"Then I call Sheriff Pangborn," Henry said evenly.
The other patrons of the Tiger-there weren't many this late on a weeknight-were watching this exchange with interest. Men were careful to be polite around Hugh Priest, especially when he was in his cups, but he was never going to win Castle Rock's Most Popular Fella contest.
"I wouldn't like to," Henry continued, "but I will do it, Hugh.
I'm sick and tired of you kicking my Rock-Ola."
Hugh considered saying, Then I guess I'll just have to kick You a few times instead, you frog son of a bitch. Then he thought of that fat bastard Keeton, handing him a pink slip for kicking up dickens in the local tavern. Of course, if he really got fired the pink would come in the mail, it always did, pigs like Keeton never dirtied their hands (or risked a fat lip) by doing it in person, but it helped to think of that-it turned the dials down a little. And he did have a couple of six-packs at home, one in the fridge and the other in the woodshed.
"Okay," he said. "I don't need this action, anyway. Gimme my keys." For he had turned them over to Henry, as a precaution, when he sat down at the bar six hours and eighteen beers ago.
"Nope." Henry wiped his hands on a piece of towel and stared at Hugh unflinchingly.
"Nope? What the hell do you mean, nope?"
"I mean you're too drunk to drive. I know it, and when you wake up tomorrow morning, you're going to know it, too."
"Listen," Hugh said patiently. "When I gave you the goddam keys, I thought I had a ride home. Bobby Dugas said he was coming down for a few beers. It's not my fault the numb f**k never showed."
Henry sighed. "I sympathize with that, but it's not my problem.
I could get sued if you wiped someone out. I doubt if that means much to you, but it does to me. I got to cover my ass, buddy. In this world, nobody else does it for you."
Hugh felt resentment, self-pity, and an odd, inchoate wretched foul liquid seeping ness well to the surface of his mind like some up from a long-buried canister of toxic waste. He looked from his keys, hanging behind the bar next to the plaque which read IF YOU DON'T LIKE OUR TOWN LOOK FOR A TIME-TABLE, back to Henry. He was alarmed to find he was on the verge of tears.
Henry glanced past him at the few other customers currently in attendance. "Hey! Any of you yo-yos headed up Castle Hill?"
Men looked down at their tables and said nothing. One or two cracked their knuckles. Charlie Fortin sauntered toward the men's room with elaborate slowness. No one answered.
"See?" Hugh said. "Come on, Henry, gimme my keys."
Henry had shaken his head with slow finality. "If you want to come in here and do some drinking another time, you want to take a hike."
"Okay, I will!" Hugh said. His voice was that of a pouty child on the verge of a temper tantrum. He crossed the floor with his head down and his hands balled into tight fists. He waited for someone to laugh. He almost hoped someone would. He would clean some house then, and f**k the job. But the place was silent except for Reba McEntire, who was whining something about Alabama.
"You can pick up your keys tomorrow!" Henry called after him.
Hugh said nothing. With a mighty effort he had restrained himself from putting one scuffed yellow workboot right through Henry Beaufort's damned old Rock-Ola as he went by. Then, with his head down, he had passed out into darkness.
6