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Bag of Bones :: Кинг Стивен
Страница: 206 из 425“Have you gotten any closer to a meeting with Devore and his chief legal advisor?” I asked. “Don’t know for sure.
The line is in the water, the offer is on the table, the puck’s on the ice, pick your favorite metaphor, mix em and match em if you desire.”
“Got your irons in the fire,” Mattie said.
“Your checkers on the board,” I added. We looked at each other and laughed. John regarded us sadly, then sighed, picked up his sandwich, and began to eat again. “You really have to meet him with his lawyer more or less dancing attendance?” I asked. “Would you like to win this thing, then discover Devore can do it all again based on unethical behavior by Mary Devore’s legal resource?” John returned. “Don’t even joke about it!” Mattie cried. “I wasn’t joking,” John said. “It has to be with his lawyer, yes. I don’t think it’s going to happen, not on this trip. I haven’t even got a look at the old cockuh, and I have to tell you my curiosity is killing me.”
“If that’s all it takes to make you happy, show up behind the backstop at the softball field next Tuesday evening,” Mattie said. “He’ll be there in his fancy wheelchair, laughing and clapping and sucking his damned old oxygen every fifteen minutes or so.”
“Not a bad idea,” John said. “I have to go back to New York for the weekend—I’m leaving apres Osgood—but maybe I’ll show up on Tuesday. I might even bring my glove.” He began clearing up our litter, and once again I thought he looked both prissy and endearing at the same time, like Stan Laurel wearing an apron. Mattie eased him aside and took over.
“No one ate any Twinkles,” she said, a little sadly. “Take them home to your daughter,” John said. “No way. I don’t let her eat stuff like this.
What kind of mother do you think I am?” She saw our expressions, replayed what she’d just said, then burst out laughing. We joined her.
Mattie’s old Scout was parked in one of the slant spaces behind the war memorial, which in Castle Rock is a World War I soldier with a generous helping of birdshit on his pie-dish helmet. A brand-new Taurus with a Hertz decal above the inspection sticker was parked next to it. John tossed his briefcase—reassuringly thin and not very ostentatious—into the back seat.
“if I can make it back on Tuesday, I’ll call you,” he told Mattie. “If I’m able to get an appointment with your father-in-law through this man Osgood, I will also call you.”
“I’ll buy the Italian sandwiches,” Mattie said. He smiled, then grasped her arm in one hand and mine in the other.
The line is in the water, the offer is on the table, the puck’s on the ice, pick your favorite metaphor, mix em and match em if you desire.”
“Got your irons in the fire,” Mattie said.
“Your checkers on the board,” I added. We looked at each other and laughed. John regarded us sadly, then sighed, picked up his sandwich, and began to eat again. “You really have to meet him with his lawyer more or less dancing attendance?” I asked. “Would you like to win this thing, then discover Devore can do it all again based on unethical behavior by Mary Devore’s legal resource?” John returned. “Don’t even joke about it!” Mattie cried. “I wasn’t joking,” John said. “It has to be with his lawyer, yes. I don’t think it’s going to happen, not on this trip. I haven’t even got a look at the old cockuh, and I have to tell you my curiosity is killing me.”
“If that’s all it takes to make you happy, show up behind the backstop at the softball field next Tuesday evening,” Mattie said. “He’ll be there in his fancy wheelchair, laughing and clapping and sucking his damned old oxygen every fifteen minutes or so.”
“Not a bad idea,” John said. “I have to go back to New York for the weekend—I’m leaving apres Osgood—but maybe I’ll show up on Tuesday. I might even bring my glove.” He began clearing up our litter, and once again I thought he looked both prissy and endearing at the same time, like Stan Laurel wearing an apron. Mattie eased him aside and took over.
“No one ate any Twinkles,” she said, a little sadly. “Take them home to your daughter,” John said. “No way. I don’t let her eat stuff like this.
What kind of mother do you think I am?” She saw our expressions, replayed what she’d just said, then burst out laughing. We joined her.
Mattie’s old Scout was parked in one of the slant spaces behind the war memorial, which in Castle Rock is a World War I soldier with a generous helping of birdshit on his pie-dish helmet. A brand-new Taurus with a Hertz decal above the inspection sticker was parked next to it. John tossed his briefcase—reassuringly thin and not very ostentatious—into the back seat.
“if I can make it back on Tuesday, I’ll call you,” he told Mattie. “If I’m able to get an appointment with your father-in-law through this man Osgood, I will also call you.”
“I’ll buy the Italian sandwiches,” Mattie said. He smiled, then grasped her arm in one hand and mine in the other.