"I know what you mean," Mr. Gaunt said. "It's the damned Republicans, that's what I think."
Sonny's knotted, distrustful face relaxed all at once. "You're goddamned right about that, chummy!" he exclaimed. "George Bush has damn near ruint this country... him and his goddam war! But do you think the Democrats have anyone to put up against 'im next year who can win?"
"Doubtful," Mr. Gaunt said.
"Jesse Jackson, for instance-a nagger."
He looked truculently at Mr. Gaunt, who inclined his head slightly, as if to say Yes, my friend-speak your mind. We are both men of the world who are not afraid to call a spade a spade. Sonny jackett relaxed a little more, less self-conscious about the grease on his hands now, more at home.
"I got nothing against niggers, you understand, but the idear of ajigintheWhiteHouse theWhiteHouse!-givesmetheshivers."
"Of course it does," Mr. Gaunt agreed.
"And that wop from New York-Mar-i-o Koo-whoa-mo! Do you think a guy with a name like that can beat that four-eyed dink in the White House?"
"No," Mr. Gaunt said. He held up his right hand, the long first finger placed about a quarter of an inch from his spatulate, ugly thumb. "Besides, I mistrust men with tiny heads."
Sonny gaped for a moment, then slapped his knee and gasped wheezy laughter. "Mistrust men with tiny- Say! That's pretty good, mister!
That's pretty goddam good!"
Mr. Gaunt was grinning.
They grinned at each other.
Mr. Gaunt got the set of socket-wrenches, which came in a leather case lined with black velvet-the most beautiful set of chrome-steel alloy socket-wrenches Sonny jackett had ever seen.
They grinned over the socket-wrenches, baring their teeth like monkeys that will soon fight.
And, of course, Sonny bought the set. The price was amazingly low-a hundred and seventy dollars, plus a couple of really amusing tricks to be played on Don Hemphill and the Rev. Rose. Sonny told Mr.
Gaunt it would be a pleasure-he would enjoy stinking up those psalm-singing Republican sonofawhores' lives.
They grinned over the tricks to be played on Steamboat Willie and Don Hemphill.
Sonny jackett and Leland Gaunt-just a couple of grinning men of the world.
And over the door, the little silver bell jingled.
6
Henry Beaufort, owner and operator of The Mellow Tiger, lived in a house about a quarter of a mile from his place of business.
Myra Evans parked in the Tiger's parking-lot-empty now in the hot, unseasonable morning sunshine-and walked to the house.
Considering the nature of her errand, this seemed a reasonable precaution. She needn't have worried. The Tiger didn't close until one in the a.m and Henry rarely rose much before that same hour in the p.m. All the shades, both upstairs and down, were drawn. His car, a perfectly maintained 1960 Thunderbird that was his pride and joy, stood in the driveway.
Myra was wearing a pair of jeans and one of her husband's blue work-shirts. The tail of the shirt was out and hung almost to her knees. It concealed the belt she wore beneath, and the scabbard hanging from the belt. Chuck Evans was a collector of World War II memorabilia (and, although she did not know it, he had already made a purchase of his own in this area at the town's new shop), and there was a Japanese bayonet in the scabbard. Myra had taken it half an hour ago from the wall of Chuck's basement den. It bumped solidly against her right thigh at every step.
She was very anxious to get this job done, so she could get back to the picture of Elvis. Holding the picture, she had discovered, produced a kind of story. It wasn't a real story, but in most waysall ways, actually-she considered it better than a real story. Act I was The Concert, where The King pulled her up on stage to dance with him.
Act II was The Green Room After The Show, and Act III was In the Limo- One of Elvis's Memphis guys was driving the limo, and The King didn't even bother to put up the black glass between the driver and them before doing the most outrageous and delicious things to her in the back seat as they drove to the airport.
Act IV was titled On the Plane. In this act they were in the Lisa Marie, Elvis's Convair jet... in the big double bed behind the partition at the back of the cabin, to be exact. That was the act Myra had been enjoying yesterday and this morning: cruising at thirty-two thousand feet in the Lisa Marie, cruising in bed with The King.
She wouldn't have minded staying there with him forever, but she knew that she wouldn't. They were bound for Act V: Graceland.
Once they were there, things could only get better.
But she had this little piece of business to take care of first.