"When we saved the writer, did we also save the world? We did, somehow, didn't we?"
"Yes," he said.
"How does it happen that a writer who's not even very good-and I can say that, I've read four or five of his books-gets to be in charge of the world's destiny? Or of the entire universe's?"
"If he's not very good, why didn't you stop at one?"
Mrs. Tassenbaum smiled. "Touche. He is readable, I'll give him that-tells a good story, but has a tin ear for language. I answered your question, now answer mine. God knows there are writers who feel that the whole world hangs on what they say.
Norman Mailer comes to mind, also Shirley Hazzard and John Updike. But apparently in this case the world really does. How did it happen?"
Roland shrugged. "He hears the right voices and sings the right songs. Which is to say, ka."
It was Irene Tassenbaum's turn to look as though she understood.
FIFTEEN
The limousine drew up in front of a building with a green awning out front. Another man in another well-cut suit was standing by the door. The steps leading up from the sidewalk were blocked with yellow tape. There were words printed on it which Roland couldn't read.
"It says CRIME SCENE, DO NOT ENTER," Mrs. Tassenbaum told him. "But it looks like it's been there awhile. I think they usually take the tape down once they're finished with their cameras and little brushes and things. You must have powerful friends."
Roland was sure the tape had indeed been there awhile; three weeks, give or take. That was when Jake and Pere Callahan had entered the Dixie Pig, positive they were going to their deaths but pushing ahead anyway. He saw there was a little puddle of liquor left in Irene's glass and swallowed it, grimacing at the hot taste of the alcohol but relishing the burn on the way down.
"Better?" she asked.
"Aye, thanks." He reset the bag with the Orizas in it more firmly on his shoulder and got out with Oy at his heel. Irene paused to talk to the driver, who seemed to have been successful in making her travel arrangements. Roland ducked beneath the tape and then just stood where he was for a moment, listening to the honk and pound of the city on this bright June day, relishing its adolescent vitality. He would never see another city, of that much he was almost positive. And perhaps that was just as well. He had an idea that after New York, all others would be a step down.
The guard-obviously someone who worked for the Tet Corporation and not this city's constabulary-joined him on the walk. "If you want to go in there, sir, there's something you should show me."
Roland once more took his gunbelt from the pouch, once more unwrapped it from the holster, once more drew his father's gun. This time he did not offer to hand it over, nor did that gentleman ask to take it. He only examined the scrollwork, particularly that at the end of the barrel. Then he nodded respectfully and stepped back. "I'll unlock the door. Once you go inside, you're on your own. You understand that, don't you?"
Roland, who had been on his own for most of his life, nodded.
Irene took his elbow before he could move forward, turned him, and put her arms around his neck. She had also bought herself a pair of low-heeled shoes, and only needed to tilt her head back slightly in order to look into his eyes.
"You take care of yourself, cowboy." She kissed him briefly on the mouth-the kiss of a friend-and then knelt to stroke Oy. "And take care of the little cowboy, too."
"I'll do my best," Roland said. "Will you remember your promise about Jake's grave?"
"A rose," she said. "I'll remember."
"Thankee." He looked at her a moment longer, consulted the workings of his own inner instincts-hunch-think-and came to a decision. From the bag containing the Orizas, he took the envelope containing the bulky book... the one Susannah would never read to him on the trail, after all. He put it in Irene's hands.
She looked at it, frowning. "What's in here? Feels like a book."
"Yar. One by Stephen King. Insomnia, it's called. Has thee read that one?"
She smiled a bit. "No, thee hasn't. Has thee?"
"No. And won't. It feels tricksy to me."
"I don't understand you."
"It feels... thin." He was thinking of Eyebolt Canyon,