"No," he said. "Uh-uh, no way-she wouldn't. She wouldn't see him. No way in hell."
But she had seen him. She and Deputy John LaPointe had gone out together for over a year, in spite of the developing bad feelings between Castle Rock's Catholics and Baptists. They had broken up before the current hooraw over Casino Nite, butLester got out of the car again and flipped through the wallet's see-through pockets. His sense of incredulity grew. Here was LaPointe's driver's license-in the picture on it, he was wearing the little moustache he'd cultivated when, he'd been going out with Sally.
Lester knew what some fellows called moustaches like that: pu**yticklers. Here was John LaPointe's fishing license. Here was a picture of John LaPointe's mother and father. Here was his hunting license. And here... here...
Lester stared fixedly at the snapshot he'd come upon. It was a snapshot of John and Sally. A snap of a fellow and his best girl.
They were standing in front of what looked like a carnival shootinggallery. They were looking at each other and laughing. Sally was holding a big stuffed teddy bear. LaPointe had probably just won it for her.
Lester stared at the picture. A vein had risen in the center of his forehead, quite a prominent one, and it pulsed steadily.
What had she called him? A cheating bastard?
"Well, look who's talking," Lester Pratt whispered.
Rage began to build up in him. It happened very quickly. And when someone touched him on the shoulder he swung around, dropping the wallet and doubling up his fists. He came very close to punching inoffensive, stuttering Slopey 'dodd into the middle of next week.
"Cub-Coach P-Pratt?" Slopey asked. His eyes were big and round, but he didn't look frightened. Interested, but not frightened.
"Are yuh-yuh-you o-k-k-kay?"
"I'm fine," Lester said thickly. "Go home, Slopey. You don't have any business with that skateboard in the faculty parking lot."
He bent down to pick up the dropped wallet, but Slopey was two feet closer to the ground and beat him to it. He looked curiously at LaPointe's driver's-license photo before handing the wallet back to Coach Pratt. "Yep," Slopey said. "That's the same guh-guh-guy, all r-right."
He hopped onto his board and prepared to ride away. Lester grabbed him by the shirt before he could do so. The board squirted out from under Slopey's foot, rolled away on its own, hit a pothole and turned over. Slopey's AC/DC shirt-FOR THOSE ABOUT TO ROCK, WE SALUTE You, it said-tore at the neck, but Slopey didn't seem to mind; didn't even seem to be much surprised by Lester's actions, let alone frightened. Lester didn't notice. Lester was beyond noticing nuances.
He was one of those large and normally placid men who own a short, nasty temper beneath that placidity, a damaging emotional tornado-in-waiting. Some men go through their entire lives without ever discovering that ugly stormcenter. Lester, however, had discovered his (or rather it had discovered him) and he was now completely in its grip.
Holding a swatch of Slopey's tee-shirt in a fist which was nearly the size of a Daisy canned ham, he bent his sweating face down to Slopey's. The vein in the center of his forehead was pulsing faster than ever.
"What do you mean, 'that's the same guy, all right'?"
"He's the same g-g-guy who muh-met M-Miss Rub-Rub-Ratclime after school last Fuh-Friday."
"He met her after school?" Lester asked hoarsely. He gave Slopey a shake brisk enough to rattle the boy's teeth in his head. "Are you sure of that?"
"Yeah," Slopey said. "They w-went off in your cub-cub-bar, Coach P-Pratt. The guh-guy was d-d-driving."
"Driving? He was driving my car?john LaPointe was driving my car with Sally in it?"
"Well, that g-g-guy," Slopey said, pointing at the driver's-license photograph again. "B-But before they g-g-got ih-in, he g-gave her a kuh-kuh-kiss."
"Did he," Lester said. His face had become very still. "Did he, now.
"Oh, shuh-shuh-shore," Slopey said. A wide (and rather salacious) grin lit his face.
In a soft, silky tone utterly unlike his usual rough hey-guyslet's-go-get-em voice, Lester asked: "And did she kiss him back?
What do you think, Slopey?"
Slopey rolled his eyes happily. "I'll sub-say she d-d-did! They were r-really sub-sub-huckin face, C-Coach Pub-Pratt!"
"Sucking face," Lester mused in his new soft and silky voice.
"Yep."
"Really sucking face," Lester marvelled in his new soft and silky voice.
"You b-b-bet."
Lester let go of the Slopester (as his few friends called him) and straightened up. The vein in the center of his forehead was pulsing and pumping away. He had begun to grin. It was an unpleasant grin, exposing what seemed like a great many more white, square teeth than a normal man should have. His blue eyes had become small, squinty triangles. His crewcut screamed off his head in all directions.