Needful Things - Stephen King [47]
Instead he leaned back in his chair and looked at Keeton. Keeton met his eyes for a few seconds, then dropped his gaze to the cigar and began picking at the wrapper.
"The next time you park in the handicap space, I'm going to ticket you myself, and that citation will stand," Alan said. "And if You ever lay your hands on one of my deputies again, I'll book you on a charge of third-degree assault. That will happen no matter how many so-called rights of approval the selectmen hold. Because politics only stretches so far with me. Do you understand?" ' Keeton looked down at the cigar for a long moment, as if meditating. When he looked up at Alan again, his eyes had turned to small, hard flints. "If you want to find out just how hard my ass is, that way."
Sheriff Pangborn, just go on pushing me." There was anger written on Keeton's face-yes, most assuredly-but Alan thought there was something else written there, as well. He thought it was fear. Did he see that? Smell it? He didn't know, and it didn't matter. But what Keeton was afraid of that might matter. That might matter a lot.
"Do you understand?" he repeated.
"Yes," Keeton said. He stripped the cellophane from his cigar with a sudden hard gesture and dropped it on the floor. He stuck the cigar in his mouth and spoke around it. "Do you understand me?"
The chair creaked and croaked as Alan rocked forward again.
He looked at Keeton earnestly. "I understand what you're saying, but I sure as hell don't understand how you're acting, Danforth.
We've never been best buddies, you and I-" "That's for sure,"
Keeton said, and bit off the end of his cigar.
For a moment Alan thought that was going to end up on the floor, too, and he was prepared to let it go if it did-politics-but Keeton spat it into the palm of his hand and then deposited it in the clean ashtray on the desk. It sat there like a small dog-turd.
"-but we've always had a pretty good working relationship.
Now this. Is there something wrong? If there is, and I can help-" "Nothing is wrong," Keeton said, rising abruptly. He was angry again-more than just angry. Alan could almost see the steam coming out of his ears. "It's just that I'm so tired of this persecution."
It was the second time he had used the word. Alan found it an odd word, an unsettling word. In fact, he found this whole conversation unsettling.
"Well, you know where I am," Alan said.
"God, yes!" Keeton said, and went to the door.
"And, please, Danforth-remember about the handicap space."
"Fuck the handicap space!" Keeton said, and slammed out.
Alan sat behind his desk and looked at the closed door for a long time, a troubled expression on his face. Then he went around the desk, picked up the crumpled cellophane cylinder lying on the floor, dropped it into the wastebasket, and went to the door to invite Steamboat Willie in.
6
"Mr. Keeton looked rather upset," Rose said. He seated himself carefully in the chair the Head Selectman had just vacated, looked with distaste at the cigar-end sitting in the ashtray, and then placed his white Bible carefully in the center of his ungenerous lap.
"Lots of appropriations meetings in the next month or so," Alan said vaguely. "I'm sure it's a strain for all the selectmen."
"Yes," Rev. Rose agreed. "For Jesus-uh told us: 'Render unto Caesar those things which are Caesar's, and render unto God those things which are God's."' "Uh-huh," Alan said. He suddenly wished he had a cigarette, something like a Lucky or a Pall Mall that was absolutely stuffed with tar and nicotine. "What can I render unto you this afternoon, R Reverend Rose?" He was horrified to realize he had just come extremely close to calling the man Reverend Willie.
Rose took off his round rimless spectacles, polished them, and then settled them back in place, hiding the two small red spots high up on his nose. His black hair, plastered in place with some sort of hair potion Alan could smell but not identify, gleamed in the light of the fluorescent grid set into the ceiling.
"It's about the abomination Father