Wolves of the Calla - Stephen King [277]
“I ate the beef brisket whenever I could get it,” Callahan said, and tried to ignore the shrieking voice of his mother, rising from the cave’s dark belly. When he’d first come in with Roland, his eyes had been drawn to the books Calvin Tower had sent through. So many books! Callahan’s mostly generous heart grew greedy (and a bit smaller) at the sight of them. His interest didn’t last, however—just long enough to pull one at random and see it was The Virginian, by Owen Wister. It was hard to browse when your dead friends and loved ones were shrieking at you and calling you names.
His mother was currently asking him why he had allowed a vampire, a filthy bloodsucker, to break the cross she had given him. “You was always weak in faith,” she said dolorously. “Weak in the faith and strong for the drink. I bet you’d like one right now, wouldn’t you?”
Dear God, would he ever. Whiskey. Ancient Age. Callahan felt sweat break on his forehead. His heart was beating double-time. No, triple-time.
“The brisket,” he muttered. “With some of that brown mustard splashed on top of it.” He could even see the plastic squeeze-bottle the mustard came in, and remember the brand name. Plochman’s.
“What?” Roland asked from behind him.
“I said I’m ready,” Callahan said. “If you’re going to do it, for God’s love do it now.”
Roland cracked open the box. The chimes at once bolted through Callahan’s ears, making him remember the low men in their loud cars. His stomach shriveled inside his belly and outraged tears burst from his eyes.
But the door clicked open, and a wedge of bright sunshine slanted through, dispelling the gloom of the cave’s mouth.
Callahan took a deep breath and thought, Oh Mary, conceived without sin, pray for us who have recourse to Thee. And stepped into the summer of ’77.
Six
It was noon, of course. Lunchtime. And of course he was standing in front of Chew Chew Mama’s. No one seemed to notice his arrival. The chalked specials on the easel just outside the restaurant door read:
HEY YOU, WELCOME TO CHEW-CHEW!
SPECIALS FOR JUNE 24
BEEF STROGANOFF
BEEF BRISKET (W/CABBAGE)
RANCHO GRANDE TACOS
CHICKEN SOUP
TRY OUR DUTCH APPLE PIE!
All right, one question was answered. It was the day after Eddie had come here. As for the next one…
Callahan put Forty-sixth Street at his back for the time being, and walked up Second Avenue. Once he looked behind him and saw the doorway to the cave following him as faithfully as the billy-bumbler followed the boy. He could see Roland sitting there, putting something in his ears to block the maddening tinkle of the chimes.
He got exactly two blocks before stopping, his eyes growing wide with shock, his mouth dropping open. They had said to expect this, both Roland and Eddie, but in his heart Callahan hadn’t believed it. He’d thought he would find The Manhattan Restaurant of the Mind perfectly intact on this perfect summer’s day, which was so different from the overcast Calla autumn he’d left. Oh, there might be a sign in the window reading GONE ON VACATION, CLOSED UNTIL AUGUST—something like that—but it would be there. Oh yes.
It wasn’t, though. At least not much of it. The storefront was a burnt-out husk surrounded by yellow tape reading POLICE INVESTIGATION. When he stepped a little closer, he could smell charred lumber, burnt paper, and…very faint…the odor of gasoline.
An elderly shoeshine-boy had set up shop in front of Station Shoes & Boots, nearby. Now he said to Callahan, “Shame, ain’t it? Thank God the place was empty.”
“Aye, say thankya. When did it happen?”
“Middle of the night, when else? You think them goombars is gonna come t’row their Molly Coh’tails in broad daylight? They ain’t geniuses, but they’re smarter than that.”
“Couldn’t it have been faulty wiring? Or maybe spontaneous combustion?”
The elderly shine-boy gave Callahan a cynical look. Oh, please, it said. He cocked a polish-smeared thumb at the smoldering ruin. “You