Salem's Lot - Stephen King [71]
‘He isn’t-’
‘Shut him up!’ Roy yelled, and Randy, who had actually been quieting down to snuffles, began to scream again.
‘I’ll give him a bottle,’ Sandy said, getting up.
‘And get my dinner.’ He started to take off his denim jacket. ‘Christ, isn’t this place a mess. What do you do all day, beat off?’
‘Roy!’ she said, sounding shocked. Then she giggled. Her insane burst of anger at the baby who would not hold still on his diapers so she could pin them began to be far away, hazy. It might have happened on one of her afternoon stories, or ‘Medical Center’.
‘Get my dinner and then pick this frigging place up.’
‘All right. All right, sure.’ She got a bottle out of the refrigerator and put Randy down in the playpen with it. He began to suck it apathetically, his eyes moving from mother to father in small, trapped circles.
‘Roy?’
‘Hmmm? What?’
‘It’s all over.’
‘What is?’
‘You know what. Do you want to? Tonight?’
‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Sure.’ And thought again: isn’t this some life. Isn’t this just some life.
7
Nolly Gardener was listening to rock n’ roll music on WLOB and snapping his fingers when the telephone rang. Parkins put down his crossword magazine and said, ‘Cut that some, will you?’
‘Sure, Park.’ Nolly turned the radio down and went on snapping his fingers.
‘Hello?’ Parkins said.
‘Constable Gillespie?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Agent Tom Hanrahan here, Sir. I’ve got the information you requested.’
‘Good of you to get back so quick.’
‘We haven’t got much of a hook for you.’
‘That’s okay,’ Parkins said. ‘What have you got?’ ‘Ben Mears investigated as a result of a traffic fatality in upstate New York, May 1973. No charges brought. Motorcycle smash. His wife Miranda was killed. Witnesses said he was moving slowly and a breath test was negative. Apparently just hit a wet spot. His politics are leftish. He was in a peace march at Princeton in 1966. Spoke at an antiwar rally in Brooklyn in 1967. March on Washington in 1968 and 1970. Arrested during a San Francisco peace march November 1971. And that’s all there is on him.’ ‘What else?’
‘Kurt Barlow, that’s Kurt with a "k". He’s British, but by naturalization rather than birth. Born in Germany, fled to England in 1938, apparently just ahead of the Gestapo. His earlier records just aren’t available, but he’s probably in his seventies. The name he was born with was Breichen. He’s been in the import-export business in London since 1945, but he’s elusive. Straker has been his partner since then, and Straker seems to be the fellow who deals with the public.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Straker is British by birth. Fifty-eight years old. His father was a cabinetmaker in Manchester. Left a fair amount of money to his son, apparently, and this Straker has done all right, too. Both of them applied for visas to spend an extended amount of time in the United States eighteen months ago. That’s all we have. Except that they may be queer for each other.’
‘Yeah,’ Parkins said, and sighed. ‘About what I thought.’
‘If you’d like further assistance, we can query CID and Scotland Yard about your two new merchants.’
‘No, that’s fine.’
‘No connection between Mears and the other two, by the way. Unless it’s deep undercover.’
‘Okay. Thanks.’
‘It’s what we’re here for. If you want assistance, get in touch.’
‘I will. Thank you now.’
He put the receiver back in its cradle and looked at it thoughtfully.
‘Who was that, Park?’ Nolly asked, turning up the radio.
‘The Excellent Café. They ain’t got any ham on rye. Nothin’ but toasted cheese and egg salad.’
‘I got some raspberry fluff in my desk if you want it.’
‘No thanks,’ Parkins said, and sighed again.
8
The dump was still smoldering.
Dud Rogers walked along the edge, smelling the fragrance of smoldering offal. Underfoot, small bottles crunched and powdery black ash puffed up at every step. Out in the dump’s wasteland, a wide bed of coals waxed and waned with the vagaries of the wind, reminding him of a huge red eye opening and closing… the eye of a giant. Every now and then there was a muffled small explosion as an aerosol can or light bulb blew