The plant - By Stephen King Page 0,55

be back until next Wednesday or so, because winding up his mother's affairs is taking longer than he thought. But that isn't the interesting part. LaShonda has written, and I quote, "There are difficulties with his brother and sister. Mostly sister." Did Riddley actually tell her that? They have never seemed particularly friendly, in fact I've always gotten the idea that LaShonda considers Riddley to be beneath her, maybe because she believes the Amos 'n Andy accent... although that's a little tough to swallow. Mostly I think it's because he comes to work in gray fatigues from Dickey and she always shows up dressed to the nines... some days to the tens.

No, I don't think Riddley exactly said anything about having problems with his brother and sister. I think L. just sort of... knew. Zenith isn't out in the reception area, so far the garlic seems to be working and it's mostly growing in the other direction... toward the end of the hall and the window that looks out on the airshaft... but its influence may have reached the reception area.

I think LaShonda read his mind. Read it over fifteen hundred miles or so of long distance telephone line. And without even knowing it. Maybe I'm wrong but...

No, I'm not wrong.

Because I'm reading her mind, and I know.

[Five second pause on tape]

Whoo, Jesus.

Jesus Christ, this is big.

This is fucking big.

From Bill Gelb's Diary

4/3/81

I'm at my apartment tonight, but am thinking about Paramus, New Jersey, tomorrow night. There's an all-night poker game there on Saturdays, pretty high stakes and connected to the Italian Brotherhood, if you know what I mean. Ginelli's game, or so I've heard (he's the Mafia type who owns Four Fathers, two blocks from here). I've only gone there a couple of times and lost my shirt on both occasions (I paid up, too, you don't fuck with the Italian gentlemen), but I have a feeling that this time things might be different.

Today in my office, after R. W. okayed my book idea (Alien Investing is going to sell at least 3 million copies, don't ask me how I know that but I do), I took my dice out of the desk drawer where I keep them and started rolling. At first I was barely paying attention to what I was doing, then I took a closer look and holy shit, I couldn't believe what I was seeing. I got out a legal pad and recorded forty straight rolls.

Thirty-four sevens.

Six elevens.

No snake-eyes, no boxcars. Not even a single point.

I tried the same experiment here at home (as soon as I got in through the door, as a matter of fact), not sure it would work because the telepathy doesn't travel much beyond the fifth floor at 490 Park. The fact is, you can feel it fade each time you go down (or up) in the elevator. It drains away like water draining out of a sink, and it's a sad sensation.

Anyway, tonight, rolling forty times on my kitchen table produced twenty sevens, six elevens, and fourteen "points" - i. e. spot combos adding up to three, four, five, six, eight, nine, and ten. No snake-eyes. No boxcars. The luck isn't quite so strong away from the office, but twenty sevens and six elevens are pretty amazing. More amazing still, I didn't crap out one single time, not at 490, not even here at home.

Will I be as successful at five-card stud and jacks or better on the other side of the Hudson?

Only one way to find out, baby. Tomorrow night.

I can hardly believe what's happening, but there isn't the slightest doubt in my mind that it is happening. Roger suggested that we stay away from the plant, and what a joke that is. Might as well suggest the tide not to turn, or that Harlow Enders not be such an asshole. (Enders is a Robert Goulet fan. All you have to do to know that is to look at him.)

I found myself wandering down toward Riddley's closet once or twice an hour all day long, just to take a big brain-clearing whiff. Sometimes it smells like popcorn (the Nordica Theater, where I copped my first feel... I didn't tell the others that part, but given current conditions I'm sure they must know), sometimes like freshly cut grass, sometimes like Wildroot Cr?me Oil, which is what I always wanted the barber to put on my hair as the finishing touch when I was but a wee slip of a