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Bag of Bones :: Кинг Стивен
Страница: 203 из 425“Was that all right?”
“Probably not,” he said, “but at least you’re not currently in view of those old boys at the All-Purpose Garage. Mike, I’m John Storrow. Nice to meet you in person.”
I liked him at once, maybe because I’d come upon him dressed in his three-piece New York suit and primly setting out paper plates on a picnic table while his curly red hair blew around his head like kelp.
His skin was fair and freckled, the kind which would never tan, only burn and then peel in great eczemalike patches. When we shook, his hand seemed to be all knuckles. He had to be at least thirty, but he looked Mattie’s age, and I guessed it would be another five years before he was able to get a drink without showing his driver’s license.
“Sit down,” he said. “We’ve got a five-course lunch, courtesy of Castle Rock Variety—grinders, which are for some strange reason called “Italian sandwiches’ up here. . mozzarella sticks. . garlic fries.
… Twinkies.”
“That’s only four,” I said.
“I forgot the soft-drink course,” he said, and pulled three long-neck bottles of S’OK birch beer out of a brown bag. “Let’s eat. Mattie runs the library from two to eight on Fridays and Saturdays, and this would be a bad time for her to be missing work.”
“How did the readers’ circle go last night?” I asked. “Lindy Briggs didn’t eat you alive, I see.”
She laughed, clasped her hands, and shook them over her head. “I was a hit! An absolute smashola! I didn’t dare tell them I got all my best insights from you—”
“Thank God for small favors,” Storrow said. He was freeing his own sandwich from its string and butcher-paper wrapping, doing it carefully and a little dubiously, using just the tips of his fingers.
“—so I said I looked in a couple of books and found some leads there.
It was sort of wonderful. I felt like a college kid.”
“Good.”
“Bissonette?” John Storrow asked. “Where’s he? I never met a guy named Romeo before.”
“Said he had to go right back to Lewiston. Sorry.”
“Actually it’s best we stay small, at least to begin with.” He bit into his sandwich—they come tucked into long sub rolls—and looked at me, surprised. “This isn’t bad.”
“Eat more than three and you’re hooked for life,” Mattie said, and chomped heartily into her own.
“Tell us about the depo,” John said, and while they ate, I talked. When I finished, I picked up my own sandwich and played a little catch-up.
I’d forgotten how good an Italian can be—sweet, sour, and oily all at the same time.
“Probably not,” he said, “but at least you’re not currently in view of those old boys at the All-Purpose Garage. Mike, I’m John Storrow. Nice to meet you in person.”
I liked him at once, maybe because I’d come upon him dressed in his three-piece New York suit and primly setting out paper plates on a picnic table while his curly red hair blew around his head like kelp.
His skin was fair and freckled, the kind which would never tan, only burn and then peel in great eczemalike patches. When we shook, his hand seemed to be all knuckles. He had to be at least thirty, but he looked Mattie’s age, and I guessed it would be another five years before he was able to get a drink without showing his driver’s license.
“Sit down,” he said. “We’ve got a five-course lunch, courtesy of Castle Rock Variety—grinders, which are for some strange reason called “Italian sandwiches’ up here. . mozzarella sticks. . garlic fries.
… Twinkies.”
“That’s only four,” I said.
“I forgot the soft-drink course,” he said, and pulled three long-neck bottles of S’OK birch beer out of a brown bag. “Let’s eat. Mattie runs the library from two to eight on Fridays and Saturdays, and this would be a bad time for her to be missing work.”
“How did the readers’ circle go last night?” I asked. “Lindy Briggs didn’t eat you alive, I see.”
She laughed, clasped her hands, and shook them over her head. “I was a hit! An absolute smashola! I didn’t dare tell them I got all my best insights from you—”
“Thank God for small favors,” Storrow said. He was freeing his own sandwich from its string and butcher-paper wrapping, doing it carefully and a little dubiously, using just the tips of his fingers.
“—so I said I looked in a couple of books and found some leads there.
It was sort of wonderful. I felt like a college kid.”
“Good.”
“Bissonette?” John Storrow asked. “Where’s he? I never met a guy named Romeo before.”
“Said he had to go right back to Lewiston. Sorry.”
“Actually it’s best we stay small, at least to begin with.” He bit into his sandwich—they come tucked into long sub rolls—and looked at me, surprised. “This isn’t bad.”
“Eat more than three and you’re hooked for life,” Mattie said, and chomped heartily into her own.
“Tell us about the depo,” John said, and while they ate, I talked. When I finished, I picked up my own sandwich and played a little catch-up.
I’d forgotten how good an Italian can be—sweet, sour, and oily all at the same time.