Alan sat behind Deke's desk for a full minute, sweating dark patches beneath the arms of his uniform shirt and listening to the telephone at Polly's house ring again and again and again. At last he dropped the handset back into the cradle.
He left the office in a slow walk, head down. Deke was padlocking the door of the dy***ite shack, and when he turned to Alan, his face was long and unhappy. "There was a good man somewhere inside of Hugh Priest, Alan. I swear to God there was. A lot of times that man comes out. I seen it happen before. More often than most people'd believe.
With Hugh. He shrugged.
"Huh-uh. No soap."
Alan nodded.
"Are you okay, Alan? You look like you come over funny."
"I'm fine," Alan said, smiling a little. But it was the truth; he had come over funny. Polly, too. And Hugh. And Brian Rusk. It seemed as if everyone had come over funny today.
"Want a glass of water or cold tea? I got some."
"Thanks, but I better get going."
"All right. Let me know how it turns out."
That was something Alan couldn't promise to do, but he had a sickening little feeling in the pit of his stomach that Deke would be able to read all about it for himself in a day or two. Or watch it on TV.
7
Lenny Partridge's old Chevy Bel-Air pulled into one of the slant parking spaces in front of Needful Things shortly before four, and the man of the hour got out. Hugh's fly was still unzipped, and he was still wearing the fox-tail around his neck. He crossed the sidewalk, his bare feet slapping on the hot concrete, and opened the door. The small silver bell overhead jingled.
The only person who saw him go in was Charlie Fortin. He was standing in the doorway of the Western Auto and smoking one of his stinky home-rolled cigarettes. "Old Hugh finally flipped," Charlie said to no one in particular.
Inside, Mr. Gaunt looked at old Hugh with a pleasant, expectant little smile... as if barefooted, bare-chested men wearing motheaten fox-tails around their necks showed up in his shop every day.
He made a small check-mark on the sheet beside the cash register.
The last check-mark.
"I'm in trouble," Hugh said, advancing on Mr. Gaunt. His eyes rolled from side to side in their sockets like pinballs. "I'm in a real mess this time."
"I know," Mr. Gaunt said in his most soothing voice.
"This seemed like the right place to come. I dunno-I keep dreaming about you. I... I didn't know where else to turn."
"This is the right place, Hugh."
"He cut my tires Hugh whispered. "Beaufort, the bastard who owns The Mellow Tiger. He left a note. 'You know what I'll come after next time Hubert,' it said. I know what that means. You bet I do." One of Hugh's grubby, large-fingered hands caressed the mangy fur, and an expression of adoration spread across his face.
It would have been sappy if it had not been so clearly genuine.
"My beautiful, beautiful fox-tail."
"Perhaps you ought to take care of him," Mr. Gaunt suggested thoughtfully, "before he can take care of you. I know that sounds a little... well... extreme... but when you consider-"
"Yes! Yes!
That's just what I want to do!"
"I think I have just the thing," Mr. Gaunt said. He bent down, and when he straightened up he had an automatic pistol in his left hand. He pushed it across the glass top of the case. "Fully loaded."
Hugh picked it up. His confusion seemed to blow away like smoke as the gun's solid weight filled his hand. He could smell gungrease, low and fragrant.
"I... I left my wallet at home," he said.
"Oh, you don't need to worry about that," Mr. Gaunt told him.
"At Needful Things, Hugh, we insure the things we sell." Suddenly his face hardened. His lips peeled back from his teeth and his eyes blazed. "Go get him!" he cried in a low, harsh voice. "Go get the bastard that wants to destroy what is yours! Go get him, Hugh!
Protect yourself! Protect your property!"
Hugh grinned suddenly. "Thanks, Mr. Gaunt. Thanks a lot."
"Don't mention it," Mr. Gaunt said, dropping immediately back into his normal tone of voice, but the small silver bell was already jangling as Hugh went back out, stuffing the automatic into the sagging waistband of his trousers as he walked.
Mr. Gaunt went to the window and watched Hugh get behind the wheel of the tired Chevy and back it into the street. A Budweiser truck rolling slowly down Main Street blared its horn and swerved to avoid him.
"Go get him, Hugh," Mr. Gaunt said in a low voice. Small wisps of smoke began to rise from his ears and his hair; thicker threads emerged from his nostrils and from between the square white tombstones of his teeth. "Get all of them you can. Party down, big fella."
Mr. Gaunt threw back his head and began to laugh.
8