Salem's Lot - Stephen King [58]
Ben started toward the bar, skirting the dance floor, and someone called out, ‘Ben! Say, fella! How are you, buddy?’ Ben looked around and saw Weasel Craig sitting at a table close to the bar, a half-empty beer in front of him.
‘Hello, Weasel,’ Ben said, sitting down. He was relieved to see a familiar face, and he liked Weasel.
‘Decided to get some night life, did you, buddy?’ Weasel smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. Ben thought that his check must have come in; his breath alone could have made Milwaukee famous.
‘Yeah,’ Ben said. He got out a dollar and laid it on the table, which was covered with the circular ghosts of the many beer glasses that had stood there. ‘How you doing?’
‘Just fine. What do you think of that new band? Great, ain’t they?’
They’re okay,’ Ben said. ‘Finish that thing up before it goes flat. I’m buying.’
‘I been waitin’ to hear somebody say that all night. Jackie!’ he bawled. ‘Bring my buddy here a pitcher! Budweiser!’
Jackie brought the pitcher on a tray littered with beer-soaked change and lifted it onto the table, her right arm bulging like a prize fighter’s. She looked at the dollar as if it were a new species of cockroach. ‘That’s a buck fawty,’ she said.
Ben put another bill down. She picked them both up, fished sixty cents out of the assorted puddles on her tray, banged them down on the table, and said, ‘Weasel Craig, when you yell like that you sound like a rooster gettin’ its neck wrung.’
‘You’re beautiful, darlin’,’ Weasel said. ‘This is Ben Mears. He writes books.’
‘Meetcha,’ Jackie said, and disappeared into the dimness.
Ben poured himself a glass of beer and Weasel followed suit, filling his glass professionally to the top. The foam threatened to overspill and then backed down. ‘Here’s to you, buddy.’
Ben lifted his glass and drank.
‘So how’s that writin’ goin’?’
‘Pretty good, Weasel.’
‘I seen you goin’ round with that little Norton girl. She’s a real peach, she is. You couldn’t do no better there.’
‘Yes, she’s-’
‘Matt!’ Weasel bawled, almost startling Ben into dropping his glass. By God, he thought, he does sound like a rooster saying good-by to this world.
‘Matt Burke!’ Weasel waved wildly, and a man with white hair raised his hand in greeting and started to cut through the crowd. ‘Here’s a fella you ought to meet,’ Weasel told Ben. ‘Matt Burke’s one smart son of a whore.’ The man coming toward them looked about sixty. He was tall, wearing a clean flannel shirt open at the throat, and his hair, which was as white as Weasel’s, was cut in a flattop.
‘Hello, Weasel,’ he said.
‘How are you, buddy?’ Weasel said. ‘Want you to meet a fella stayin’ over to Eva’s. Ben Mears. Writes books, he does. He’s a lovely fella.’ He looked at Ben. ‘Me’n Matt grew up together, only he got an education and I got the shaft.’ Weasel cackled.
Ben stood up and shook Matt Burke’s bunched hand gingerly. ‘How are you?’
‘Fine, thanks. I’ve read one of your books, Mr Mears. Air Dance.’
‘Make it Ben, please. I hope you liked it.’
‘I liked it much better than the critics, apparently,’ Matt said, sitting down. ‘I think it will gain ground as time goes by. How are you, Weasel?’
‘Perky,’ Weasel said. ‘Just as perky as ever I could be. Jackie!’ he bawled. ‘Bring Matt a glass!’
‘Just wait a minute, y’old fart!’ Jackie yelled back, drawing laughter from the nearby tables.
‘She’s a lovely girl,’ Weasel said. ‘Maureen Talbot’s girl.’
‘Yes,’ Matt said. ‘I had Jackie in school. Class of ‘71. Her mother was ‘5 l.’
‘Matt teaches high school English,’ Weasel told Ben. ‘You and him should have a lot to talk about.’
‘I remember a girl named Maureen Talbot,’ Ben said. ‘She came and got my aunt’s wash and brought it back all folded in a wicker basket. The