They cut through the fabric of Ace's shirt like razors, and Ace was jerked back up into that fuming face.
"Are you ready to listen, Ace?" Mr. Gaunt asked. Hot blurts of steam stung Ace's cheeks and mouth with each word. "Are you ready, or should I just unzip your worthless guts and have done with it?"
"Yes!" he sobbed. "I mean no! I'll listen!"
"Are you going to be a good little errand boy and follow orders?"
"Yes!"
"Do you know what will happen if you don't?"
"Yes! Yes! Yes!"
"You're disgusting, Ace," Mr. Gaunt said. "I like that in a person." He slung Ace against the wall. Ace slid down it into a loose kneeling position, gasping and sobbing. He looked down at the floor.
He was afraid to gaze directly into the monster's face.
"If you should even think of going against my wishes, Ace, I'll see that you get the grand tour of hell. You'll have the Sheriff, don't worry. For the moment, however, he is out of town. Now. Stand up."
Ace got slowly to his feet. His head throbbed; his tee-shirt hung in ribbons.
"Let me ask you something." Mr. Gaunt was urbane and smiling again, not a hair out of place.
"Do you like this little town? Do you love it? Do you keep snapshots of it on the walls of your shitty little shack to remind yourself of its rustic charm on those days when the bee stings and the dog bites?"
"Hell, no," Ace said in an unsteady voice. His voice rose and fell with the pounding of his heart. He made it to his feet only with the greatest effort. His legs felt as if they were made of spaghetti.
He stood with his back to the wall, watching Mr. Gaunt warily.
"Would it appall you if I said I wanted you to blow this shitty little burg right off the face of the map while you wait for the Sheriff to come back?"
"I... I don't know what that word means," Ace said nervously.
"I'm not surprised. But I think you understand what I mean, Ace.
Don't you?"
Ace thought back. He thought back all the way to a time, many years ago, when four snotnosed kids had cheated him and his friends (Ace had had friends back in those days, or at least a reasonable approximation thereof) out of something Ace had wanted. They had caught one of the snotnoses-Gordie LaChance-later on and had beaten the living shit out of him, but it hadn't mattered. These days LaChance was a bigshot writer living in another part of the state, and he probably wiped his ass with ten-dollar bills. Somehow the snotnoses had won, and things had never been the same for Ace after that. That was when his luck had turned bad. Doors that had been open to him had begun to close, one by one. Little by little he had begun to realize that he was not a king and Castle Rock was not his kingdom. If that had ever been true, those days had begun to pass that Labor Day weekend when he was sixteen, when the snots had cheated him and his friends out of what was rightfully theirs. By the time Ace was old enough to drink legally in The Mellow Tiger, he had gone from being a king to being a soldier without a uniform, skulking through enemy territory.
"I hate this f**king toilet," he said to Leland Gaunt.
"Good," Mr. Gaunt said. "Very good. I have a friend-he's parked just up the street-who is going to help you do something about that, Ace. You'll have the Sheriff... and you'll have the whole town, too. Does that sound good?" He had captured Ace's eyes with his own.
Ace stood before him in the tattered rags of his tee-shirt and began to grin. His head no longer ached.
"Yeah," he said. "It sounds absolutely t-fine."
Mr. Gaunt reached into his coat pocket and brought out a plastic sandwich bag filled with white powder. He held it out to Ace.
"There's work to do, Ace," he said.
Ace took the sandwich bag, but it was still Mr. Gaunt's eyes he looked at, and into.
"Good," he said. "I'm ready."
13
Buster watched as the last man he had seen enter the service alley came back out again. The guy's tee-shirt hung in ragged strips now, and he was carrying a crate. Tucked into the waistband of his bluejeans were the butts of two automatic pistols.
Buster drew back in sudden alarm as the man, whom he now recognized as John "Ace" Merrill, walked directly to the van and set the crate down.
Ace tapped on the glass. "Open up the back, Daddy-O," he said.
"We got work to do."
Buster unrolled his window. "Get out of here," he said. "Get out, you ruffian! Or I'll call the police!"
"Good f**king luck," Ace grunted.
He drew one of the pistols from the waistband of his pants.
Buster stiffened, and then Ace thrust it through the window at him, butt first. Buster blinked at it.
"Take it," Ace said impatiently, "and then open the back. If you don't know who sent me, you're even dumber than you look." He reached out with his other hand and felt the wig. "Love your hair," he said with a small smile. "Simply marvelous."
"Stop that," Buster said, but the anger and outrage had gone out of his voice. Three good men can do a lot of damage, Mr. Gaunt had said. I will send someone to you.