Wolves of the Calla - Stephen King [203]
“He just had a little too much to drink,” George says, smiling sympathetically, “and then whoopsy-daisy. Happens to the best of us from time to time.”
They’re the Hitler Brothers! Callahan tries to scream. These guys are the Hitler Brothers! They killed my friend and now they’re going to kill me! Get the police! But of course nothing comes out, in nightmares like this it never does, and soon the couples are headed the other way. George and Lennie continue to move Callahan briskly along the block of Second Avenue between Forty-sixth and Forty-seventh. His feet are barely touching the concrete. His Chew Chew Mama Swissburger is now steaming on his shirt. Oh boy, he can even smell the mustard he put on it.
“Lemme see his hand,” George says as they near the next intersection, and when Lennie grabs Callahan’s left hand, George says, “No, dipstick, the other one.”
Lennie holds out Callahan’s right hand. Callahan couldn’t stop him if he tried. His lower belly has been filled with hot, wet cement. His stomach, meanwhile, seems to be quivering at the back of his throat like a small, frightened animal.
George looks at the scar on Callahan’s right hand and nods. “Yuh, it’s him, all right. Never hurts to be sure. Come on, let’s go, Faddah. Double-time, hup-hup!”
When they get to Forty-seventh, Callahan is swept off the main thoroughfare. Down the hill on the left is a pool of bright white light: Home. He can even see a few slope-shouldered silhouettes, men standing on the corner, talking Program and smoking. I might even know some of them, he thinks confusedly. Hell, probably do.
But they don’t go that far. Less than a quarter of the way down the block between Second Avenue and First, George drags Callahan into the doorway of a deserted storefront with a FOR SALE OR LEASE sign in both of its soaped-over windows. Lennie just kind of circles them, like a yapping terrier around a couple of slow-moving cows.
“Gonna fuck you up, niggah-lovvah!” he’s chanting. “We done a thousand just like you, gonna do a million before we’re through, we can cut down any niggah, even when the niggah’s biggah, that’s from a song I’m writin, it’s a song called ‘Kill All Niggah-Lovin Fags,’ I’m gonna send it to Merle Haggard when I’m done, he’s the best, he’s the one told all those hippies to squat n shit in their hats, fuckin Merle’s for America, I got a Mustang 380 and I got Hermann Goering’s Luger, you know that, niggah-lovvah?”
“Shut up, ya little punkass,” George says, but he speaks with fond absentmindedness, reserving his real attention for finding the key he wants on a fat ring of them and then opening the door of the empty storefront. Callahan thinks, To him Lennie’s like the radio that’s always playing in an auto repair shop or the kitchen of a fast-food restaurant, he doesn’t even hear him anymore, he’s just part of the background noise.
“Yeah, Nort,” Lennie says, and then goes right on. “Fuckin Goering’s fuckin Luger, that’s right, and I might blow your fuckin balls off with it, because we know the truth about what niggah-lovvahs like you are doin to this country, right, Nort?”
“Told you, no names,” George/Nort says, but he speaks indulgently and Callahan knows why: he’ll never be able to give any names to the police, not if things go the way these douchebags plan.
“Sorry Nort but you niggah-lovvahs you fuckin Jewboy intellectuals are the ones fuckin this country up, so I want you to think about that when I pull your fuckin balls right off your fuckin scrote—”
“The balls are the scrote, numbwit,” George/Nort says in a weirdly scholarly voice, and then: “Bingo!”
The door opens. George/Nort shoves Callahan through it. The storefront is nothing but a dusty shadowbox smelling of bleach, soap, and starch. Thick wires and pipes stick out of two walls. He can see cleaner squares on the walls where coin-op washing machines and dryers once stood. On the floor is a sign he can just barely read in the