. "I'm street-legal. How's that, boss? Is that an answer?"
"Maybe I could check for myself." Alan held out his hand.
"Why, I don't think you trust me!" Ace said. He spoke in the same jocular, teasing voice, but Alan heard the anger beneath it.
"Let's just say I'm from Missouri."
Ace shifted the book to his left hand so he could dig the wallet out of his hip pocket with his right, and Alan got a better look at the cover. The book was Treasure Island, by Robert Louis Stevenson.
He looked at the license. It was signed and valid.
"The car registration is in the glove compartment, if you want to cross the street and look at that, too," Ace said. Alan could hear the anger in his voice more clearly now. And the old arrogance as well.
"I think I'll trust you on that one, Ace. Why don't you tell me what you're really doing back here in town?"
"I came to look at that," Ace said, and pointed to the vacant lot.
"I don't know why, but I did. I doubt if you believe me, but it happens to be the truth."
Oddly enough, Alan did believe him.
"I see you bought a book, too."
"I can read," Ace said. "I doubt if you believe that, either."
"Well, well." Alan hooked his thumbs into his belt. "You had a look and you bought a book."
"He's a poet and he don't know it."
"Why, I guess I am. It's good of you to point it out, Ace. Now I guess you'll be sliding on out of town, won't you?"
"What if I don't? You'd find something to bust me for, I guess.
Is the word 'rehabilitation' in your vocabulary, Sheriff Pangborn?"
"Yes," Alan said, "but the definition isn't Ace Merrill."
"You don't want to push me, man."
"I'm not. If I start, you'll know it."
Ace took off his sunglasses. "You guys never quit, do you? You never fucking quit."
Alan said nothing.
After a moment Ace seemed to regain his composure. He put his Ray-Bans back on. "You know," he said, "I think I will leave.
I've got places to go and things to do."
"That's good. Busy hands are happy hands."
"But if I want to come back, I will. Do you hear me?"
"I hear you, Ace, and I want to tell you that I don't think that would be wise at all. Do you hear me?"
"You don't scare me."
"If I don't," Alan said, "you're even dumber than I thought."
Ace looked at Alan for a moment through his dark glasses, then laughed. Alan didn't care for the sound of it-it was a creepy sort of laugh, strange and off-center. He stood and watched as Ace crossed the street in his outdated hood's strut, opened the door of his car, and got in. A moment later the engine roared into life.
Exhaust blatted through the straight-pipes; people stopped on the street to look.
That's an illegal muffler, Alan thought. A glasspack. I could cite him for that.
But what would be the point? He had bigger fish to fry than Ace Merrill, who was leaving town anyway. For good this time,