The Dark Tower - Stephen King [102]
Not that he considered himself a religious nut. Not at all. These thoughts of God and heaven he kept strictly to himself. As far as the rest of the world was concerned, he was just a joe doing a job, one he intended to do well to the very end. Certainly he saw himself as no villain, but no truly dangerous man ever has. Think of Ulysses S. Grant, that Civil War general who’d said he intended to fight it out on this line if it took all summer.
In the Algul Siento, summer was almost over.
Four
The Master’s home was a tidy Cape Cod at one end of the Mall. It was called Shapleigh House (Pimli had no idea why), and so of course the Breakers called it Shit House. At the other end of the Mall was a much larger dwelling—a gracefully rambling Queen Anne called (for equally obscure reasons) Damli House. It would have looked at home on Fraternity Row at Clemson or Ole Miss. The Breakers called this one Heartbreak House, or sometimes Heartbreak Hotel. Fine. It was where the taheen and a sizable contingent of can-toi lived and worked. As for the Breakers, let them have their little jokes, and by all means let them believe that the staff didn’t know.
Pimli Prentiss and Finli o’ Tego strolled up the Mall in companionable silence…except, that was, when they passed off-duty Breakers, either alone or in company. Pimli greeted each of them with unfailing courtesy. The greetings they returned varied from the completely cheerful to sullen grunts. Yet each made some sort of response, and Pimli counted this a victory. He cared about them. Whether they liked it or not—many didn’t—he cared about them. They were certainly easier to deal with than the murderers, rapists, and armed robbers of Attica.
Some were reading old newspapers or magazines. A foursome was throwing horseshoes. Another foursome was on the putting green. Tanya Leeds and Joey Rastosovich were playing chess under a graceful old elm, the sunlight making dapples on their faces. They greeted him with real pleasure, and why not? Tanya Leeds was now actually Tanya Rastosovich, for Pimli had married them a month ago, just like the captain of a ship. And he supposed that in a way, that was what this was: the good ship Algul Siento, a cruise vessel that sailed the dark seas of Thunderclap in her own sunny spotlight. The sun went out from time to time, say true, but today’s outage had been minimal, only forty-three seconds.
“How’s it going, Tanya? Joseph?” Always Joseph and never Joey, at least not to his face; he didn’t like it.
They said it was going fine and gave him those dazed, fuck-struck smiles of which only newlyweds are capable. Finli said nothing to the Rastosoviches, but near the Damli House end of the Mall, he stopped before a young man sitting on a faux marble bench beneath a tree, reading a book.
“Sai Earnshaw?” the taheen asked.
Dinky looked up, eyebrows raised in polite enquiry. His face, studded with a bad case of acne, bore the same polite no-expression.
“I see you’re reading The Magus,” Finli said, almost shyly. “I myself am reading The Collector. Quite a coincidence!”
“If you say so,” Dinky replied. His expression didn’t change.
“I wonder what you think of Fowles? I’m quite busy right now, but perhaps later we could discuss him.”
Still wearing that politely expressionless expression, Dinky Earnshaw said, “Perhaps later you could take your copy of The Collector—hardcover, I hope—and stick it up your furry ass. Sideways.”
Finli’s hopeful smile disappeared. He gave a small but perfectly correct bow. “I’m sorry you feel that way, sai.”
“The fuck outta here,” Dinky said, and opened his book again. He raised it pointedly before his face.
Pimli and Finli o’ Tego walked on. There was a period of silence during which the Master of Algul Siento tried out different approaches to Finli, wanting to know how badly he’d been hurt by the young man’s comment. The taheen was proud of his ability to read and appreciate hume literature, that much Pimli knew. Then Finli saved him the trouble by putting both of his long-fingered hands—his ass wasn