In spite of his pounding heart, in spite of his fear, Richardson said: 'This ... this person ... young man, you're crazy if you think you can protect him. He's played it as fast and loose as a snakeoil salesman in a southern town. Sooner or later...'
A thumb slammed into his ear, grinding. The pain was immense, unbelievable. Richardson's head slammed into his window and he cried out. Blindly, he groped for the horn ring.
'You blow that horn, I'll kill you,' the voice whispered.
Richardson let his hands drop. The thumb eased up.
'You ought to use Q-tips in there, man,' the voice said. 'I got wax all over my thumb. Pretty gross.'
Warren Richardson began to cry weakly. He was powerless to stop himself. Tears coursed down his fat cheeks. 'Please don't hurt me anymore,' he said. 'Please don't. Please.
'It's like I said,' Sonny told him. 'It's all a matter of what you want. Your job isn't to worry what someone else might say about ....... these certain people. Your job is to watch what comes out of your own mouth. Your job is to think before you talk the next time that guy from the Journal comes around. You might think about how easy it is to find out who "an informed source" is. Or you might think about what a bummer it would be if your house burned down. Or you might think about how you'd pay for plastic surgery if someone threw some battery acid in your wife's face.'
The man behind Richardson was panting now. He sounded like an animal in a jungle.
'Or you might think, you know, dig it, how easy it would be for someone to come along and pick up your son on his way home from kindergarten.
'Don't you say that!' Richardson cried hoarsely. 'Don't you say that, you slimy bastard!'
'All I'm saying is that you want to think about what you want,' Sonny said. 'An election, it's an all-American thing, you know? Especially in a Bicentennial year. Everyone should have a good time. No one has a good time if numb f**ks like you start telling a lot of lies. Numb jealous f**ks like you.'
The hand went away altogether. The rear door opened. Oh thank God, thank God.
'You just want to think,' Sonny Elliman repeated. 'Now do we have an understanding?'
'Yes,' Richardson whispered. 'But if you think Gr. a certain person can be elected using these tactics, you're badly mistaken.'
'No,' Sonny said. 'You're the one who's mistaken. Because everyone's having a good time. Make sure that you're not left out.'
Richardson didn't answer. He sat rigid behind the steering wheel, his neck throbbing, staring at the clock on the Town Office Building as if it were the only sane thing left in his life. It was now almost five of five. The pork chops would be in by now.
The man in the back seat said one more thing and then he was gone, striding away rapidly, his long hair swinging against the collar of his shirt, not looking back. He went around the corner of the building and out of sight.
The last thing he had said to Warren Richardson was:
'Q-Tips.'
Richardson began to shake all over and it was a long time before he could drive. His first clear feeling was anger - terrible anger. The impulse that came with it was to drive directly to the Capital City police department (housed in the building below the dock) and report what had happened - the threats on his wife and son, the physical abuse - and on whose behalf it had been done.
You might think about how you'd pay for plastic surgery ... or how easy it would be for someone to come' along and pick up your son...
But why? Why take the chance? What he had said to that thug was just the plain, unvarnished truth. Everyone in southern New Hampshire real estate knew that Stillson had been running a shell game, reaping short-term profits that would land him in jail, not sooner or later, but sooner or even sooner. His campaign was an exercise in idiocy. And now strong-arm tactics! No one could get away with that for long in America - and especially not in New England.
But let someone else blow the whistle.
Someone with less to lose.
Warren Richardson started his car and went home to his pork chops and said nothing at all. Someone else would surely put a stop to it.
Chapter Ninteen
1.
On a day not long after Chuck's first breakthrough, Johnny Smith stood in the bathroom of the guest house, running his Norelco over his cheeks. Looking at himself closeup in a mirror always gave him a weird feeling these days, as if he were looking at an older brother instead of himself. Deep horizontal lines had grooved themselves across his forehead. Two more bracketed his mouth. Strangest of all, there was that streak of white, and the rest of his hair was beginning to go gray. It seemed to have started almost overnight.