JК
Desperation :: Кинг Стивен
Страница: 11 из 422We didn’t need gas, you said we could do that in Ely, but we got sodas so we wouldn’t feel guilty about asking to use the rest-rooms—”
She looked at the cop and tried on a smile. She had to crane back to see his face. To Peter she looked like a little girl trying to coax a smile out of Daddy after Daddy had gotten home from a bad day at the office. “The restrooms were very clean.”
He nodded. “Was that Fill More Fast or Berk’s Conoco you stopped at.”
She glanced uncertainly at Peter. He turned his hands up at shoulder level. “1 don’t remember,” he said. “Hell, I barely remember stopping.”
The cop tossed the useless chunk of screw back over his shoulder and into the desert, where it would lie undis-turbed for a million years, unless it caught some inquisi-tive bird’s eye. “But I bet you remember the kids hanging around outside. Older kids, mostly.
One or two maybe too old to actually be kids at all. The younger ones with skate-boards or on Rollerblades.”
Peter nodded. He thought of Mary asking him why the people were here—why they came and why they stayed.
“That was the Fill More Fast.” Peter looked to see if the cop was wearing a nametag on one of his shirt pockets, but he wasn’t. So for now, at least, he’d have to stay just the cop.
The one who looked like the Marlboro Man in the magazine ads. “Alfie Berk won’t have em around any-more. Kicked em the hell out.
They’re a dastardly bunch.”
Mary cocked her head at that, and for a moment Peter could see the ghost of a smile at the corners of her mouth.
“Are they a gang.” Peter asked. He still didn’t see where this was going.
“Close as you’d get in a place as small as Fallon,” the cop said. He raised Peter’s license to his face, looked at it, looked at Peter, lowered it again. But he did not offer to give it back. “Dropouts, for the most part. And one of their hobbies is kifing out-of-state license plates. It’s like a dare thing. I imagine they got yours while you were in buying your cold drinks or using the facilities.”
“You know this and they still do it.” Mary asked. “Fallon’s not my town. I rarely go there. Their ways are not my ways.”
“What should we do about the missing plate.” Peter—asked. “I mean, this is a mess. The car’s registered in Oregon, but my sister has gone back to New York to live. She hated Reed—”
“Did she.” the cop asked.
She looked at the cop and tried on a smile. She had to crane back to see his face. To Peter she looked like a little girl trying to coax a smile out of Daddy after Daddy had gotten home from a bad day at the office. “The restrooms were very clean.”
He nodded. “Was that Fill More Fast or Berk’s Conoco you stopped at.”
She glanced uncertainly at Peter. He turned his hands up at shoulder level. “1 don’t remember,” he said. “Hell, I barely remember stopping.”
The cop tossed the useless chunk of screw back over his shoulder and into the desert, where it would lie undis-turbed for a million years, unless it caught some inquisi-tive bird’s eye. “But I bet you remember the kids hanging around outside. Older kids, mostly.
One or two maybe too old to actually be kids at all. The younger ones with skate-boards or on Rollerblades.”
Peter nodded. He thought of Mary asking him why the people were here—why they came and why they stayed.
“That was the Fill More Fast.” Peter looked to see if the cop was wearing a nametag on one of his shirt pockets, but he wasn’t. So for now, at least, he’d have to stay just the cop.
The one who looked like the Marlboro Man in the magazine ads. “Alfie Berk won’t have em around any-more. Kicked em the hell out.
They’re a dastardly bunch.”
Mary cocked her head at that, and for a moment Peter could see the ghost of a smile at the corners of her mouth.
“Are they a gang.” Peter asked. He still didn’t see where this was going.
“Close as you’d get in a place as small as Fallon,” the cop said. He raised Peter’s license to his face, looked at it, looked at Peter, lowered it again. But he did not offer to give it back. “Dropouts, for the most part. And one of their hobbies is kifing out-of-state license plates. It’s like a dare thing. I imagine they got yours while you were in buying your cold drinks or using the facilities.”
“You know this and they still do it.” Mary asked. “Fallon’s not my town. I rarely go there. Their ways are not my ways.”
“What should we do about the missing plate.” Peter—asked. “I mean, this is a mess. The car’s registered in Oregon, but my sister has gone back to New York to live. She hated Reed—”
“Did she.” the cop asked.