Song of Susannah - Stephen King [38]
You say true, I say thank ya rose to her lips and she squelched it. “Yes, that’s right.”
“May I see some identification, please?”
For a moment Susannah was flummoxed. Then she reached into the rush bag and took out an Oriza, being careful to hold it by the blunt curve. She found herself remembering something Roland had said to Wayne Overholser, the Calla’s big rancher: We deal in lead. The ’Rizas weren’t bullets, but surely they were the equivalent. She held the plate up in one hand and the small carved turtle in the other.
“Will this do?” she asked pleasantly.
“What—” the beautiful desk clerk began, then fell silent as her eyes shifted from the plate to the turtle. They grew wide and slightly glassy. Her lips, coated with an interesting pink gloss (it looked more like candy than lipstick to Susannah), parted. A soft sound came from between them: ohhhh…
“It’s my driver’s license,” Susannah said. “Do you see?” Luckily there was no one else around, not even a bellman. The late-day checkouts were on the sidewalk, fighting for hacks; in here, the lobby was a-doze. From the bar beyond the gift shop, “Night and Day” gave way to a lazy and introspective version of “Stardust.”
“Driver’s license,” the desk clerk agreed in that same sighing, wondering voice.
“Good. Are you supposed to write anything down?”
“No…Mr. Van Wyck rented the room…all I need is to…to check your…may I hold the turtle, ma’am?”
“No,” Susannah said, and the desk clerk began to weep. Susannah observed this phenomenon with bemusement. She didn’t believe she had made so many people cry since her disastrous violin recital (both first and last) at the age of twelve.
“No, I may not hold it,” the desk clerk said, weeping freely. “No, no, I may not, may not hold it, ah, Discordia, I may not—”
“Hush up your snivel,” Susannah said, and the desk clerk hushed at once. “Give me the room-key, please.”
But instead of a key, the Eurasian woman handed her a plastic card in a folder. Written on the inside of the folder—so would-be thieves couldn’t easily see it, presumably—was the number 1919. Which didn’t surprise Susannah at all. Mia, of course, could not have cared less.
She stumbled on her feet a little. Reeled a little. Had to wave one hand (the one holding her “driver’s license”) for balance. There was a moment when she thought she might tumble to the floor, and then she was okay again.
“Ma’am?” the desk clerk inquired. Looking remotely—very remotely—concerned. “Are you feeling all right?”
“Yeah,” Susannah said. “Only…lost my balance there for a second or two.”
Wondering, What in the blue hell just happened? Oh, but she knew the answer. Mia was the one with the legs, Mia. Susannah had been driving the bus ever since encountering old Mr. May I Not Take The Sköldpadda, and this body was starting to revert to its legless-below-the-knee state. Crazy but true. Her body was going Susannah on her.
Mia, get up here. Take charge.
I can’t. Not yet. As soon as we’re alone I will.
And dear Christ, Susannah recognized that tone of voice, recognized it very well. The bitch was shy.
To the desk clerk, Susannah said, “What’s this thing? Is it a key?”
“Why—yes, sai. You use it in the elevator as well as to open your room. Just push it into the slot in the direction the arrows point. Remove it briskly. When the light on the door turns green, you may enter. I have slightly over eight thousand dollars in my cash drawer. I’ll give it all to you for your pretty thing, your turtle, your sköldpadda, your tortuga, your kavvit, your—”
“No,” Susannah said, and staggered again. She clutched the edge of the desk. Her equilibrium was shot. “I’m going upstairs now.” She’d meant to visit the gift shop first and spend some of Mats’s dough on a clean shirt, if they carried such things, but that would have to wait. Everything would have to wait.
“Yes, sai.” No more ma’am, not now. The turtle was working on her. Sanding away the gap between the worlds.