Song of Susannah - Stephen King [81]
“Mia? Young man—Mr. Dean—I know no—”
“Shut up!” Eddie cried. “Shut up, you rat! You lying, reneging weasel! You greedy, grasping, piggy excuse for a man! Why didn’t you take out a few billboards? HI, I’M CAL TOWER! I’M STAYING ON THE ROCKET ROAD IN EAST STONEHAM! WHY DON’T YOU COME SEE ME AND MY FRIEND, AARON! BRING GUNS!”
Slowly, Eddie looked up. Tears of rage were rolling down his face. Tower had backed up against the wall to one side of the door, his eyes huge and moist in his round face. Sweat stood out on his brow. He held his bag of freshly acquired books against his chest like a shield.
Eddie looked at him steadily. Blood dripped from between his tightly clasped hands; the spot of blood on the arm of his shirt had begun to spread again; now a trickle of blood ran from the left side of his mouth, as well. And he supposed he understood Roland’s silence. This was Eddie Dean’s job. Because he knew Tower inside as well as out, didn’t he? Knew him very well. Once upon a time not so long ago hadn’t he himself thought everything in the world but heroin pale and unimportant? Hadn’t he believed everything in the world that wasn’t heroin up for barter or sale? Had he not come to a point when he would literally have pimped his own mother in order to get the next fix? Wasn’t that why he was so angry?
“That lot on the corner of Second Avenue and Forty-sixth Street was never yours,” Eddie said. “Not your father’s, or his father’s, all the way back to Stefan Toren. You were only custodians, the same way I’m custodian of the gun I wear.”
“I deny that!”
“Do you?” Aaron asked. “How strange. I’ve heard you speak of that piece of land in almost those exact words—”
“Aaron, shut up!”
“—many times,” Deepneau finished calmly.
There was a pop. Eddie jumped, sending a fresh throb of pain up his leg from the hole in his shin. It was a match. Roland was lighting another cigarette. The filter lay on the oilcloth covering the table with two others. They looked like little pills.
“Here is what you said to me,” Eddie said, and all at once he was calm. The rage was out of him, like poison drawn from a snakebite. Roland had let him do that much, and despite his bleeding tongue and bleeding palms, he was grateful.
“Anything I said…I was under stress…I was afraid you might kill me yourself!”
“You said you had an envelope from March of 1846. You said there was a sheet of paper in the envelope, and a name written on the paper. You said—”
“I deny—”
“You said that if I could tell you the name written on that piece of paper, you’d sell me the lot. For one dollar. And with the understanding that you’d be getting a great deal more—millions—between now and…1985, let’s say.”
Tower barked a laugh. “Why not offer me the Brooklyn Bridge while you’re at it?”
“You made a promise. And now your father watches you attempt to break it.”
Calvin Tower shrieked: “I DENY EVERY WORD YOU SAY!”
“Deny and be damned,” Eddie said. “And now I’m going to tell you something, Cal, something I know from my own beat-up but still beating heart. You’re eating a bitter meal. You don’t know that because someone told you it was sweet and your own tastebuds are numb.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about! You’re crazy!”
“No,” Aaron said. “He’s not. You’re the one who’s crazy if you don’t listen to him. I think…I think he’s giving you a chance to redeem the purpose of your life.”
“Give it up,” Eddie said. “Just once listen to the better angel instead of to the other one. That other one hates you, Cal. It only wants to kill you. Believe me, I know.”
Silence in the cabin. From the pond came the cry of a loon. From across it came the less lovely sound of sirens.