Salem's Lot - Stephen King [77]
He did, looking around curiously. The front door opened directly on a small living room furnished in Early American Junk Shop and dominated by an incredibly ancient Motorola TV. A KLH sound system with quad speakers was putting out the music.
Matt came out of the kitchen, outfitted in a red-and-white-checked apron. The odor of spaghetti sauce wandered out after him.
‘Sorry about the noise,’ Matt said. ‘I’m a little deaf. I turn it up.’
‘Good music.’
‘I’ve been a rock fan ever since Buddy Holly. Lovely music. Are you hungry?’
‘Yeah,’ Ben said. ‘Thanks again for asking me. I’ve eaten out more since I came back to ‘salem’s Lot than I have in the last five years, I guess.’
‘It’s a friendly town. Hope you don’t mind eating in the kitchen. An antique man came by a couple of months ago and offered me two hundred dollars for my dining room table. I haven’t gotten around to getting another one.’
‘I don’t mind. I’m a kitchen eater from a long line of kitchen eaters.’
The kitchen was astringently neat. On the small four-burner stove, a pot of spaghetti sauce simmered and a colander full of spaghetti stood steaming. A small drop-leaf table was set with a couple of mismatched plates and glasses which had animated cartoon figures dancing around the rims-jelly glasses, Ben thought with amusement. The last constraint of being with a stranger dropped away and he began to feel at home.
‘There’s Bourbon, rye, and vodka in the cupboard over the sink,’ Matt said, pointing. ‘There’s some mixers in the fridge. Nothing too fancy, I’m afraid.’
‘Bourbon and tap water will do me.’
‘Go to it. I’m going to serve this mess up.’
Mixing his drink, Ben said, ‘I liked your kids. They asked good questions. Tough, but good.’
‘Like where do you get your ideas?’ Matt asked, mimicking Ruthie Crockett’s sexy little-girl lisp.
‘She’s quite a piece.’
‘She is indeed. There’s a bottle of Lancers in the icebox behind the pineapple chunks. I got it special.’
‘Say, you shouldn’t-’
‘Oh come, Ben. We hardly see best-selling authors in the Lot every day.’
‘That’s a little extravagant.’
Ben finished the rest of his drink, took a plate of spaghetti from Matt, ladled sauce over it, and twirled a forkful against his spoon. ‘Fantastic,’ he said. ‘Mamma mia.’
‘But of course,’ Matt said.
Ben looked down at his plate, which had emptied with amazing rapidity. He wiped his mouth a little guiltily.
‘More?’
‘Half a plate, if it’s okay. It’s great spaghetti.’
Matt brought him a whole plate. ‘If we don’t eat it, my cat will. He’s a miserable animal. Weighs twenty pounds and waddles to his dish.’
‘Lord, how did I miss him?’
Matt smiled. ‘He’s cruising. Is your new book a novel?’
‘A fictionalized sort of thing,’ Ben said. ‘To be honest, I’m writing it for money. Art is wonderful, but just once I’d like to pull a big number out of the hat.’
‘What are the prospects?’
‘Murky,’ Ben said.
‘Let’s go in the living room,’ Matt said. ‘The chairs are lumpy but more comfortable than these kitchen horrors. Did you get enough to eat?’
‘Does the Pope wear a tall hat?’
In the living room Matt put on a stack of albums and went to work firing up a huge, knotted calabash pipe. After he had it going to his satisfaction (sitting in the middle of a huge raft of smoke), he looked up at Ben.
‘No,’ he said. ‘You can’t see it from here.’
Ben looked around sharply. ‘What?’
‘The Marsten House. I’ll bet you a nickel that s what you were looking for.’
Ben laughed uneasily. ‘No bet.’
‘Is your book set in a town like ‘salem’s Lot?’
‘Town and people,’ Ben nodded. ‘There are a series of sex murders and mutilations. I’m going to open with one of them and describe it in progress, from start to finish, in minute detail. Rub the reader’s nose in it. I was outlining that part when Ralphie Glick disappeared and it gave me… well, it gave me a nasty turn.’
‘You’re basing all of this on the disappearances of the thirties in the township?’
Ben looked