The Drawing of the Three dt-2

by Стивен Кинг

  "Yes," the gunslinger said seriously, and pretended to look closely at the cleaning kit, although a single glance was enough to show him that it was a shoddy thing in a shoddy box. While he looked, he carefully pushed Mort's wallet under the counter with his foot.

  After a moment he pushed it back with a passable show of regret. "I'm afraid I'll have to pass."

  "All right," the clerk said, losing interest abruptly. Since the guy wasn't crazy and was obviously a looker, not a buyer, their relationship was at an end. Bullshit walks. "Anything else?" His mouth asked while his eyes told blue-suit to get out.

  "No, thank you." The gunslinger walked out without a look back. Mort's wallet was deep under the counter. Roland had set out his own honeypot.

  7

  Officers Carl Delevan and George O'Mearah had finished their coffee and were about to move on when the man in the blue suit came out of Clements'—which both cops believed to be a powderhorn (police slang for a legal gunshop which sometimes sells guns to independent stick-up men with proven credentials and which does business, sometimes in bulk, to the Mafia), and approached their squad car.

  He leaned down and looked in the passenger side window at O'Mearah. O'Mearah expected the guy to sound like a fruit—probably as fruity as his routine about the lavender handcuffths had suggested, but a pouf all the same. Guns aside, Clements' did a lively trade in handcuffs. These were legal in Manhattan , and most of the people buying them weren't amateur Houdinis (the cops didn't like it, but when had what the cops thought on any given subject ever changed things?). The buyers were homos with a little taste for s & m. But the man didn't sound like a fag at all. His voice was flat and expressionless, polite but somehow dead.

  "The tradesman in there took my wallet," he said.

  "Who?" O'Mearah straightened up fast. They had been itching to bust Justin Clements for a year and a half. If it could be done, maybe the two of them could finally swap these bluesuits for detective's badges. Probably just a pipe-dream—this was too good to be true—but just the same …

  "The tradesman. The—" A brief pause. "The clerk."

  O'Mearah and Carl Delevan exchanged a glance.

  "Black hair?" Delevan asked. "On the stocky side?"

  Again there was the briefest pause. "Yes. His eyes were brown. Small scar under one of them."

  There was something about the guy … O'Mearah couldn't put his finger on it then, but remembered later on, when there weren't so many other things to think about. The chief of which, of course, was the simple fact that the gold detective's badge didn't matter; it turned out that just holding onto the jobs they had would be a pure brassy-ass miracle.

  But years later there was a brief moment of epiphany when O'Mearah took his two sons to the Museum of Science in Boston . They had a machine there—a computer—that played tic-tac-toe, and unless you put your X in the middle square on your first move, the machine fucked you over every time. But there was always a pause as it checked its memory for all possible gambits. He and his boys had been fascinated. But there was something spooky about it … and then he remembered Blue-Suit. He remembered because Blue-Suit had had that some fucking habit. Talking to him had been like talking to a robot.

  Delevan had no such feeling, but nine years later, when he took his own son (then eighteen and about to start college) to the movies one night, Delevan would rise unexpectedly to his feet about thirty minutes into the feature and scream, "It's him! That's HIM! That's the guy in the fucking blue suit! The guy who was at Cle—"

  Somebody would shout Down in front! but needn't have bothered; Delevan, seventy pounds overweight and a heavy smoker, would be struck by a fatal heart attack before the complainer even got to the second word. The man in the blue suit who approached their cruiser that day and told them about his stolen wallet didn't look like the star of the movie, but the dead delivery of words had been the same; so had been the somehow relentless yet graceful way he moved.

  The movie, of course, had been The Terminator.

  8

  The cops exchanged a glance. The man Blue-Suit was talking about wasn't Clements, but almost as good: "Fat Johnny" Holden, Clements' brother-in-law. But to have done something as totally dumb-ass as simply stealing a guy's wallet would be—

  —would be right up that gink's alley, O'Mearah's mind finished, and he had to put a hand to his mouth to cover a momentary little grin.

  "Maybe you better tell us exactly what happened," Delevan said. "You can start with your name."

  Again, the man's response struck O'Mearah as a little wrong, a little off-beat. In this city, where it sometimes seemed that seventy per cent of the population believed Go fuck yourself was American for Have a nice day, he would have expected the guy to say something like, Hey, that S.O.B. took my wallet! Are you going to get it back for me or are we going to stand out here playing Twenty Questions?

  But there was the nicely cut suit, the manicured fingernails. A guy maybe used to dealing with bureaucratic bullshit. In truth, George O'Mearah didn't care much. The thought of busting Fat Johnny Holden and using him as a lever on Arnold Clements made O'Mearah's mouth water. For one dizzy moment he even allowed himself to imagine using Holden to get Clements and Clements to get one of the really big guys—that wop Balazar, for instance, or maybe Ginelli. That wouldn't be too tacky. Not too tacky at all.

  "My name is Jack Mort," the man said.

  Delevan had taken a butt-warped pad from his back pocket. "Address?"

  That slight pause. Like the machine, O'Mearah thought again. A moment of silence, then an almost audible click.

  " 409 Park Avenue South ."

  Delevan jotted it down.

  "Social Security number?"

  After another slight pause, Mort recited it.

  "Want you to understand I gotta ask you these questions for identification purposes. If the guy did take your wallet, it's nice if I can say you told me certain stuff before I take it into my possession. You understand."

  "Yes." Now there was the slightest hint of impatience in the man's voice. It made O'Mearah feel a little better about him somehow. "Just don't drag it out any more than you have to. Time passes, and—"

  "Things have a way of happening, yeah, I dig."

  "Things have a way of happening," the man in the blue suit agreed. "Yes."

  "Do you have a photo in your wallet that's distinctive?"

  A pause. Then: "A picture of my mother taken in front of the Empire State Building . On the back is written: 'It was a wonderful day and a wonderful view. Love, Mom.' "

  Delevan jotted furiously, then snapped his notebook closed. "Okay. That should do it. Only other thing'll be to have you write your signature if we get the wallet back and compare it with the sigs on your driver's license, credit cards, stuff like that. Okay?"

  Roland nodded, although part of him understood that, although he could draw on Jack Mort's memories and knowledge of this world as much as he needed, he hadn't a chance in hell of duplicating Mort's signature with Mort's consciousness absent, as it was now.

  "Tell us what happened."

  "I went in to buy shells for my brother. He has a .45 Winchester revolver. The man asked me if I had a Permit to Carry. I said of course. He asked to see it."

  Pause.

  "I took out my wallet. I showed him. Only when I turned my wallet around to do that showing, he must have seen there were quite a few—" slight pause "—twenties in there. I am a tax accountant. I have a client named Dorfman who just won a small tax refund after an extended—" pause "—litigation. The sum was only eight hundred dollars, but this man, Dorfman, is—" pause "—the biggest prick we handle." Pause. "Pardon my pun."

  O'Mearah ran the man's last few words back through his head and suddenly got it. The biggest prick we handle. Not bad. He laughed. Thoughts of robots and machines that played tic-tac-toe went out of his mind. The guy was real enough, just upset and trying to hide it by being cool.

  "Anyway, Dorfman wanted cash. He insisted on ca
sh."

  "You think Fat Johnny got a look at your client's dough," Delevan said. He and O'Mearah got out of the blue-and-white.

  "Is that what you call the man in the that shop?"

  "Oh, we call him worse than that on occasion," Delevan said. "What happened after you showed him your P.C., Mr. Mort?"

  "He asked for a closer look. I gave him my wallet but he didn't look at the picture. He dropped it on the floor. I asked him what he did that for. He said that was a stupid question. Then I told him to give me back my wallet. I was mad."

  "I bet you were." Although, looking at the man's dead face, Delevan thought you'd never guess this man could get mad.

  "He laughed. I started to come around the counter and get it. That was when he pulled the gun."

  They had been walking toward the shop. Now they stopped. They looked excited rather than fearful. "Gun?" O'Mearah asked, wanting to be sure he had heard right.

  "It was under the counter, by the cash register," the man in the blue suit said. Roland remembered the moment when he had almost junked his original plan and gone for the man's weapon. Now he told these gunslingers why he hadn't. He wanted to use them, not get them killed. "I think it was in a docker's clutch."

  "A what?" O'Mearah asked.

  "A longer pause this time. The man's forehead wrinkled. "I don't know exactly how to say it … a thing you put your gun into. No one can grab it but you unless they know how to push—"

  "A spring-clip!" Delevan said. "Holy shit!" Another exchange of glances between the partners. Neither wanted to be the first to tell this guy that Fat Johnny had probably harvested the cash from his wallet already, shucked his buns out the back door, and tossed it over the wall of the alley behind the building … but a gun in a spring-clip … that was different. Robbery was a possible, but all at once a concealed weapons charge looked like a sure thing. Maybe not as good, but a foot in the door.

  "What then?" O'Mearah asked.

  "Then he told me I didn't have a wallet. He said—'' pause "—that I got my picket pocked—my pocket picked, I mean—on the street and I'd better remember it if I wanted to stay healthy. I remembered seeing a police car parked up the block and I thought you might still be there. So I left."

  "Okay," Delevan said. "Me and my partner are going in first, and fast. Give us about a minute—a full minute—just in case there's some trouble. Then come in, but stand by the door. Do you understand?"

  "Yes."

  "Okay. Let's bust this motherfucker."

  The two cops went in. Roland waited thirty seconds and then followed them.

  9

  "Fat Johnny" Holden was doing more than protesting. He was bellowing.

  "Guy's crazy! Guy comes in here, doesn't even know what he wants, then, when he sees it in the Shooter's Bible, he don't know how many comes in a box, how much they cost, and what he says about me wantin' a closer look at his P.C. is the biggest pile of shit I ever heard, because he don't have no Permit to—" Fat Johnny broke off. "There he is! There's the creep! Right there! I see you, buddy! I see your face! Next time you see mine you're gonna be fuckin sorry! I guarantee you that! I fuckin guarantee—"

  "You don't have this man's wallet?" O'Mearah asked.

  "You know I don't have his wallet!"

  "You mind if we take a look behind this display case?" Delevan countered. "Just to be sure?"

  "Jesus-fuckin-jumped-up-Christ-on-a-pony! The case is glass! You see any wallets there?"

  "No, not there … I meant here," Delevan said, moving toward the register. His voice was a cat's purr. At this point a chrome-steel reinforcing strip almost two feet wide ran down the shelves of the case. Delevan looked back at the man in the blue suit, who nodded.

  "I want you guys out of here right now," Fat Johnny said. He had lost some of his color. "You come back with a warrant, that's different. But for now, I want you the fuck out. Still a free fuckin country, you kn—hey! hey! HEY, QUIT THAT!"

  O'Mearah was peering over the counter.

  "That's illegal!" Fat Johnny was howling. "That's fuckin illegal, the Constitution …my fuckin lawyer …you get back on your side right now or—"

  "I just wanted a closer look at the merchandise," O'Mearah said mildly, "on account of the glass in your display case is so fucking dirty. That's why I looked over. Isn't it, Carl?"

  "True shit, buddy," Delevan said solemnly.

  "And look what I found."

  Roland heard a click, and suddenly the gunslinger in the blue uniform was holding an extremely large gun in his hand.

  Fat Johnny, who had finally realized he was the only person in the room who would tell a story that differed from the fairy tale just told by the cop who had taken his Mag, turned sullen.

  "I got a permit," he said.

  "To carry?" Delevan asked.

  "Yeah."

  "To carry concealed?"

  "Yeah."

  "This gun registered?" O'Mearah asked. "It is, isn't it?"

  "Well … I mighta forgot."

  "Might be it's hot, and you forgot that, too."

  "Fuck you. I'm calling my lawyer."

  Fat Johnny started to turn away. Delevan grabbed him.

  "Then there's the question of whether or not you got a permit to conceal a deadly weapon in a spring-clip device," he said in the same soft, purring voice. "That's an interesting question, because so far as I know, the City of New York doesn't issue a permit like that."

  The cops were looking at Fat Johnny; Fat Johnny was glaring back at them. So none of them noticed Roland turn the sign hanging in the door from OPEN to CLOSED.

  "Maybe we could start to resolve this matter if we could find the gentleman's wallet," O'Mearah said. Satan himself could not have lied with such genial persuasiveness. "Maybe he just dropped it, you know."

  "I told you! 1 don't know nothing about the guy's wallet! Guy's out of his mind!"

  Roland bent down. "There it is," he remarked. "I can just see it. He's got his foot on it."

  This was a lie, but Delevan, whose hand was still on Fat Johnny's shoulder, shoved the man back so rapidly that it was impossible to tell if the man's foot had been there or not.

  It had to be now. Roland glided silently toward the counter as the two gunslingers bent to peer under the counter. Because they were standing side by side, this brought their heads close together. O'Mearah still had the gun the clerk had kept under the counter in his right hand.

  "Goddam, it's there!" Delevan said excitedly. "I see it!"

  Roland snapped a quick glance at the man they had called Fat Johnny, wanting to make sure he was not going to make a play. But he was only standing against the wall—pushing against it, actually, as if wishing he could push himself into it—with his hands hanging at his sides and his eyes great wounded O's. He looked like a man wondering how come his horoscope hadn't told him to beware this day.

  No problem there.

  "Yeah!" O'Mearah replied gleefully. The two men peered under the counter, hands on uniformed knees. Now O'Mearah's left his knee and he reached out to snag the wallet. "I see it, t—"

  Roland took one final step forward. He cupped Delevan's right cheek in one hand, O'Mearah's left cheek in the other, and all of a sudden a day Fat Johnny Holden believed had to have hit rock bottom got a lot worse. The spook in the blue suit brought the cops' heads together hard enough to make a sound like rocks wrapped in felt colliding with each other.

  The cops fell in a heap. The man in the gold-rimmed specs stood. He was pointing the .357 Mag at Fat Johnny. The muzzle looked big enough to hold a moon rocket.

  "We're not going to have any trouble, are we?" the spook asked in his dead voice.

  "No sir," Fat Johnny said at once, "not a bit."

  "Stand right there. If your ass loses contact with that wall, you are going to lose contact with life as you have always known it. You understand?"

  "Yes sir," Fat Johnny said, "I sure do."

  "Good."

  Roland pushed the two cops apart. They w
ere both still alive. That was good. No matter how slow and unobservant they might be, they were gunslingers, men who had tried to help a stranger in trouble. He had no urge to kill his own.

  But he had done it before, hadn't he? Yes. Had not Alain himself, one of his sworn brothers, died under Roland's and Cuthbert's own smoking guns?

  Without taking his eyes from the clerk, he felt under the counter with the toe of Jack Mort's Gucci loafer. He felt the wallet. He kicked it. It came spinning out from underneath the counter on the clerk's side. Fat Johnny jumped and shrieked like a goosey girl who spies a mouse. His ass actually did lose contact with the wall for a moment, but the gunslinger overlooked it. He had no intention of putting a bullet in this man. He would throw the gun at him and poleaxe him with it before firing a shot. A gun as absurdly big as this would probably bring half the neighborhood.

  "Pick it up," the gunslinger said. "Slowly."

  Fat Johnny reached down, and as he grasped the wallet, he farted loudly and screamed. With faint amusement the gunslinger realized he had mistaken the sound of his own fart for a gunshot and his time of dying had come.

  When Fat Johnny stood up, he was blushing furiously. There was a large wet patch on the front of his pants.

  "Put the purse on the counter. Wallet, I mean."

  Fat Johnny did it.

  "Now the shells. Winchester .45s. And I want to see your hands every second."

  "I have to reach into my pocket. For my keys."

  Roland nodded.

  As Fat Johnny first unlocked and then slid open the case with the stacked cartons of bullets inside, Roland cogitated.

  "Give me four boxes," he said at last. He could not imagine needing so many shells, but the temptation to have them was not to be denied.

  Fat Johnny put the boxes on the counter. Roland slid one of them open, still hardly able to believe it wasn't a joke or a sham. But they were bullets, all right, clean, shining, unmarked, never fired, never reloaded. He held one up to the light for a moment, then put it back in the box.