JК
Bag of Bones :: Кинг Стивен
Страница: 109 из 425I felta strong urge to knock his waxy beak of a nose off. The sound of it parting company from his face would be like the crack of a dead branch broken over a bent knee.
“Do you hear a lot, old-timer?” I asked.
“Oh, ayuh!” he said. His lips—dark as strips of liver—parted in a grin. His gums swarmed with white patches. He had a couple of yellow teeth still planted in the top one, and a couple more on the bottom.
“And she gut that little one—cunnin, she is! Ayuh!”
“Cunnin as a cat a-runnin,” I agreed.
He blinked at me, a little surprised to hear such an old one out of my presumably newfangled mouth, and then that reprehensible grin widened.
“Her don’t mind her, though,” he said. “Baby gut the run of the place, don’tcha know.”
I became aware—better belated than never—that half a dozen people were watching and listening to us. “That wasn’t my impression,” I said, raising my voice a bit. “No, that wasn’t my impression at all.”
He only grinned. . that old man’s grin that says Oh, ayuh, deah; I know one worth two of that.
I left the store feeling worried for Mattie Devore. Too many people were minding her business, it seemed to me.
When I got home, I took my bottle of wine into the kitchen—it could chill while I got the barbecue going out on the deck. I reached for the fridge door, then paused. Perhaps as many as four dozen little magnets had been scattered randomly across the front—vegetables, fruits, plastic letters and numbers, even a good selection of the California Raisins—but they weren’t random anymore. Now they formed a circle on the front of the refrigerator. Someone had been in here. Someone had come in and…
Rearranged the magnets on the fridge? If so, that was a burglar who needed to do some heavy remedial work. I touched one of them—gingerly, with just the tip of my finger. Then, suddenly angry with myself, I reached out and spread them again, doing it with enough force to knock a couple to the floor. I didn’t pick them up.
That night, before going to bed, I placed the Memo-Scriber on the table beneath Bunter the Great Stuffed Moose, turning it on and putting it in the DCTATE mode. Then I slipped in one of my old home-dubbed cassettes, zeroed the counter, and went to bed, where I slept without dreams or other interruption for eight hours.
The next morning, Monday, was the sort of day the tourists come to Maine for—the air so sunny-clean that the hills across the lake seemed to be under subtle magnification.
“Do you hear a lot, old-timer?” I asked.
“Oh, ayuh!” he said. His lips—dark as strips of liver—parted in a grin. His gums swarmed with white patches. He had a couple of yellow teeth still planted in the top one, and a couple more on the bottom.
“And she gut that little one—cunnin, she is! Ayuh!”
“Cunnin as a cat a-runnin,” I agreed.
He blinked at me, a little surprised to hear such an old one out of my presumably newfangled mouth, and then that reprehensible grin widened.
“Her don’t mind her, though,” he said. “Baby gut the run of the place, don’tcha know.”
I became aware—better belated than never—that half a dozen people were watching and listening to us. “That wasn’t my impression,” I said, raising my voice a bit. “No, that wasn’t my impression at all.”
He only grinned. . that old man’s grin that says Oh, ayuh, deah; I know one worth two of that.
I left the store feeling worried for Mattie Devore. Too many people were minding her business, it seemed to me.
When I got home, I took my bottle of wine into the kitchen—it could chill while I got the barbecue going out on the deck. I reached for the fridge door, then paused. Perhaps as many as four dozen little magnets had been scattered randomly across the front—vegetables, fruits, plastic letters and numbers, even a good selection of the California Raisins—but they weren’t random anymore. Now they formed a circle on the front of the refrigerator. Someone had been in here. Someone had come in and…
Rearranged the magnets on the fridge? If so, that was a burglar who needed to do some heavy remedial work. I touched one of them—gingerly, with just the tip of my finger. Then, suddenly angry with myself, I reached out and spread them again, doing it with enough force to knock a couple to the floor. I didn’t pick them up.
That night, before going to bed, I placed the Memo-Scriber on the table beneath Bunter the Great Stuffed Moose, turning it on and putting it in the DCTATE mode. Then I slipped in one of my old home-dubbed cassettes, zeroed the counter, and went to bed, where I slept without dreams or other interruption for eight hours.
The next morning, Monday, was the sort of day the tourists come to Maine for—the air so sunny-clean that the hills across the lake seemed to be under subtle magnification.