spring in April. They wouldn’t believe you if you said the World Series is going to come in October. They wouldn’t believe you if ... if ...” Dees spluttered, furious.
“Get out of here, you cheap cocksucker,” Johnny said.
“You can kiss off that book!” Dees screamed, apparently summoning up the worst thing he could think of. With his working, knotted face and his dust-caked shirt, he looked like a kid having a class-A tantrum. His Brooklyn accent had deepened and darkened to the point where it was almost a patois. “They’ll laugh you out of every publishing house in New York! Nightstand Readers wouldn’t touch you when I get done with you! There are ways of fixing smart guys like you and we got em, fuckhead! We ...”
“I guess I’ll go get my Remmy and shoot myself a trespasser,” Johnny remarked.
Dees retreated to his rental car, still shouting threats and obscenities. Johnny stood on the porch and watched him, his head thudding sickly. Dees got in, revved the car’s engine mercilessly, and then screamed out, throwing dirt into the air in clouds. He let the car drift just enough on his way out to knock the chopping block by the shed flying. Johnny grinned a little at that in spite of his bad head. He could set up the chopping block a lot more easily than Dees was going to be able to explain the big dent in that Ford’s front fender to the Hertz people.
Afternoon sun twinkled on chrome again as Dees sprayed gravel all the way up the driveway to the road. Johnny sat down in the rocker again and put his forehead in his hand and got ready to wait out the headache.
2
“You’re going to do what?” the banker asked. Outside and below, traffic passed back and forth along the bucolic main street of Ridgeway, New Hampshire. On the walls of the banker’s pine-panelled, third-floor office were Frederick Remington prints and photographs of the banker at local functions. On his desk was a lucite cube, and embedded in this cube were pictures of his wife and his son.
“I’m going to run for the House of Representatives next year,” Greg Stillson repeated. He was dressed in khaki suntan pants, a blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and a black tie with a single blue figure. He looked out of place in the banker’s office, somehow, as if at any moment he might rise to his feet and begin an aimless, destructive charge around the room, knocking over furniture, sweeping the expensively framed Remington prints to the floor, pulling the drapes from their rods.
The banker, Charles “Chuck” Gendron, president of the local Lions Club, laughed—a bit uncertainly. Stillson had a way of making people feel uncertain. As a boy he had been scrawny, perhaps; he liked to tell people that “a high wind woulda blowed me away”; but in the end his father’s genes had told, and sitting here in Gendron’s office, he looked very much like the Oklahoma oilfield roughneck that his father had been.
He frowned at Gendron’s chuckle.
“I mean, George Harvey might have something to say about that, mightn’t he, Greg?” George Harvey, besides being a mover and a shaker in town politics, was the third district Republican godfather.
“George won’t say boo,” Greg said calmly. There was a salting of gray in his hair, but his face suddenly looked very much like the face of the man who long ago had kicked a dog to death in an Iowa farmyard. His voice was patient. “George is going to be on the sidelines, but he’s gonna be on my side of the sidelines, if you get my meaning. I ain’t going to be stepping on his toes, because I’m going to run as an independent. I don’t have twenty years to spend learning the ropes and licking boots.”
Chuck Gendron said hesitantly, “You’re kidding, aren’t you, Greg?”
Greg’s frown returned. It was forbidding. “Chuck, I never kid. People ... they think I kid. The Union-Leader and those yo-yos on the Daily Democrat, they think I kid. But you go see George Harvey. You ask him if I kid around, or if I get the job done. You ought to know better, too. After all, we buried some bodies together, didn’t we, Chuck?”
The frown metamorphosed into a somehow chilling grin—chilling to Gendron, perhaps, because he had allowed himself to be pulled along on a couple of Greg Stillson’s development schemes. They had made money, yes, of course they had, that wasn’t