Stephen King: Dreamcatcher

The door opens and a good-looking brunette comes in. About five-ten (and Pete likes them tall), maybe thirty. She glances around at the showroom models (the new Thunderbird, in dark burgundy, is the pick of the litter, although the Explorer isn’t bad), but not as if she has any interest in buying. Then she spots Pete and walks toward him.

Pete gets up, dropping his NASA keychain on his desk-blotter, and meets her at the door of his office. He’s wearing his best professional smile by now-two hundred watts, baby, you better believe it-and has his hand outstretched. Her grip is cool and firm, but she’s distracted, upset.

“This probably isn’t going to work,” she says. “Now, you never want to start that way with a car salesman,” Pete says. “We love a challenge. I’m Pete Moore.”

“Hello,” she says, but doesn’t give her name, which is Trish. “I have an appointment in Fryeburg in Just-” She glances at the clock which Pete watches so closely during the slow afternoon hours. “-in just forty-five minutes. It’s with a client who wants to buy a house, and I think I have the right one, there’s a sizeable commission involved, and…” Her eyes are now brimming with tears and she has to swallow to get rid of the thickness creeping into her voice. “… and I’ve lost my goddam keys ! My goddam car keys!” She opens her purse and rummages in it.

“But I have my registration… plus some other papers… there are all sorts of numbers, and I thought maybe, just maybe you could make me a new set and I could be on my way. This sale could make my year, Mr…” She has forgotten. He isn’t offended. Moore is almost as common as Smith or Jones. Besides, she’s upset. Losing your keys will do that. He’s seen it a hundred times.

“Moore. But I answer just as well to Pete.”

“Can you help me, Mr Moore? Or is there someone in the service department who can?”

Old Johnny Damon’s back there and he’d be happy to help her, but she wouldn’t make her appointment in Fryeburg, that’s for sure.

“We can get you new car keys, but it’s liable to take at least twenty-four hours and maybe more like forty-eight,” he says.

She looks at him from her brimming eyes, which are a velvety brown, and lets out a dismayed cry. “Damn it! Damn it!”

An odd thought comes to Pete then: she looks like a girl he knew a long time ago. Not well, they hadn’t known her well, but well enough to save her life. Josie Rinkenhauer, her name had been.

“I knew it!” Trish says, no longer trying to keep that husky thickness out of her voice. “Oh boy, I just knew it!” She turns away from him, now beginning to cry in earnest.

Pete walks after her and takes her gently by the shoulder. “Wait, Trish. Wait just a minute.”

That’s a slip, saying her name when she hasn’t given it to him, but she’s too upset to realize they haven’t been properly introduced, so it’s okay.

“Where did you come from?” he asks. “I mean, you’re not from Bridgton, are you?”

“No,” she says. “Our office is in Westbrook. Dennison Real Estate. We’re the ones with the lighthouse?”

Pete nods as if this means something to him.

“I came from there. Only I stopped at the Bridgton Pharmacy for some aspirin because I always get a headache before a big presentation… it’s the stress, and oh boy, it’s pounding like a hammer now…” Pete nods sympathetically. He knows about headaches. Of course most of his are caused by beer rather than stress, but he knows about them, all right. “I had some time to kill, so I also went into the little store next to the pharmacy for a coffee… the caffeine, you know, when you have a headache the caffeine can help…”

Pete nods again. Henry’s the head shrinker, but as Pete has told him more than once, you have to know a fair amount about how the human mind works in order to succeed at selling. Now he’s pleased to see that his new friend is calming down a little. That’s good. He has an idea he can help her, if she’ll let him. He can feel that little click wanting to happen. He likes that little click. It’s no big deal, it’ll never make his fortune, but he likes it.

“And I also went across the street to Penny’s. I bought a scarf… because of the rain, you know… “She touches her hair. “Then I went back to my car… and my son-of-a-damn-bitch keys were gone! I retraced my steps… went backward from Renny’s to the store to the pharmacy, and they’re not anywhere! And now I’m going to miss my appointment!”

Distress is creeping back into her voice. Her eyes go to the clock again. Creeping for him; racing for her. That’s the difference between people, Pete reflects. One of them, anyway. “Calm down,” he says. “Calm down just a few seconds and listen to me. We’re going to walk back to the drugstore, you and I, and look for your car-keys.” “They’re not there! I checked all the aisles, I looked on the shelf where I got the aspirin, I asked the girl at the counter-”

“It won’t hurt to check again,” he says. He’s walking her toward the door now, his hand pressed lightly against the small of her back, getting her to walk with him. He likes the smell of her perfume and he likes her hair even more, yes he does. And if it looks this pretty on a rainy day, how might it look when the sun is out?

“My appointment-”

“You’ve still got forty minutes,” he says. “With the summer tourists gone, it only takes twenty to drive up to Fryeburg. We’ll take ten minutes to try and find your keys, and if we can’t, I’ll drive you myself.”

She peers at him doubtfully.

He looks past her, into one of the other offices. “Dick!” he calls.

“Hey, Dickie M.!”

Dick Macdonald looks up from a clutter of invoices.

“Tell this lady I’m safe to drive her up to Fryeburg, should it come to that.”

“Oh, he’s safe enough, ma’am,” Dick says. “Not a sex maniac or a fast driver. He’ll just try to sell you a new car.”

“I’m a tough sell, she says, smiling a little, “but I guess you’re on.

“Cover my phone, would you, Dick?” Pete asks.

“Oh yeah, that’ll be a hardship. Weather like this, I’ll be beatin the customers off with a stick.”

Pete and the brunette-Trish-go out, cross the alley, and walk the forty or so feet back to Main Street. The Bridgton Pharmacy is the second building on their left. The drizzle has thickened; now it’s almost rain. The woman puts her new scarf up over her hair and glances at Pete, who’s bare-headed. “You’re getting all wet,” she says.

“I’m from upstate,” he says. “We grow em tough up there.”

“You think you can find them, don’t you?” she asks.

Pete shrugs. “Maybe. I’m good at finding things. Always have been.”

“Do you know something 1 don’t?” she asks.

No bounce, no play , he thinks. I know that much, ma’am .

“Nope,” he says. “Not yet.”

They walk into the pharmacy, and the bell over the door jingles. The girl behind the counter looks up from her magazine. At three-twenty on a rainy late September afternoon, the pharmacy is deserted except for the three of them down here and Mr Diller up behind the prescription counter.

“Hi, Pete,” the counter-girl says.

“Yo, Cathy, how’s it going?”

“Oh, you know-slow.” She looks at the brunette. “I’m sorry, ma’am, I checked around again, but I didn’t find them. “'That’s all right,” Trish says with a wan smile. “This gentleman has agreed to give me a ride to my appointment.” “Well,” Cathy says, “Pete’s okay, but I don’t think I’d go so far as to call him a gentleman .”

“You want to watch what you say, darlin,” Pete tells her with a grin. “There’s a Rexall just down 302 in Naples.” Then he glances up at the clock. Time has sped up for him, too. That’s okay, that makes a nice change.