Fuck it. What the hell are you thinking of?
He turned away from the window and pointed his face toward home again-if you wanted to call the two-room shack with the tacked-on woodshed where he lived home. As he passed under the canopy, he looked at the door... and stopped again.
The sign there, of course, read
OPEN.
Like a man in a dream, Hugh put his hand out and tried the knob.
It turned freely under his hand. Overhead, a small silver bell tinkled. The sound seemed to come from an impossible distance away.
A man was standing in the middle of the shop. He was running a feather-duster over the top of a display case and humming. He turned toward Hugh when the bell rang. He didn't seem a bit surprised to see someone standing in his doorway at ten minutes past ten on a Wednesday night. The only thing that struck Hugh about the man in that confused moment was his eyes-they were as black as an Indian's.
"You forgot to turn your sign over, buddy," Hugh heard himself say.
"No, indeed," the man replied politely. "I don't sleep very well, I'm afraid, and some nights I take a fancy to open late. One never knows when a fellow such as yourself may stop by... and take a fancy to something. Would you like to come in and look around?"
Hugh Priest came in and closed the door behind him.
7
"There's a fox-tail-" Hugh began, then had to stop, clear his throat, and start again. The words had come out in a husky, unintelligible mutter. "There's a fox-tail in the window."
"Yes," the proprietor said. "Beauty, isn't it?" He held the duster in front of him now, and his Indian-black eyes looked at Hugh with interest from above the bouquet of feathers which hid his lower face. Hugh couldn't see the guy's mouth, but he had an idea he was smiling. It usually made him uneasy when people-especially people he didn't know-smiled at him. It made him feel like he wanted to fight.
Tonight, however, it didn't seem to bother him at all. Maybe because he was still half-shot.
"It is," Hugh agreed. "It is a beauty. My dad had a convertible with a fox-tail just like that tied to the antenna, back when I was a kid. There's a lot of people in this crummy little burg wouldn't believe I ever was a kid, but I was. Same as everyone else."
"Of course." The man's eyes remained fixed on Hugh's, and the strangest thing was happening-they seemed to be growing. Hugh couldn't seem to pull his own eyes away from them. Too much direct eye-contact was another thing which usually made him feel like he wanted to fight.
But this also seemed perfectly okay tonight.
"I used to think that fox-tail was just about the coolest thing in the world."
"Of course."
"Cool-that was the word we u:ed back then. None of this rad shit.
And gnarly-I don't have the slightest f**kin idea what that means, do you?"
But the proprietor of Needful Things was silent, simply standing there, watching Hugh Priest with his black Indian eyes over the foliage of his feather-duster.
"Anyway, I want to buy it. Will you sell it to me?"
"Of course," Leland Gaunt said for the third time.
Hugh felt relief and a sudden, sprawling happiness. He was suddenly sure everything was going to be all right-everything. This was utterly crazy; he owed money to just about everyone in Castle Rock and the surrounding three towns, he had been on the ragged edge of losing his job for the last six months, his Buick was running on a wing and a prayer-but it was also undeniable.
"How much?" he asked. He suddenly wondered if he would be able to afford such a fine brush, and felt a touch of panic. What if it was out of his reach? Worse, what if he scrounged up the money somehow tomorrow, or the day after that, only to find the guy had sold it?
"Well, that depends."
"Depends? Depends on what?"
"On how much you're willing to pay."
Like a man in a dream, Hugh pulled his battered Lord Burton out of his back pocket.
"Put that away, Hugh."
Did I tell him my name?
Hugh couldn't remember, but he put the wallet away.
"Turn out your pockets. Right here, on top of this case."
Hugh turned out his pockets. He put his pocket-knife, a roll of Certs, his Zippo lighter, and about a dollar-fifty in tobaccosprinkled change on top of the case. The coins clicked on the glass.
The man bent forward and studied the pile. "That looks about right," he remarked, and brushed the feather-duster over the meager collection. When he removed it again, the knife, the lighter, and the Certs were still there. The coins were gone.
Hugh observed this with no surprise at all. He stood as silently as a toy with dead batteries while the tall man went to the display window and came back with the fox-brush. He laid it on top of the cabinet beside Hugh's shrunken pile of pocket paraphernalia.
Slowly, Hugh stretched out one hand and stroked the fur. it felt cold and rich; it crackled with silky static electricity.
Stroking it was like stroking a clear autumn night.
"Nice?" the tall man asked.