Stephen King - Needful Things

“Casino Nite?”

He nodded.

She put her hands over his. “Poor baby. And it looks like such a sleepy little town from the outside, doesn’t it?”

“Usually it is.”

“Did he go away mad?”

“Oh yeah,” Alan said. “This was my second conversation with the good Reverend about the legality of Casino Nite. I expect to have several more before the Catholics finally do the damned thing and get it over with.”

“He is a self-righteous little prick, isn’t he?” she asked in an even lower voice. Her face was serious, but her eyes were sparkling.

“Yes. Now there’s the buttons. They’re a new wrinkle.”

“Buttons?”

“Slot machines with lines drawn through them instead of smiley faces. Nan’s wearing one. I wonder whose idea that was.”

“Probably Don Hemphill. He’s not only a good Baptist, he’s on the Republican State Committee. Don knows a thing or three about campaigning, but I bet he’s finding out that it’s a lot harder to swing public opinion where religion is involved.” She stroked his hands.

“Take it easy, Alan. Be patient. Wait. That’s most of what life in The Rock is about-taking it easy, being patient, and waiting for the occasional stink to blow over. Yeah?”

He smiled at her, turned his hands over, and grasped hers… but gently. Oh so gently. “Yeah,” he said. “Want some company tonight, pretty lady?”

“Oh, Alan, I don’t know-”

“No slap and tickle,” he assured her.

“I’ll make a fire, we’ll sit in front of it, and you can pull a few more bodies out of the town closet for my amusement.”

Polly smiled wanly. “I I think you’ve gotten a look at all the bodies I know about over the last six or seven months, Alan, including mine own. If you want to further your Castle Rock education, you ought to make friends either with old Lenny Partridge… or with her.” She nodded toward Nan, and then lowered her voice a trifle.

“The difference between Lenny and Nan,” she said, “is that Lenny is content to know things. Nan Roberts likes to use what she knows.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning the lady didn’t pay fair market value for all the property she owns,” Polly said.

Alan looked at her thoughtfully. He had never seen Polly in a mood quite like this one-introspective, talkative, and depressed all at the same time. He wondered for the first time since becoming her friend and then her lover if he was listening to Polly Chalmers… or the drugs.

“I think tonight would be a good night to stay away,” she said with sudden decision. “I’m not good company when I feel like I do now.

I can see that in your face.”

“Polly, that’s not true.”

“I’m going to go home and take a long, hot bath. I’m not going to drink any more coffee. I’m going to unplug the phone, go to bed early, and the chances are that when I wake up tomorrow, I’ll feel like a new woman. Then maybe we can… you know. No slap, a lot of tickle.”

“I worry about you,” he said.

Her hands moved gently, delicately, in his. “I know,” she said.

“It does no good, but I appreciate it, Alan. More than you know.”

Hugh Priest slowed as he passed The Mellow Tiger on his way home from the Castle Rock motor pool… then sped up again.

He drove home, parked his Buick in the driveway, and went inside.

His place had two rooms: the one where he slept and the one where he did everything else. A chipped Formica table, covered with aluminum frozen dinner trays (cigarette butts had been crushed in congealing gravy in most of them) stood in the center of this latter room. He went to the open closet, stood on tiptoe, and felt along the top shelf.

For a moment he thought the fox-tail was gone, that somebody had come in and stolen it, and panic ignited a ball of heat in his belly. Then his hand encountered that silky softness, and he let out his breath in a long sigh.

He had spent most of the day thinking about the fox-tail, thinking about how he was going to tie it to the Buick’s antenna, thinking about how it would look, fluttering cheerfully up there. He had almost tied it on that morning, but it had still been raining then, and he didn’t like the idea of the dampness turning it into a soggy fur rope that just hung there like a carcass. Now he took it back outside, absently kicking an empty juice can out of his way as he went, stroking the rich fur through his fingers. God, it felt good!

He entered the garage (which had been too full of junk to admit his car since 1984 or so) and found a sturdy piece of wire after some hunting about. He had made up his mind: first he would wire the fox-tail to the antenna, then he would have some supper, and afterward he would finally drive over to Greenspark. A.A. met at the American Legion Hall there at seven o’clock. Maybe it was too late to start a new life… but it wasn’t too late to find out for sure, one way or another.

He made a sturdy little slip-loop in the wire and fastened it around the thick end of the brush. He started to wrap the other end of the wire around the antenna, but his fingers, which had moved with rapid surety at first, began to slow down. He felt his confidence slipping away and, filling the hole it left behind, doubt began to seep in.

He saw himself parking in the American Legion parking lot, and that was okay. He saw himself going in to the meeting, and that was okay, too. But then he saw some little kid, like the asshole who had stepped in front of his truck the other day, walking past the Legion Hall while he was inside saying his name was Hugh P. and he was powerless over alcohol. Something catches the kid’s eye a flash of bright orange in the blue-white glare thrown by the arc-sodiums which light the parking lot. The kid approaches his Buick and examines the fox-tail… first touching, then stroking.

He looks around, sees no one, and yanks on the fox-tail, breaking the wire. Hugh saw this kid going down to the local video-game arcade and telling one of his buddies: Hey, look what I hawked out of the Legion parking lot. Not bad, huh?

Hugh felt a frustrated anger creep into his chest, as if this were not simply speculation but something which had already happened.

He stroked the fox-tail, then looked around in the growing gloom of five o’clock, as if he expected to see a crowd of l’ lit-fingered 19

kids gathering already on the far side of Castle Hill Road, just waiting for him to go back inside and stuff a couple of Hungry Man dinners into the oven so they could take his fox-tail.

No. It was better not to go. Kids had no respect these days.

Kids would steal anything, just for the joy of stealing it. Keep it for a day or two, then lose interest and toss it in a ditch or a vacant lot. The picture-and it was a very clear picture, almost a visionof his lovely brush lying abandoned in a trashy gully, growing sodden in the rain, losing its color amid the Big Mac wrappers and discarded beer cans, filled Hugh with a feeling of angry agony.

It would be crazy to take a risk like that.

He untwisted the wire which held the tail to the antenna, took the brush into the house again, and put it back on the high shelf in the closet. This time he closed the closet door, but it wouldn’t latch tightly.

Have to get a lock for that, he thought. Kids’ll break in anyplace.

There’s no respect for authority these days. None at all.

He went to the refrigerator, got a can of beer, looked at it for a moment, then put it back. A beer-even four or five beerswouldn’t do much to put him back on an even keel. Not the way he felt tonight. He opened one of the lower cupboards, pawed past the assortment of rummage-sale pots and pans stacked there, and found the half-full bottle of Black Velvet he kept for emergencies.