of the digital clock on the banker’s desk and the hiss of a match as Greg lit a Phillies cheroot. On the walls of the office were Frederick Remington pictures. In the lucite cube were family pictures. Now, spread on the desk, were pictures of the banker with his head buried between the thighs of a young woman with black hair—or it might have been red, the pictures were high-grain black-and-white glossies and it was hard to tell. The woman’s face was very clear. It was not the face of the banker’s wife. Some residents of Ridgeway would have recognized it as the face of one of the waitresses at Bobby Strang’s truckstop two towns over.
The pictures of the banker with his head between the legs of the waitress were the safe ones—her face was clear but his was not. In others, his own grandmother would have recognized him. There were pictures of Gendron and the waitress involved in a whole medley of sexual delights—hardly all the positions of the Kama Sutra, but there were several positions represented that had never made the “Sexual Relationships” chapter of the Ridgeway High health textbook.
Gendron looked up, his face cheesy, his hands trembling. His heart was galloping in his chest. He feared a heart attack.
Greg was not even looking at him. He was looking out the window at the bright blue slice of October sky visible between the Ridgeway Five and Ten and the Ridgeway Card and Notion Shoppe.
“The winds of change have started to blow,” he said, and his face was distant and preoccupied; almost mystical. He looked back at Gendron. “One of those drug-freaks down at the Center, you know what he gave me?”
Chuck Gendron shook his head numbly. With one of his shaking hands he was massaging the left side of his chest—just in case. His eyes kept falling to the photographs. The damning photographs. What if his secretary came in right now? He stopped massaging his chest and began gathering up the pictures, stuffing them back into the envelope.
“He gave me Chairman Mao’s little red book,” Greg said. A chuckle rumbled up from the barrel chest that had once been so thin, part of a body that had mostly disgusted his idolized father. “And one of the proverbs in there ... I can’t remember exactly how it went, but it was something like, ‘The man who senses the wind of change should build not a wind-break but a windmill.’ That was the flavor of it, anyway.”
He leaned forward.
“Harrison Fisher’s not a shoo-in, he’s a has-been. Ford is a has-been. Muskie’s a has-been. Humphrey’s a has-been. A lot of local and state politicians all the way across this country are going to wake up the day after election day and find out that they’re as dead as dodo birds. They forced Nixon out, and the next year they forced out the people who stood behind him in the impeachment hearings, and next year they’ll force out Jerry Ford for the same reason.”
Greg Stillson’s eyes blazed at the banker.
“You want to see the wave of the future? Look up in Maine at this guy Longley. The Republicans ran a guy named Erwin and the Demos ran a guy named Mitchell and when they counted the votes for governor, they both got a big surprise, because the people went and elected themselves an insurance man from Lewiston that didn’t want any part of either party. Now they’re talking about him as a dark horse candidate for president.”
Gendron still couldn’t talk.
Greg drew in his breath. “They’re all gonna think I’m kiddin, see? They thought Longley was kiddin. But I’m not kiddin. I’m building windmills. And you’re gonna supply the building materials.”
He ceased. Silence fell in the office, except for the hum of the clock. At last Gendron whispered, “Where did you get these pictures? Was it that Elliman?”
“Aw, hey. You don’t want to talk about that. You forget all about those pictures. Keep them.”
“And who keeps the negatives?”
“Chuck,” Greg said earnestly, “you don’t understand. I’m offering you Washington. Sky’s the limit, boy! I’m not even asking you to raise that much money. Like I said, just a bucket of water to help prime the pump. When we get rolling, plenty of money is going to come in. Now, you know the guys that have money. You have lunch with them down at the Caswell House. You play poker with them. You have written them commercial loans tied to the prime rate at no