by Stephen King
Thanks to the mirror, which had obviously been placed where it was to detect thieves, Roland was quicker dealing with the other one.
He had seen the alchemist’s eyes flick up and over his shoulder for a moment, and the gunslinger’s own eyes had immediately gone to the mirror. In it he saw a man in a leather jacket moving up the center aisle behind him. There was a long knife in his hand and, no doubt, visions of glory in his head.
The gunslinger turned and fired a single shot, dropping the gun to his hip, aware that he might miss with the first shot because of his unfamiliarity with this weapon, but unwilling to injure any of the customers standing frozen behind the would-be hero. Better to have to shoot twice from the hip, firing slugs that would do the job while travelling on an upward angle that would protect the bystanders than to perhaps kill some lady whose only crime had been picking the wrong day to shop for perfume.
The gun had been well cared for. Its aim was true. Remembering the podgy, underexercised looks of the gunslingers he had taken these weapons from, it seemed that they cared better for the weapons they wore than for the weapons they were. It seemed a strange way to behave, but of course this was a strange world and Roland could not judge; had no time to judge, come to that.
The shot was a good one, chopping through the man’s knife at the base of the blade, leaving him holding nothing but the hilt.
Roland stared evenly at the man in the leather coat, and something in his gaze must have made the would-be hero remember a pressing appointment elsewhere, for he whirled, dropped the remains of the knife, and joined the general exodus.
Roland turned back and gave the alchemist his orders. Any more fucking around and blood would flow. When the alchemist turned away, Roland tapped his bony shoulderblade with the barrel of the pistol. The man made a strangled “Yeeek!” sound and turned back at once.
“Not you. You stay here. Let your ’prentice do it.”
“W-Who?”
“Him.” The gunslinger gestured impatiently at the aide.
“What should I do, Mr. Katz?” The remains of the aide’s teenage acne stood out brilliantly on his white face.
“Do what he says, you putz! Fill the order! Keflex!”
The aide went to one of the shelves behind the counter and picked up a bottle. “Turn it so I may see the words writ upon it,” the gunslinger said.
The aide did. Roland couldn’t read it; too many letters were not of his alphabet. He consulted the Mortcypedia. Keflex, it confirmed, and Roland realized even checking had been a stupid waste of time. He knew he couldn’t read everything in this world, but these men didn’t.
“How many pills in that bottle?”
“Well, they’re capsules, actually,” the aide said nervously. “If it’s a cillin drug in pill form you’re interested in—”
“Never mind all that. How many doses?”
“Oh. Uh—” The flustered aide looked at the bottle and almost dropped it. “Two hundred.”
Roland felt much as he had when he discovered how much ammunition could be purchased in this world for a trivial sum. There had been nine sample bottles of Keflex in the secret compartment of Enrico Balazar’s medicine cabinet, thirty-six doses in all, and he had felt well again. If he couldn’t kill the infection with two hundred doses, it couldn’t be killed.
“Give it to me,” the man in the blue suit said.
The aide handed it over.
The gunslinger pushed back the sleeve of his jacket, revealing Jack Mort’s Rolex. “I have no money, but this may serve as adequate compensation. I hope so, anyway.”
He turned, nodded toward the guard, who was still sitting on the floor by his overturned stool and staring at the gunslinger with wide eyes, and then walked out.
Simple as that.
For five seconds there was no sound in the drugstore but the bray of the alarm, which was loud enough to blank out even the babble of the people on the street.
“God in heaven, Mr. Katz, what do we do now?” the aide whispered.
Katz picked up the watch and hefted it.
Gold. Solid gold.
He couldn’t believe it.
He had to believe it.
Some madman walked in off the street, shot a gun out of his guard’s hand and a knife out of another’s, all in order to obtain the most unlikely drug he could think of.
Keflex.
Maybe sixty dollars’ worth of Keflex.
For which he had paid with a $6500 Rolex watch.
“Do?” Katz asked. “Do? The first thing you do is put that wristwatch under the counter. You never saw it.” He looked at Ralph. “Neither did you.”
“No sir,” Ralph agreed immediately. “As long as I get my share when you sell it, I never saw that watch at all.”
“They’ll shoot him like a dog in the street,” Katz said with unmistakable satisfaction.
“Keflex! And the guy didn’t even seem to have the sniffles,” the aide said wonderingly.
CHAPTER 4
The Drawing
1
As the sun’s bottom arc first touched the Western Sea in Roland’s world, striking bright golden fire across the water to where Eddie lay trussed like a turkey, Officers O’Mearah and Delevan were coming groggily back to consciousness in the world from which Eddie had been taken.
“Let me out of these cuffs, would ya?” Fat Johnny asked in a humble voice.
“Where is he?” O’Mearah asked thickly, and groped for his holster. Gone. Holster, belt, bullets, gun. Gun.
Oh, shit.
He began thinking of the questions that might be asked by the shits in the Department of Internal Affairs, guys who had learned all they knew about the streets from Jack Webb on Dragnet, and the monetary value of his lost gun suddenly became about as important to him as the population of Ireland or the principal mineral deposits of Peru. He looked at Carl and saw Carl had also been stripped of his weapon.
Oh dear Jesus, bring on the clowns, O’Mearah thought miserably, and when Fat Johnny asked again if O’Mearah would use the key on the counter to unlock the handcuffs, O’Mearah said, “I ought to . . .” He paused, because he’d been about to say I ought to shoot you in the guts instead, but he couldn’t very well shoot Fat Johnny, could he? The guns here were chained down, and the geek in the gold-rimmed glasses, the geek who had seemed so much like a solid citizen, had taken his and Carl’s as easily as O’Mearah himself might take a popgun from a kid.
Instead of finishing, he got the key and unlocked the cuffs. He spotted the .357 Magnum which Roland had kicked into the corner and picked it up. It wouldn’t fit in his holster, so he stuffed it in his belt.
“Hey, that’s mine!” Fat Johnny bleated.
“Yeah? You want it back?” O’Mearah had to speak slowly. His head really ached. At that moment all he wanted to do was find Mr. Gold-Rimmed Specs and nail him to a handy wall. With dull nails. “I hear they like fat guys like you up in Attica, Johnny. They got a saying: ‘The bigger the cushion, the better the pushin.’ You sure you want it back?”
Fat Johnny turned away without a word, but not before O’Mearah had seen the tears welling in his eyes and the wet patch on his pants. He felt no pity.
“Where is he?” Carl Delevan asked in a furry, buzzing voice.
“He left,” Fat Johnny said dully. “That’s all I know. He left. I thought he was gonna kill me.”
Delevan was getting slowly to his feet. He felt tacky wetness on the side of his face and looked at his fingers. Blood. Fuck. He groped for his gun and kept groping, groping and hoping, long after his fingers had assured him his gun and holster were gone. O’Mearah merely had a headache; Delevan felt as if someone had used the inside of his head as a nuclear weapons testing site.
“Guy took my gun,” he said to O’Mearah. His voice was so slurry the words were almost impossible to make out.
“Join the club.”
“He still here?” Delevan took a step toward O’Mearah, tilted to the left as if he were on the
deck of a ship in a heavy sea, and then managed to right himself.
“No.”
“How long?” Delevan looked at Fat Johnny, who didn’t answer, perhaps because Fat Johnny, whose back was turned, thought Delevan was still talking to his partner. Delevan, not a man noted for even temper and restrained behavior under the best of circumstances, roared at the man, even though it made his head feel like it was going to crack into a thousand pieces: “I asked you a question, you fat shit! How long has that motherfucker been gone?”
“Five minutes, maybe,” Fat Johnny said dully. “Took his shells and your guns.” He paused. “Paid for the shells. I couldn’t believe it.”
Five minutes, Delevan thought. The guy had come in a cab. Sitting in their cruiser and drinking coffee, they had seen him get out of it. It was getting close to rush-hour. Cabs were hard to get at this time of day. Maybe—
“Come on,” he said to George O’Mearah. “We still got a chance to collar him. We’ll want a gun from this slut here—”
O’Mearah displayed the Magnum. At first Delevan saw two of them, then the image slowly came together.
“Good.” Delevan was coming around, not all at once but getting there, like a prize-fighter who has taken a damned hard one on the chin. “You keep it. I’ll use the shotgun under the dash.” He started for the door, and this time he did more than reel; he staggered and had to claw the wall to keep his feet.
“You gonna be all right?” O’Mearah asked.
“If we catch him,” Delevan said.
They left. Fat Johnny was not as glad about their departure as he had been about that of the spook in the blue suit, but almost. Almost.
2
Delevan and O’Mearah didn’t even have to discuss which direction the perp might have taken when he left the gunshop. All they had to do was listen to the radio dispatcher.
“Code 19,” she said over and over again. Robbery in progress, shots fired. “Code 19, Code 19. Location is 395 West 49th, Katz’s Drugs, perpetrator tall, sandy-haired, blue suit—”
Shots fired, Delevan thought, his head aching worse than ever. I wonder if they were fired with George’s gun or mine? Or both? If that shitbag killed someone, we’re fucked. Unless we get him.
“Blast off,” he said curtly to O’Mearah, who didn’t need to be told twice. He understood the situation as well as Delevan did. He flipped on the lights and the siren and screamed out into traffic. It was knotting up already, rush-hour starting, and so O’Mearah ran the cruiser with two wheels in the gutter and two on the sidewalk, scattering pedestrians like quail. He clipped the rear fender of a produce truck sliding onto Forty-Ninth. Ahead he could see twinkling glass on the sidewalk. They could both hear the strident bray of the alarm. Pedestrians were sheltering in doorways and behind piles of garbage, but residents of the overhead apartments were staring out eagerly, as if this was a particularly good TV show, or a movie you didn’t have to pay to see.
The block was devoid of automobile traffic; cabs and commuters alike had scatted.
“I just hope he’s still there,” Delevan said, and used a key to unlock the short steel bars across the stock and barrel of the pump shotgun under the dashboard. He pulled it out of its clips. “I just hope that rotten-crotch son of a bitch is still there.”
What neither understood was that, when you were dealing with the gunslinger, it was usually better to leave bad enough alone.
3
When Roland stepped out of Katz’s Drugs, the big bottle of Keflex had joined the cartons of ammo in Jack Mort’s coat pockets. He had Carl Delevan’s service .38 in his right hand. It felt so damned good to hold a gun in a whole right hand.
He heard the siren and saw the car roaring down the street. Them, he thought. He began to raise the gun and then remembered: they were gunslingers. Gunslingers doing their duty. He turned and went back into the alchemist’s shop.
“Hold it, motherfucker!” Delevan screamed. Roland’s eyes flew to the convex mirror in time to see one of the gunslingers—the one whose ear had bled—leaning out of the window with a scatter-rifle. As his partner pulled their carriage to a screaming halt that made its rubber wheels smoke on the pavement he jacked a shell into its chamber.
Roland hit the floor.
4
Katz didn’t need any mirror to see what was about to happen. First the crazy man, now the crazy cops. Oy vay.
“Drop!” he screamed to his assistant and to Ralph, the security guard, and then fell to his knees behind the counter without waiting to see if they were doing the same or not.
Then, a split-second before Delevan triggered the shotgun, his assistant dropped on top of him like an eager tackle sacking the quarterback in a football game, driving Katz’s head against the floor and breaking his jaw in two places.
Through the sudden pain which went roaring through his head, he heard the shotgun’s blast, heard the remaining glass in the windows shatter—along with bottles of aftershave, cologne, perfume, mouthwash, cough syrup, God knew what else. A thousand conflicting smells rose, creating one hell-stench, and before he passed out, Katz again called upon God to rot his father for chaining this curse of a drug store to his ankle in the first place.
5
Roland saw bottles and boxes fly back in a hurricane of shot. A glass case containing time-pieces disintegrated. Most of the watches inside also disintegrated. The pieces flew backwards in a sparkling cloud.
They can’t know if there are still innocent people in here or not, he thought. They can’t know and yet they used a scatter-rifle just the same!
It was unforgivable. He felt anger and suppressed it. They were gunslingers. Better to believe their brains had been addled by the head-knocking they’d taken than to believe they’d done such a thing knowingly, without a care for whom they might hurt or kill.
They would expect him to either run or shoot.
Instead, he crept forward, keeping low. He lacerated both hands and knees on shards of broken glass. The pain brought Jack Mort back to consciousness. He was glad Mort was back. He would need him. As for Mort’s hands and knees, he didn’t care. He could stand the pain easily, and the wounds were being inflicted on the body of a monster who deserved no better.
He reached the area just under what remained of the plate-glass window. He was to the right of the door. He crouched there, body coiled. He holstered the gun which had been in his right hand.
He would not need it.
6
“What are you doing, Carl?” O’Mearah screamed. In his head he suddenly saw a Daily News headline: COP KILLS 4 IN WEST SIDE DRUG STORE SNAFU.
Delevan ignored him and pumped a fresh shell into the shotgun. “Let’s go get this shit.”
7
It happened exactly as the gunslinger had hoped it would.
Furious at being effortlessly fooled and disarmed by a man who probably looked to them no more dangerous than any of the other lambs on the streets of this seemingly endless city, still groggy from the head-knocking, they rushed in with the idiot who had fired the scatter-rifle in the lead. They ran slightly bent-over, like soldiers charging an enemy position, but that was the only concession they made to the idea that their adversary might still be inside. In their minds, he was already out the back and fleeing down an alley.
So they came crunching over the sidewalk glass, and when the gunslinger with the scatter-rifle pulled open the glassless door and charged in, the gunslinger rose, his hands laced together in a single fist, and brought it down on the nape of Officer Carl Delevan’s neck.
While testifying before the investigating committee, Delevan would claim he remembered nothing at all after kneeling down in Clements’ and seeing the perp’s wallet under the counter. The committee members thought such amnesia was, under the circumstances, pretty damned convenient, and Delevan was lucky to get off with a sixty-day suspension without pay. Roland, however, would have believed, and, under different circumstances (if the fool hadn’t discharged a scatter-rifle into a
store which might have been full of innocent people, for instance), even sympathized. When you got your skull busted twice in half an hour, a few scrambled brains were to be expected.
As Delevan went down, suddenly as boneless as a sack of oats, Roland took the scatter-rifle from his relaxing hands.
“Hold it!” O’Mearah screamed, his voice a mixture of anger and dismay. He was starting to raise Fat Johnny’s Magnum, but it was as Roland had suspected: the gunslingers of this world were pitifully slow. He could have shot O’Mearah three times, but there was no need. He simply swung the scatter-gun in a strong, climbing arc. There was a flat smack as the stock connected with O’Mearah’s left cheek, the sound of a baseball bat connecting with a real steamer of a pitch. All at once O’Mearah’s entire face from the cheek on down moved two inches to the right. It would take three operations and four steel pegs to put him together again. He stood there for a moment, unbelieving, and then his eyes rolled up the whites. His knees unhinged and he collapsed.
Roland stood in the doorway, oblivious to the approaching sirens. He broke the scatter-rifle, then worked the pump action, ejecting all the fat red cartridges onto Delevan’s body. That done, he dropped the gun itself onto Delevan.
“You’re a dangerous fool who should be sent west,” he told the unconscious man. “You have forgotten the face of your father.”
He stepped over the body and walked to the gunslingers’ carriage, which was still idling. He climbed in the door on the far side and slid behind the driving wheel.
8
Can you drive this carriage? he asked the screaming, gibbering thing that was Jack Mort.
He got no coherent answer; Mort just went on screaming. The gunslinger recognized this as hysteria, but one which was not entirely genuine. Jack Mort was having hysterics on purpose, as a way of avoiding any conversation with this weird kidnapper.
