'Salem's Lot(8)

'They were a dime when I came along. Do you remember what he always used to say?'

Ben hunched forward, twisted one hand into an arthritic claw, and turned one corner of his mouth down in a paralytic twist. 'Your bladder,' he whispered. 'Those rut beers will destroy your bladder, bucko.'

Her laughter pealed upward toward the slowly rotating fan over their heads. Miss Coogan looked up suspiciously. 'That's perfect! Except he used to call me lassie.'

They looked at each other, delighted.

'Say, would you like to go to a movie tonight?' he asked.

'I'd love to.'

'What's closest?'

She giggled. 'The Cinex in Portland, actually. Where the lobby is decorated with the deathless paintings of Susan Norton.'

'Where else? What kind of movies do you like?'

'Something exciting with a car chase in it.'

'Okay. Do you remember the Nordica? That was right here in town.'

'Sure. It closed in 1968. 1 used to go on double dates there when I was in high school. We threw popcorn boxes at the screen when the movies were bad.' She giggled. 'They usually were.'

'They used to have those old Republic serials,' he said. 'Rocket Man. The Return of Rocket Man. Crash Callahan and the Voodoo Death God.'

'That was before my time.'

'Whatever happened to it?'

'That's Larry Crockett's real estate office now,' she said. 'The drive-in over in Cumberland killed it, I guess. That and TV.'

They were silent for a moment, thinking their own thoughts. The Greyhound clock showed 10:45 A.M.

They said in chorus: 'Say, do you remember - '

They looked at each other, and this time Miss Coogan looked up at both of them when the laughter rang out. Even Mr Labree looked over.

They talked for another fifteen minutes, until Susan told him reluctantly that she had errands to run but yes, she could be ready at seven-thirty. When they went different ways, they both marveled over the easy, natural, coinci?dental impingement of their lives.

Ben strolled back down Jointner Avenue, pausing at the corner of Brock Street to look casually up at the Marsten House. He remembered that the great forest fire of 1951 had burned almost to its very yard before the wind had changed.

He thought: Maybe it should have burned. Maybe that would have been better.

3

Nolly Gardener came out of the Municipal Building and sat down on the steps next to Parkins Gillespie just in time to see Ben and Susan walk into Spencer's together. Parkins was smoking a Pall Mail and cleaning his yellowed finger?nails with a pocket knife.

'That's that writer fella, ain't it?' Nolly asked.

'Yep.'

'Was that Susie Norton with him?'

'Yep.'

'Well, that's interesting,' Nolly said, and hitched his garrison belt. His deputy star glittered importantly on his chest. He had sent away to a detective magazine to get it; the town did not provide its deputy constables with badges. Parkins had one, but he carried it in his wallet, something Nolly had never been able to understand. Of course every?body in the Lot knew he was the constable, but there was such a thing as tradition. There was such a thing as responsibility. When you were an officer of the law, you had to think about both. Nolly thought about them both often, although he could only afford to deputy part-time.

Parkins's knife slipped and slit the cuticle of his thumb. 'Shit,' he said mildly.

'You think he's a real writer, Park?'

'Sure he is. He's got three books right in this library.'

'True or made up?'

'Made up.' Parkins put his knife away and sighed.

'Floyd Tibbets ain't going to like some guy makin' time with his woman.'

'They ain't married,' Parkins said. 'And she's over eight?een.'

'Floyd ain't going to like it.'

'Floyd can crap in his hat and wear it backward for all of me,' Parkins said. He crushed his smoke on the step, took a Sucrets box out of his pocket, put the dead butt inside, and put the box back in his pocket.

'Where's that writer fella livin'?'

'Down to Eva's,' Parkins said. He examined his wounded cuticle closely. 'He was up lookin' at the Marsten House the other day. Funny expression on his face.'

'Funny? What do you mean?'

'Funny, that's all.' Parkins took his cigarettes out. The sun felt warm and good on his face. 'Then he went to see Larry Crockett. Wanted to lease the place.'

'The Marsten place?'

'Yep.'

'What is he, crazy?'

'Could be.' Parkins brushed a fly from the left knee of his pants and watched it buzz away into the bright morning. 'Ole Larry Crockett's been a busy one lately. I hear he's gone and sold the Village Washtub. Sold it awhile back, as a matter of fact.'

'What, that old laundrymat?'

'Yep.'

'What would anyone want to put in there!'

'Dunno.'

'Well.' Nolly stood up and gave his belt another hitch. 'Think I'll take a turn around town.'

'You do that,' Parkins said, and lit another cigarette.

'Want to come?'

'No, I believe I'll sit right here for a while.'