Needful Things - Stephen King [36]
Tonight, however, it didn't seem to bother him at all. Maybe because he was still half-shot.
"It is," Hugh agreed. "It is a beauty. My dad had a convertible with a fox-tail just like that tied to the antenna, back when I was a kid. There's a lot of people in this crummy little burg wouldn't believe I ever was a kid, but I was. Same as everyone else."
"Of course." The man's eyes remained fixed on Hugh's, and the strangest thing was happening-they seemed to be growing. Hugh couldn't seem to pull his own eyes away from them. Too much direct eye-contact was another thing which usually made him feel like he wanted to fight.
But this also seemed perfectly okay tonight.
"I used to think that fox-tail was just about the coolest thing in the world."
"Of course."
"Cool-that was the word we u:ed back then. None of this rad shit.
And gnarly-I don't have the slightest fuckin idea what that means, do you?"
But the proprietor of Needful Things was silent, simply standing there, watching Hugh Priest with his black Indian eyes over the foliage of his feather-duster.
"Anyway, I want to buy it. Will you sell it to me?"
"Of course," Leland Gaunt said for the third time.
Hugh felt relief and a sudden, sprawling happiness. He was suddenly sure everything was going to be all right-everything. This was utterly crazy; he owed money to just about everyone in Castle Rock and the surrounding three towns, he had been on the ragged edge of losing his job for the last six months, his Buick was running on a wing and a prayer-but it was also undeniable.
"How much?" he asked. He suddenly wondered if he would be able to afford such a fine brush, and felt a touch of panic. What if it was out of his reach? Worse, what if he scrounged up the money somehow tomorrow, or the day after that, only to find the guy had sold it?
"Well, that depends."
"Depends? Depends on what?"
"On how much you're willing to pay."
Like a man in a dream, Hugh pulled his battered Lord Burton out of his back pocket.
"Put that away, Hugh."
Did I tell him my name?
Hugh couldn't remember, but he put the wallet away.
"Turn out your pockets. Right here, on top of this case."
Hugh turned out his pockets. He put his pocket-knife, a roll of Certs, his Zippo lighter, and about a dollar-fifty in tobaccosprinkled change on top of the case. The coins clicked on the glass.
The man bent forward and studied the pile. "That looks about right," he remarked, and brushed the feather-duster over the meager collection. When he removed it again, the knife, the lighter, and the Certs were still there. The coins were gone.
Hugh observed this with no surprise at all. He stood as silently as a toy with dead batteries while the tall man went to the display window and came back with the fox-brush. He laid it on top of the cabinet beside Hugh's shrunken pile of pocket paraphernalia.
Slowly, Hugh stretched out one hand and stroked the fur. it felt cold and rich; it crackled with silky static electricity.
Stroking it was like stroking a clear autumn night.
"Nice?" the tall man asked.
"Nice," Hugh agreed distantly, and made to pick up the foxtail.
"Don't do that," the tall man said sharply, and Hugh's hand fell away at once. He looked at Gaunt with a hurt so deep it was grief.
"We're not done dickering yet."
"No," Hugh agreed. I'm hypnotized, he thought. Damned if the guy hasn't hypnotized me. But it didn't matter. It was, in fact, sort of nice.
He reached for his wallet again, moving as slowly as a man under water.
"Leave that alone, you ass," Mr. Gaunt said impatiently, and laid his feather-duster aside.
Hugh's hand dropped to his side again.
"Why is it that so many people think all the answers are in their wallets?" the man asked querulously.
"I don't know," Hugh said. He had never considered the idea before. "It does seem a little silly."
"Worse," Gaunt snapped. His voice had taken on the nagging, slightly uneven cadences of a man who is either very tired or very angry. He was tired; it had been a long, demanding day. Much had been accomplished, but the work was still