Wolves of the Calla - Stephen King [30]
“It’s Balazar,” Eddie said.
“What?”
Eddie was pointing at the dumpy guy, who had paused to adjust his Sulka tie. The other two now stood flanking him. They looked simultaneously relaxed and watchful.
“Enrico Balazar. And looking much younger. God, he’s almost middle-aged!”
“It’s 1977,” Jake reminded him. Then, as the penny dropped: “That’s the guy you and Roland killed?” Eddie had told Jake the story of the shoot-out at Balazar’s club in 1987, leaving out the gorier parts. The part, for instance, where Kevin Blake had lobbed the head of Eddie’s brother into Balazar’s office in an effort to flush Eddie and Roland into the open. Henry Dean, the great sage and eminent junkie.
“Yeah,” Eddie said. “The guy Roland and I killed. And the one who was driving, that’s Jack Andolini. Old Double-Ugly, people used to call him, although never to his face. He went through one of those doors with me just before the shooting started.”
“Roland killed him, too. Didn’t he?”
Eddie nodded. It was simpler than trying to explain how Jack Andolini had happened to die blind and faceless beneath the tearing claws and ripping jaws of the lobstrosities on the beach.
“The other bodyguard’s George Biondi. Big Nose. I killed him myself. Will kill him. Ten years from now.” Eddie looked as if he might faint at any second.
“Eddie, are you okay?”
“I guess so. I guess I have to be.” They had drawn away from the bookshop’s doorway. Oy was still crouched at Jake’s ankle. Down Second Avenue, Jake’s other, earlier self had disappeared. I’m running by now, Jake thought. Maybe jumping over the UPS guy’s dolly. Sprinting all-out for the delicatessen, because I’m sure that’s the way back to Mid-World. The way back to him.
Balazar peered at his reflection in the window beside the TODAY’S SPECIALS display-board, gave the wings of hair above his ears one last little fluff with the tips of his fingers, then stepped through the open door. Andolini and Biondi followed.
“Hard guys,” Jake said.
“The hardest,” Eddie agreed.
“From Brooklyn.”
“Well, yeah.”
“Why are hard guys from Brooklyn visiting a used-book store in Manhattan?”
“I think that’s what we’re here to find out. Jake, did I hurt your shoulder?”
“I’m okay. But I don’t really want to go back in there.”
“Neither do I. So let’s go.”
They went back into The Manhattan Restaurant of the Mind.
Nine
Oy was still at Jake’s heel and still whining. Jake wasn’t crazy about the sound, but he understood it. The smell of fear in the bookstore was palpable. Deepneau sat beside the chessboard, gazing unhappily at Calvin Tower and the newcomers, who didn’t look much like bibliophiles in search of the elusive signed first edition. The other two old guys at the counter were drinking the last of their coffee in big gulps, with the air of fellows who have just remembered important appointments elsewhere.
Cowards, Jake thought with a contempt he didn’t recognize as a relatively new thing in his life. Lowbellies. Being old forgives some of it, but not all of it.
“We just have a couple of things to discuss, Mr. Toren,” Balazar was saying. He spoke in a low, calm, reasonable voice, without even a trace of accent. “Please, if we could step back into your office—”
“We don’t have business,” Tower said. His eyes kept drifting to Andolini. Jake supposed he knew why. Jack Andolini looked the ax-wielding psycho in a horror movie. “Come July fifteenth, we might have business. Might. So we could talk after the Fourth. I guess. If you wanted to.” He smiled to show he was being reasonable. “But now? Gee, I just don’t see the point. It’s not even June yet. And for your information my name’s not—”
“He doesn’t see the point,” Balazar said. He looked at Andolini; looked at the one with the big nose; raised his hands to his shoulders, then dropped them. What’s wrong with this world of ours? the gesture said. “Jack? George? This