'Salem's Lot(45)

'I been waitin' to hear somebody say that all night. Jackie!' he bawled. 'Bring my buddy here a pitcher! Budweiser!'

Jackie brought the pitcher on a tray littered with beer?-soaked change and lifted it onto the table, her right arm bulging like a prize fighter's. She looked at the dollar as if it were a new species of cockroach. 'That's a buck fawty,' she said.

Ben put another bill down. She picked them both up, fished sixty cents out of the assorted puddles on her tray, banged them down on the table, and said, 'Weasel Craig, when you yell like that you sound like a rooster gettin' its neck wrung.'

'You're beautiful, darlin',' Weasel said. 'This is Ben Mears. He writes books.'

'Meetcha,' Jackie said, and disappeared into the dim?ness.

Ben poured himself a glass of beer and Weasel followed suit, filling his glass professionally to the top. The foam threatened to overspill and then backed down. 'Here's to you, buddy.'

Ben lifted his glass and drank.

'So how's that writin' goin'?'

'Pretty good, Weasel.'

'I seen you goin' round with that little Norton girl. She's a real peach, she is. You couldn't do no better there.'

'Yes, she's - '

'Matt!' Weasel bawled, almost startling Ben into drop?ping his glass. By God, he thought, he does sound like a rooster saying good-by to this world.

'Matt Burke!' Weasel waved wildly, and a man with white hair raised his hand in greeting and started to cut through the crowd. 'Here's a fella you ought to meet,' Weasel told Ben. 'Matt Burke's one smart son of a whore.' The man coming toward them looked about sixty. He was tall, wearing a clean flannel shirt open at the throat, and his hair, which was as white as Weasel's, was cut in a flattop.

'Hello, Weasel,' he said.

'How are you, buddy?' Weasel said. 'Want you to meet a fella stayin' over to Eva's. Ben Mears. Writes books, he does. He's a lovely fella.' He looked at Ben. 'Me'n Matt grew up together, only he got an education and I got the shaft.' Weasel cackled.

Ben stood up and shook Matt Burke's bunched hand gingerly. 'How are you?'

'Fine, thanks. I've read one of your books, Mr Mears. Air Dance.'

'Make it Ben, please. I hope you liked it.'

'I liked it much better than the critics, apparently,' Matt said, sitting down. 'I think it will gain ground as time goes by. How are you, Weasel?'

'Perky,' Weasel said. 'Just as perky as ever I could be. Jackie!' he bawled. 'Bring Matt a glass!'

'Just wait a minute, y'old fart!' Jackie yelled back, draw?ing laughter from the nearby tables.

'She's a lovely girl,' Weasel said. 'Maureen Talbot's girl.'

'Yes,' Matt said. 'I had Jackie in school. Class of '71. Her mother was '5 l.'

'Matt teaches high school English,' Weasel told Ben. 'You and him should have a lot to talk about.'

'I remember a girl named Maureen Talbot,' Ben said. 'She came and got my aunt's wash and brought it back all folded in a wicker basket. The basket only had one handle.'

'Are you from town, Ben?' Matt asked.

'I spent some time here as a boy. With my Aunt Cynthia.'

'Cindy Stowens?'

'Yes.'

Jackie came with a clean glass, and Matt tipped beer into it. 'It really is a small world, then. Your aunt was in a senior class I taught my first year in 'salem's Lot. Is she well?'

'She died in 1972.'

'I'm sorry.'

'She went very easily,' Ben said, and refilled his glass. The band had finished its set, and the members were trouping toward the bar. The level of conversation went down a notch.

'Have you come back to Jerusalem's Lot to write a book about us?' Matt asked.

A warning bell went off in Ben's mind.

'In a way, I suppose,' he said.

'This town could do much worse for a biographer. Air Dance was a fine book. I think there might be another fine book in this town. I once thought I might write it.'

'Why didn't you?'

Matt smiled - an easy smile with no trace of bitterness, cynicism, or malice. 'I lacked one vital ingredient. Talent.'

'Don't you believe it,' Weasel said, refilling his glass from the dregs of the pitcher. 'Ole Matt's got a world of talent. Schoolteachin' is a wonnerful job. Nobody appreci?ates schoolteachers, but they're . . . ' He swayed a little in his chair, searching for completion. He was becoming very drunk. 'Salt of the earth,' he finished, took a mouthful of beer, grimaced, and stood up. 'Pardon me while I take a leak.'

He wandered off, bumping into people and hailing them by name. They passed him on with impatience or good cheer, and watching his progress to the men's room was like watching a pinball racket and bounce its way down toward the flipper buttons.

'There goes the wreck of a fine man,' Matt said, and held up one finger. A waitress appeared almost immediately and addressed him as Mr Burke. She seemed a trifle scandalized that her old English Classics teacher should be here, boozing it up with the likes of Weasel Craig. When she turned away to bring them another pitcher, Ben thought Matt looked a trifle bemused.

'I like Weasel,' Ben said. 'I get a feeling there was a lot there once. What happened to him?'