JК
Desperation :: Кинг Стивен
Страница: 12 из 422“Gosh, now!”
Peter could feel Mary’s eyes shift to him, probably wanting him to share her moment of amusement, but that didn’t seem like a good idea to him. Not at all.
“She said going to school there was like trying to go to school in the middle of a Grateful Dead concert,” he said. “Anyway, she flew back to New York. My wife and I thought it would be fun to go out and get the car for her, bring it back to New York. Deirdre packed a bunch of her—stuff in the trunk… clothes, niostlv…
He was babbling again, and he made himself stop. “So what do I do. We can’t very well drive all the way across the country with no license plate on the back of the car, can we.”
The cop walked toward the front of the Acura, moving very deliberately. He still had Peter’s license and Deir-dre’s canary-yellow registration slip in one hand. His Sam Browne belt creaked. When he reached the front of the car he put his hands behind his back and stood frowning down at something. To Peter he looked like an interested patron in an art gallery. Dastardly, he’d said. A dastardly bunch. Peter didn’t think he had ever actually heard that word used in conversation. — The cop walked back toward them. Mary moved next to Peter, but her fright seemed gone. She was looking at the big — man with interest, that was all.
“The front plate’s okay,” the cop said. “Put that one on the back. You won’t have any problem getting to New York on that basis.”
“Oh,” Peter said. “Okay. Good idea.”
“Do you have a wrench and screwdriver. I think all my tools ’re back sitting on a bench in the town garage.” The cop grinned. It lit his whole face, informed his eyes, turned-him into a different man. “Oh. These’re yours.” He held out the license and registration.
“There’s a little toolkit in the trunk, I think,” Mary said. She sounded giddy, and that was how Peter felt. Pure relief, he supposed. “I saw it while I was putting in my makeup case.
Between the spare tire and the side.”
“Officer, I want to thank you,” Peter said.
The big cop nodded. He wasn’t looking at Peter, though; his gray eyes were apparently fixed on the moun-tains off to his left. “Just doing my job.”
Peter walked to the driver’s door of the car, wondering why he and Mary had been so afraid in the first place.
That’s nonsense, he told himself as he pulled the keys out of the Ignition switch, They were on a smile-face keychain, which was pretty much par for the course—Deirdre’s course, anyway. Mr. Smiley-Smile (her name for him) was his sister’s trademark.
Peter could feel Mary’s eyes shift to him, probably wanting him to share her moment of amusement, but that didn’t seem like a good idea to him. Not at all.
“She said going to school there was like trying to go to school in the middle of a Grateful Dead concert,” he said. “Anyway, she flew back to New York. My wife and I thought it would be fun to go out and get the car for her, bring it back to New York. Deirdre packed a bunch of her—stuff in the trunk… clothes, niostlv…
He was babbling again, and he made himself stop. “So what do I do. We can’t very well drive all the way across the country with no license plate on the back of the car, can we.”
The cop walked toward the front of the Acura, moving very deliberately. He still had Peter’s license and Deir-dre’s canary-yellow registration slip in one hand. His Sam Browne belt creaked. When he reached the front of the car he put his hands behind his back and stood frowning down at something. To Peter he looked like an interested patron in an art gallery. Dastardly, he’d said. A dastardly bunch. Peter didn’t think he had ever actually heard that word used in conversation. — The cop walked back toward them. Mary moved next to Peter, but her fright seemed gone. She was looking at the big — man with interest, that was all.
“The front plate’s okay,” the cop said. “Put that one on the back. You won’t have any problem getting to New York on that basis.”
“Oh,” Peter said. “Okay. Good idea.”
“Do you have a wrench and screwdriver. I think all my tools ’re back sitting on a bench in the town garage.” The cop grinned. It lit his whole face, informed his eyes, turned-him into a different man. “Oh. These’re yours.” He held out the license and registration.
“There’s a little toolkit in the trunk, I think,” Mary said. She sounded giddy, and that was how Peter felt. Pure relief, he supposed. “I saw it while I was putting in my makeup case.
Between the spare tire and the side.”
“Officer, I want to thank you,” Peter said.
The big cop nodded. He wasn’t looking at Peter, though; his gray eyes were apparently fixed on the moun-tains off to his left. “Just doing my job.”
Peter walked to the driver’s door of the car, wondering why he and Mary had been so afraid in the first place.
That’s nonsense, he told himself as he pulled the keys out of the Ignition switch, They were on a smile-face keychain, which was pretty much par for the course—Deirdre’s course, anyway. Mr. Smiley-Smile (her name for him) was his sister’s trademark.