"-and that's a political thing," Alan went on. "I recognize it and you recognize it. I just tore up a perfectly valid parking ticket because of a political consideration."
Keeton smiled a little. "You've been in town long enough to know how things work, Alan. One hand washes the other."
Alan shifted in his chair. It made its little creakings and squeakings-sounds he sometimes heard in his dreams after long, hard days. The kind of day this one was turning out to be.
"Yes," he said. "One hand washes the other. But only for so long."
The eyebrows drew together again. "What does that mean?"
"It means that there's a place, even in small towns, where politics have to end. You need to remember that I'm not an appointed official. The selectmen may control the purse strings, but the voters elect me. And what they elect me to do is to protect them, and to preserve and uphold the law. I took the oath, and I try to hold to it."
"Are you threatening me? Because if you are-" Just then the mill-whistle went off. It was muted in here, but Danforth Keeton still jumped as if he had been stung by a wasp.
His eyes widened momentarily, and his hands clamped down to white claws on the arms of his chair.
Alan felt that puzzlement again. He's as skittish as a mare in heat.
What the hell's wrong with him?
For the first time he found himself wondering if maybe Mr.
Danforth Keeton, who had been Castle Rock's Head Selectman since long before Alan himself ever heard of the place, had been uP to something that was not strictly kosher.
"I'm not threatening you," he said. Keeton was beginning to relax again, but warily... as if he were afraid the mill-whistle might go off again,)just to goose him.
"That's good. Because it isn't just a question of purse strings, Sheriff Pangborn. The Board of Selectmen, along with the three County Commissioners, holds right of approval over the hiringand the firing-of Sheriff's Deputies. Among many other rights of approval I'm sure you know about."
"That's just a rubber stamp."
I e d. From his inside "So it has always been," Keeton agr e pocket he produced a Roi-Tan cigar. He pulled it between his fingers, making the cellophane crackle. "That doesn't mean it has to stay Now who is threatening whom? Alan thought, but did not say.
Instead he leaned back in his chair and looked at Keeton. Keeton met his eyes for a few seconds, then dropped his gaze to the cigar and began picking at the wrapper.
"The next time you park in the handicap space, I'm going to ticket you myself, and that citation will stand," Alan said. "And if You ever lay your hands on one of my deputies again, I'll book you on a charge of third-degree assault. That will happen no matter how many so-called rights of approval the selectmen hold. Because politics only stretches so far with me. Do you understand?"
' Keeton looked down at the cigar for a long moment, as if meditating. When he looked up at Alan again, his eyes had turned to small, hard flints. "If you want to find out just how hard my ass is, that way."
Sheriff Pangborn, just go on pushing me." There was anger written on Keeton's face-yes, most assuredly-but Alan thought there was something else written there, as well. He thought it was fear. Did he see that? Smell it? He didn't know, and it didn't matter. But what Keeton was afraid of... that might matter. That might matter a lot.
"Do you understand?" he repeated.
"Yes," Keeton said. He stripped the cellophane from his cigar with a sudden hard gesture and dropped it on the floor. He stuck the cigar in his mouth and spoke around it. "Do you understand me?"
The chair creaked and croaked as Alan rocked forward again.
He looked at Keeton earnestly. "I understand what you're saying, but I sure as hell don't understand how you're acting, Danforth.
We've never been best buddies, you and I-"
"That's for sure," Keeton said, and bit off the end of his cigar.
For a moment Alan thought that was going to end up on the floor, too, and he was prepared to let it go if it did-politics-but Keeton spat it into the palm of his hand and then deposited it in the clean ashtray on the desk. It sat there like a small dog-turd.
"-but we've always had a pretty good working relationship.
Now this. Is there something wrong? If there is, and I can help-"
"Nothing is wrong," Keeton said, rising abruptly. He was angry again-more than just angry. Alan could almost see the steam coming out of his ears. "It's just that I'm so tired of this... persecution."
It was the second time he had used the word. Alan found it an odd word, an unsettling word. In fact, he found this whole conversation unsettling.
"Well, you know where I am," Alan said.
"God, yes!" Keeton said, and went to the door.
"And, please, Danforth-remember about the handicap space."
"Fuck the handicap space!" Keeton said, and slammed out.
Alan sat behind his desk and looked at the closed door for a long time, a troubled expression on his face. Then he went around the desk, picked up the crumpled cellophane cylinder lying on the floor, dropped it into the wastebasket, and went to the door to invite Steamboat Willie in.