Wolves of the Calla - Stephen King [243]
Eddie nodded. “Thankee-sai.”
“Thankee-what?”
“Nothing,” Eddie said, and hurried on.
Only three weeks to July fifteenth, give or take, he thought. That’s cutting it too goddam close for comfort.
Yes, but if he could persuade Calvin Tower to sell him the lot today, the whole question of time would be moot. Once, a long time ago, Eddie’s brother had boasted to some of his friends that his little bro could talk the devil into setting himself on fire, if he really set his mind to it. Eddie hoped he still had some of that persuasiveness. Do a little deal with Calvin Tower, invest in some real estate, then maybe take a half-hour time-out and actually enjoy that New York groove a little bit. Celebrate. Maybe get a chocolate egg-cream, or—
The run of his thoughts broke off and he stopped so suddenly that someone bumped into him and then swore. Eddie barely felt the bump or heard the curse. The dark-gray Lincoln Town Car was parked up there again—not in front of the fire hydrant this time, but a couple of doors down.
Balazar’s Town Car.
Eddie started walking again. He was suddenly glad Roland had talked him into taking one of his revolvers. And that the gun was fully loaded.
Six
The chalkboard was back in the window (today’s special was a New England Boiled Dinner consisting of Nathaniel Hawthorne, Henry David Thoreau, and Robert Frost—for dessert, your choice of Mary McCarthy or Grace Metalious), but the sign hanging in the door read SORRY WE’RE CLOSED. According to the digital bank-clock up the street from Tower of Power Records, it was 3:14 P.M. Who shut up shop at quarter past three on a weekday afternoon?
Someone with a special customer, Eddie reckoned. That was who.
He cupped his hands to the sides of his face and looked into The Manhattan Restaurant of the Mind. He saw the small round display table with the children’s books on it. To the right was the counter that looked as if it might have been filched from a turn-of-the-century soda fountain, only today no one was sitting there, not even Aaron Deepneau. The cash register was likewise unattended, although Eddie could read the words on the orange tab sticking up in its window: NO SALE.
Place was empty. Calvin Tower had been called away, maybe there’d been a family emergency—
He’s got an emergency, all right, the gunslinger’s cold voice spoke up in Eddie’s head. It came in that gray auto-carriage. And look again at the counter, Eddie. Only this time why don’t you actually use your eyes instead of just letting the light pour through them?
Sometimes he thought in the voices of other people. He guessed lots of people did that—it was a way of changing perspective a little, seeing stuff from another angle. But this didn’t feel like that kind of pretending. This felt like old long, tall, and ugly actually talking to him inside his head.
Eddie looked at the counter again. This time he saw the strew of plastic chessmen on the marble, and the overturned coffee cup. This time he saw the spectacles lying on the floor between two of the stools, one of the lenses cracked.
He felt the first pulse of anger deep in the middle of his head. It was dull, but if past experience was any indicator, the pulses were apt to come faster and harder, growing sharper as they did. Eventually they would blot out conscious thought, and God help anyone who wandered within range of Roland’s gun when that happened. He had once asked Roland if this happened to him, and Roland had replied, It happens to all of us. When Eddie had shaken his head and responded that he wasn’t like Roland—not him, not Suze, not Jake—the gunslinger had said nothing.
Tower and his special customers were out back, he thought, in that combination storeroom and office. And this time talking probably wasn’t what they had in mind. Eddie had an idea this was a little refresher course, Balazar’s gentlemen reminding Mr. Tower that the fifteenth of July was coming, reminding Mr. Tower of what