The drawing of the three - Stephen King [154]
“Yes sir,” Fat Johnny said, “I sure do.”
“Good.”
Roland pushed the two cops apart. They were both still alive. That was good. No matter how slow and unobservant they might be, they were gunslingers, men who had tried to help a stranger in trouble. He had no urge to kill his own.
But he had done it before, hadn’t he? Yes. Had not Alain himself, one of his sworn brothers, died under Roland’s and Cuthbert’s own smoking guns?
Without taking his eyes from the clerk, he felt under the counter with the toe of Jack Mort’s Gucci loafer. He felt the wallet. He kicked it. It came spinning out from underneath the counter on the clerk’s side. Fat Johnny jumped and shrieked like a goosey girl who spies a mouse. His ass actually did lose contact with the wall for a moment, but the gunslinger overlooked it. He had no intention of putting a bullet in this man. He would throw the gun at him and poleaxe him with it before firing a shot. A gun as absurdly big as this would probably bring half the neighborhood.
“Pick it up,” the gunslinger said. “Slowly.”
Fat Johnny reached down, and as he grasped the wallet, he farted loudly and screamed. With faint amusement the gunslinger realized he had mistaken the sound of his own fart for a gunshot and his time of dying had come.
When Fat Johnny stood up, he was blushing furiously. There was a large wet patch on the front of his pants.
“Put the purse on the counter. Wallet, I mean.”
Fat Johnny did it.
“Now the shells. Winchester .45s. And I want to see your hands every second.”
“I have to reach into my pocket. For my keys.”
Roland nodded.
As Fat Johnny first unlocked and then slid open the case with the stacked cartons of bullets inside, Roland cogitated.
“Give me four boxes,” he said at last. He could not imagine needing so many shells, but the temptation to have them was not to be denied.
Fat Johnny put the boxes on the counter. Roland slid one of them open, still hardly able to believe it wasn’t a joke or a sham. But they were bullets, all right, clean, shining, unmarked, never fired, never re-loaded. He held one up to the light for a moment, then put it back in the box.
“Now take out a pair of those wristbands.”
“Wristbands—?”
The gunslinger consulted the Mortcypedia. “Handcuffs.”
“Mister, I dunno what you want. The cash register’s—”
“Do what I say. Now.”
Christ, this ain’t never gonna end, Fat Johnny’s mind moaned. He opened another section of the counter and brought out a pair of cuffs.
“Key?” Roland asked.
Fat Johnny put the key to the cuffs on the counter. It made a small click. One of the unconscious cops made an abrupt snoring sound and Johnny uttered a wee screech.
“Turn around,” the gunslinger said.
“You ain’t gonna shoot me, are you? Say you ain’t!”
“Ain’t,” Roland said tonelessly. “As long as you turn around right now. If you don’t do that, I will.”
Fat Johnny turned around, beginning to blubber. Of course the guy said he wasn’t going to, but the smell of mob hit was getting too strong to ignore. He hadn’t even been skimming that much. His blubbers became choked wails.
“Please, mister, for my mother’s sake don’t shoot me. My mother’s old. She’s blind. She’s—”
“She’s cursed with a yellowgut son,” the gunslinger said dourly. “Wrists together.”
Mewling, wet pants sticking to his crotch, Fat Johnny put them together. In a trice the steel bracelets were locked in place. He had no idea how the spook had gotten over or around the counter so quickly. Nor did he want to know.
“Stand there and look at the wall until I tell you it’s all right to turn around. If you turn around before then, I’ll kill you.”
Hope lighted Fat Johnny’s mind. Maybe the guy didn’t mean to hit him after all. Maybe the guy wasn’t crazy, just insane.
“I won’t. Swear to God. Swear before all of His saints. Swear before all His angels. Swear before all His arch—”
“I swear if you don’t shut up I’ll put a slug through your neck,” the spook said.
Fat Johnny shut up. It seemed to him that he stood facing the wall for an eternity. In truth, it was about twenty seconds.