Wizard and glass - Stephen King [204]
As if hearing her thought, Musty hissed again. He was wearing a red collar this afternoon—on him it looked baleful rather than jaunty. Beneath it was tucked a white scrap of paper.
“Want me to shoot it?” a voice drawled. “I will if you like. One slug and won’t be nothing left but claws.” It was Jonas, standing just inside the batwings, and although he looked not a whole lot better than she felt, Coral had no doubt he could do it.
“Nay. The old bitch’ll turn us all into locusts, or something like, if ye kill her familiar.”
“What bitch?” Jonas asked, crossing the room.
“Rhea Dubativo. Rhea of the Cöos, she’s called.”
“Ah! Not the bitch but the witch.”
“She’s both.”
Jonas stroked the cat’s back. It allowed itself to be petted, even arching against his hand, but he only gave it the single caress. Its fur had an unpleasant damp feel.
“Would you consider sharing that?” he asked, nodding toward the bottle. “It’s early, but my leg hurts like a devil sick of sin.”
“Your leg, my head, early or late. On the house.”
Jonas raised his white eyebrows.
“Count yer blessings and have at it, cully.”
She reached toward Musty. He hissed again, but allowed her to draw the note out from under his collar. She opened it and read the five words that were printed there:
“Might I see?” Jonas asked. With the first drink down and warming his belly, the world looked better.
“Why not?” She handed him the note. Jonas looked, then handed it back. He had almost forgotten Rhea, and that wouldn’t have done at all. Ah, but it was hard to remember everything, wasn’t it? Just lately Jonas felt less like a hired gun than a cook trying to make all nine courses of a state dinner come out at the same time. Luckily, the old hag had reminded him of her presence herself. Gods bless her thirst. And his own, since it had landed him here at the right time.
“Sheemie!” Coral bawled. She could also feel the whiskey working; she felt almost human again. She even wondered if Eldred Jonas might be interested in a dirty evening with the Mayor’s sister . . . who knew what might speed the hours?
Sheemie came in through the batwings, hands grimy, pink sombrera bouncing on his back at the end of its cuerda. “Aye, Coral Thorin! Here I be!”
She looked past him, calculating the sky. Not tonight, not even for Rhea; she wouldn’t send Sheemie up there after dark, and that was the end of it.
“Nothing,” she said in a voice that was gentler than usual. “Go back to yer flowers, and see that ye cover them well. It bids frosty.”
She turned over Rhea’s note and scrawled a single word on it:
This she folded and handed to Jonas. “Stick it under that stink’s collar for me, will ye? I don’t want to touch him.”
Jonas did as he was asked. The cat favored them with a final wild green look, then leaped from the bar and vanished beneath the batwings.
“Time is short,” Coral said. She hadn’t the slightest idea what she meant, but Jonas nodded in what appeared to be perfect understanding. “Would you care to go upstairs with a closet drunk? I’m not much in the looks department, but I can still spread em all the way to the edge of the bed, and I don’t just lie there.”
He considered, then nodded. His eyes were gleaming. This one was as thin as Cordelia Delgado . . . but what a difference, eh? What a difference! “All right.”
“I’ve been known to say some nasty things—fair warning.”
“Dear lady, I shall be all ears.”
She smiled. Her headache was gone. “Aye. I’ll just bet ye will.”
“Give me a minute. Don’t move a step.” He walked across to where Reynolds sat.
“Drag up a chair, Eldred.”
“I think not. There’s a lady waiting.”
Reynolds’s gaze flicked briefly toward the bar. “You’re joking.”
“I never joke about women, Clay. Now mark me.”
Reynolds sat forward, eyes intent. Jonas was grateful this wasn’t Depape. Roy would do what you asked, and usually well enough, but only after you’d explained it