JК
Bag of Bones :: Кинг Стивен
Страница: 131 из 425How can I help you?” This version of daddy turned, bent, and grabbed something from the litter of paperwork on the passenger side of the front seat. Beneath the dash, a two-way radio squawked once, briefly, and fell silent. He turned back to me with a long, buff-colored folder in one hand. Held it out. “This is yours.”
When I didn’t take it, he stepped forward and tried to poke it into one of my palms, which would presumably cause me to close my fingers in a kind of reflex. Instead I raised both hands to shoulder-level, as if he had just told me to put em up, Muggsy. He looked at me patiently, his face as Irish as the Arlen brothers’ but without the Arlen look of kindness, openness, and curiosity. What was there in place of those things was a species of sour amusement, as if he’d seen all of the world’s pissier behavior, most of it twice. One of his eyebrows had been split open a long time ago, and his cheeks had that reddish windburned look that indicates either ruddy good health or a deep interest in grain-alcohol products. He looked like he could knock you into the gutter and then sit on you to keep you there. I been good, daddy, get off me, don’t be mean. “Don’t make this tough. You’re gonna take service of this and we both know it, so don’t make this tough.”
“Show me some ID first.” He sighed, rolled his eyes, then reached into one of his shirt pockets. He brought out a leather folder and flipped it open. There was a badge and a photo ID. My new friend was George Footman, Deputy Sheriff, Castle County. The photo was flat and shadowless, like something an assault victim would see in a mugbook. “Okay?” he asked. I took the buff-backed document when he held it out again. He stood there, broadcasting that sense of curdled amusement as I scanned it. I had been subpoenaed to appear in the Castle Rock office of Elmer Dur-gin, Attorney-at-Law, at ten o’clock on the morning of July 10, 1998-Friday, in other words. Said Elmer Durgin had been appointed guardian ad litem of Kyra Elizabeth Devore, a minor child. He would take a deposition from me concerning any knowledge I might have of Kyra Elizabeth Devore in regard to her well-being. This deposition would be taken on behalf of Castle County Superior Court and Judge Noble Ran-court. A stenographer would be present. I was assured that this was the court’s depo, and nothing to do with either laintit{ or etennnt. Footman said, “It’s my job to remind you of the penalties should you fail—”
“Thanks, but let’s just assume you told me all about those, okay? I’ll be there.” I made shooing gestures at his car. I felt deeply disgusted… and I felt inter, red with.
When I didn’t take it, he stepped forward and tried to poke it into one of my palms, which would presumably cause me to close my fingers in a kind of reflex. Instead I raised both hands to shoulder-level, as if he had just told me to put em up, Muggsy. He looked at me patiently, his face as Irish as the Arlen brothers’ but without the Arlen look of kindness, openness, and curiosity. What was there in place of those things was a species of sour amusement, as if he’d seen all of the world’s pissier behavior, most of it twice. One of his eyebrows had been split open a long time ago, and his cheeks had that reddish windburned look that indicates either ruddy good health or a deep interest in grain-alcohol products. He looked like he could knock you into the gutter and then sit on you to keep you there. I been good, daddy, get off me, don’t be mean. “Don’t make this tough. You’re gonna take service of this and we both know it, so don’t make this tough.”
“Show me some ID first.” He sighed, rolled his eyes, then reached into one of his shirt pockets. He brought out a leather folder and flipped it open. There was a badge and a photo ID. My new friend was George Footman, Deputy Sheriff, Castle County. The photo was flat and shadowless, like something an assault victim would see in a mugbook. “Okay?” he asked. I took the buff-backed document when he held it out again. He stood there, broadcasting that sense of curdled amusement as I scanned it. I had been subpoenaed to appear in the Castle Rock office of Elmer Dur-gin, Attorney-at-Law, at ten o’clock on the morning of July 10, 1998-Friday, in other words. Said Elmer Durgin had been appointed guardian ad litem of Kyra Elizabeth Devore, a minor child. He would take a deposition from me concerning any knowledge I might have of Kyra Elizabeth Devore in regard to her well-being. This deposition would be taken on behalf of Castle County Superior Court and Judge Noble Ran-court. A stenographer would be present. I was assured that this was the court’s depo, and nothing to do with either laintit{ or etennnt. Footman said, “It’s my job to remind you of the penalties should you fail—”
“Thanks, but let’s just assume you told me all about those, okay? I’ll be there.” I made shooing gestures at his car. I felt deeply disgusted… and I felt inter, red with.