Bag of Bones   ::   Кинг Стивен

“Mike, Ihave some wonderful news,” John said. He sounded near to bursting. “Romeo Bissonette may be a weird name, but there’s nothing weird about the detective-guy he found for me. His name is George Kennedy, like the actor. He’s good, and he’s fast. This guy could work in New York.”

“If that’s the highest compliment you can think of, you need to get out of the city more.”

He went on as if he hadn’t heard. “Kennedy’s real job is with a security firm—the other stuff is strictly in the moonlight. Which is a great loss, believe me. He got most of this on the phone. I can’t believe it.”

“What specifically can’t you believe?”

“Jackpot, baby.” Again he spoke in that tone of greedy satisfaction which I found both troubling and reassuring. “Elmer Durgin has done the following things since late May: paid off his car; paid off his camp in Rangely Lakes; caught up on about ninety years of child support—”

“Nobody pays child support for ninety years,” I said, but I was just running my mouth to hear it go… to let off some of my own building excitement, in truth. “"T’ain’t possible, Mcgee.”

“It is if you have seven kids,” John said, and began howling with laughter.

I thought of the pudgy self-satisfied face, the cupid-bow mouth, the nails that looked polished and prissy. “He don’t,” I said.

“He do,” John said, still laughing. He sounded like a complete lunatic—manic, hold the depressive. “He really do! Ranging in ages from f-fourteen to th-th-three! What a b-busy p-p-potent little prick he must have!” More helpless howls. And by now I was howling right along with him—I’d caught it like the mumps. “Kennedy is going to f-f-fax me p-pictures of the whole. . fam’. . damily!” We broke up completely, laughing together long-distance. I could picture John Stor-row sitting alone in his Park Avenue office, bellowing like a lunatic and scaring the cleaning ladies.

“That doesn’t matter, though,” he said when he could talk coherently again. “You see what matters, don’t you?”

“Yes,” I said. “How could he be so stupid?” Meaning Durgin, but also meaning Devore. John understood, I think, that we were talking about both he’s at the same time.

“Elmer Durgin’s a little lawyer from a little township tucked away in the big woods of western Maine, that’s all. How could he know that some guardian angel would come along with the resources to smoke him out? He also bought a boat, by the way. Two weeks ago. It’s a twin outboard. A big ’un. It’s over, Mike.