The Running Man - Stephen King [41]
Bradley began spreading dishes. “Suppose we get a car. You got the squeezin green. I got a name that isn’t hot. There’s a spic on Milk Street that’ll sell me a Wint for three hundred. I’ll get one of my buddies to drive it up to Manchester. It’ll be cool as a fool in Manchester because you’re bottled up in Boston. You eatin, Ma?”
“Yes an praise Gawd.” She waddled out of the bedroom. “Your sister is sleepin a little.”
“Good.” He ladled up three dishes of hamburger gumbo and then paused. “Where’s Stacey?”
“Said he was goin to the drug,” Ma said complacently, shoveling gumbo into her toothless maw at a blinding speed. “Said he goan to get medicine.”
“If he gets busted, I’ll break his ass,” Bradley said, sitting heavily.
“He won’t,” Richards said. “He’s got money.”
“Yeah, maybe we don’t need no charity money, graymeat.”
Richards laughed and salted his meal. “I’d probably be slabbed now if it wasn’t for him,” he said. “I guess it was earned money.”
Bradley leaned forward, concentrating on his plate. None of them said anything more until the meal was done. Richards and Bradley had two helpings; the old woman had three. As they were lighting cigarettes, a key scratched in the lock and all of them stiffened until Stacey came in, looking guilty, frightened, and excited. He was carrying a brown bag in one hand and he gave Ma a bottle of medicine.
“Thass prime dope,” he said. “That ol man Curry ast me where I got two dollars and semney-fi cents to buy prime dope an I tole him to go shit in his boot and eat it.”
“Doan swear or the devil will poke you,” Ma said. “Here’s dinner.”
They boy’s eyes widened. “Jesus, there’s meat in it!”
“Naw, we jus shat in it to make it thicker,” Bradley said. The boy looked up sharply, saw his brother was joking, giggled, and fell to.
“Will the druggist go to the cops?” Richards asked quietly.
“Curry? Naw. Not if there might be some more squeezin green in this fambly. He knows Cassie’s got to have heavy dope.”
“What about this Manchester thing?”
“Yeah. Well, Vermont’s no good. Not enough of our kind of people. Tough cops. I get some good fella like Rich Goleon to drive that Wint to Manchester and park it in an automatic garage. Then I drive you up in another car.” He crushed out his cigarette. “In the trunk. They’re only using Jiffy Sniffers on the back road. We’ll go right up 495.”
“Pretty dangerous for you,” Richards said.
“Oh, I wasn’t gonna do it free. When Cassie goes, she’s gonna go out wrecked.”
“Praise Gawd,” Ma said.
“Still pretty dangerous for you.”
“Any pig grunts at Bradley, he make ’em shit in their boot an eat it,” Stacey said, wiping his mouth. When he looked at Bradley, his eyes glittered with the flat shine of hero worship.
“You’re dribblin on your shirt, Skinner,” Bradley said. He knuckled Stacey’s head. “You beatin your meat yet, Skinner? Ain’t big enough, are ya?”
“If they catch us, you’ll go in for the long bomb,” Richards said. “Who’s going to take care of the boy?”
“He’ll take care of himself if something happens,” Bradley said. “Himself and Ma here. He’s not hooked on nothin. Are you, Stace?”
Stacey shook his head emphatically.
“An he knows if I find any pricks in his arms I’ll beat his brains out. Ain’t that right, Stacey?”
Stacey nodded.
“Besides, we can use the money. This is a hurtin family. So don’t say no more about it. I guess I know what I’m doin.”
Richards finished his cigarette in silence while Bradley went in to give Cassie some medicine.
…Minus 063 and COUNTING…
When he awoke, it was still dark and the inner tide of his body put the time at about four-thirty. The girl, Cassie, had been screaming, and Bradley got up. The three of them were sleeping in the small, drafty back bedroom, Stacey and Richards on the floor. Ma slept with the girl.
Over the steady wheeze of Stacey’s deep-sleep respiration, Richards heard Bradley come out of the room. There was a clink of a spoon in the sink. The girl’s screams became isolated moans which trailed into silence. Richards could sense Bradley standing