Wolves of the Calla - Stephen King [206]
“No,” he said. “I don’t think so.”
“You didn’t see them, did you?” Roland asked. “You never actually saw the people who rescued you.”
“I told you the Hitler Brothers had a flashlight,” Callahan said. “Say true. But these other guys, the cavalry…”
Ten
Whoever they are, they have a searchlight. It fills the abandoned Washateria with a glare brighter than the flash of the cheapie Polaroid, and unlike the Polaroid, it’s constant. George/Nort and Lennie/Bill cover their eyes. Callahan would cover his, if his arms weren’t duct-taped behind him.
“Nort, drop the gun! Bill, drop the scalpel!” The voice coming from the huge light is scary because it’s scared. It’s the voice of someone who might do damn near anything. “I’m gonna count to five and then I’m gonna shoot the both of yez, which is what’chez deserve.” And then the voice behind the light begins to count not slowly and portentously but with alarming speed. “Onetwothreefour—” It’s as if the owner of the voice wants to shoot, wants to hurry up and get the bullshit formality over with. George/Nort and Lennie/Bill have no time to consider their options. They throw down the pistol and the scalpel and the pistol goes off when it hits the dusty lino, a loud BANG like a kid’s toy pistol that’s been loaded with double caps. Callahan has no idea where the bullet goes. Maybe even into him. Would he even feel it if it did? Doubtful.
“Don’t shoot, don’t shoot!” Lennie/Bill shrieks. “We ain’t, we ain’t, we ain’t—” Ain’t what? Lennie/Bill doesn’t seem to know.
“Hands up!” It’s a different voice, but also coming from behind the sun-gun dazzle of the light. “Reach for the sky! Right now, you momzers !”
Their hands shoot up.
“Nah, belay that,” says the first one. They may be great guys, Callahan’s certainly willing to put them on his Christmas card list, but it’s clear they’ve never done anything like this before. “Shoes off! Pants off! Now! Right now!”
“What the fuck—” George/Nort begins. “Are you guys the cops? If you’re the cops, you gotta give us our rights, our fuckin Miranda—”
From behind the glaring light, a gun goes off. Callahan sees an orange flash of fire. It’s probably a pistol, but it is to the Hitler Brothers’ modest barroom .32 as a hawk is to a hummingbird. The crash is gigantic, immediately followed by a crunch of plaster and a puff of stale dust. George/Nort and Lennie/Bill both scream. Callahan thinks one of his rescuers—probably the one who didn’t shoot—also screams.
“Shoes off and pants off! Now! Now! You better have em off before I get to thirty, or you’re dead. Onetwothreefourfi—”
Again, the speed of the count leaves no time for consideration, let alone remonstrance. George/Nort starts to sit down and Voice Number Two says: “Sit down and we’ll kill you.”
And so the Hitler Brothers stagger around the knapsack, the Polaroid, the gun, and the flashlight like spastic cranes, pulling off their footgear while Voice Number One runs his suicidally rapid count. The shoes come off and the pants go down. George is a boxers guy while Lennie favors briefs of the pee-stained variety. There is no sign of Lennie’s hardon; Lennie’s hardon has decided to take the rest of the night off.
“Now get out,” Voice Number One says.
George faces into the light. His Yankees sweatshirt hangs down over his underwear shorts, which billow almost to his knees. He’s still wearing his fanny-pack. His calves are heavily muscled, but they are trembling. And George’s face is long with sudden dismayed realization.
“Listen, you guys,” he says, “if we go out of here without finishing this guy, they’ll kill us. These are very bad—”
“If you schmucks aren’t out of here by the time I get to ten,” says Voice Number One, “I’ll kill you myself.” To which Voice Number Two adds, with a kind of hysterical contempt “ Gai cocknif en yom, you cowardly motherfuckers! Stay, get shot, who cares?”
Later, after repeating this phrase to a dozen Jews who only shake their heads in bewilderment, Callahan will happen on an elderly fellow in Topeka who translates gai cocknif en yom for him. It