“Yeah,” Phil repeated. “I’ll take the job. When do you want me to start?”
“Right now,” Mullins said, pouring more rank coffee into his NRA mug.
“Chief, I can’t just walk off my security job. I gotta give my boss some notice.”
“Fuck him. I’m your boss now. Tell him to hire some other monkey for that no-dick job. I need you here more than he needs you guarding yarn.”
“All right, but my apartment’s over forty miles away. You have to give me some time to find a closer place to live.”
“I already found you a place. Old Lady Crane, you remember her? The old bag’s still got that hole-in-the-wall boardinghouse out off the Route, and she’s holding a room for you. Thirty-five clams a week—you think you can swing that, Daddy Warbucks? And I already paid your first month’s rent. So quit jacking your jaws and get out of here. Go load up that piece of shit you got for a car and get moved in tonight. I’m putting you on eight-to-eights, the night shift, and I’ll even pay you overtime for anything over forty until I can get a couple more men hired on.”
Phil felt winded. “Chief, we’re moving way too fast, aren’t we? First off, I need clearance from the state training academy, don’t I?”
“You’re already cleared through Metro.”
“And I need uniforms, I need a piece, I need—”
Mullins pointed to the corner. “See that big box sitting there? Those are your uniforms. And see that little box sitting on top of it? That’s your service revolver.” Mullins got something out of his desk drawer. “And see this teensy weensy box right here?”
Phil took the little box from Mullins’ fingers, opened it, and removed its contents:
A brand new Bianchi police badge.
“There’s your fuckin’ tin,” Mullins finished. “You’re a big bad policeman again. We’ll send in your new print cards to the state tomorrow. Only other thing I need from you is a passport photo for your department ID, and you’re all set.”
“Christ, Chief.” The badge flashed in Phil’s hand bright as 24-carat gold.
“Now shag ass out of here and get your shit squared away,” Mullins remarked, unconsciously flipping through last year’s Swank calendar. “Can’t you see I’ve got work to do?”
Phil picked up the boxes and headed for the door. “Okay, Chief. See you tomorrow.”
“Yeah. Oh, and one more thing.”
Phil turned.
Mullins’ mustached lip twitched up in a smile. “It’s good to have you back…Sergeant Straker.”
Sergeant Straker, the words drifted. He was staring out the window now, of the tiny room in Old Lady Crane’s boardinghouse that was suddenly his home. Yeah, Sergeant Straker, back in the tin…
Outside looked strange—trees and fields and hills instead of skyscrapers and traffic. Cricket sounds instead of sirens. Pine air instead of smog. Crick City was abed, and the night bloomed in a kind of beauty he’d forgotten even existed. Maybe this won’t be so bad, he considered.
Or was that just wishful thinking?
Because when Phil went to sleep, he dreamed…
He dreamed of his childhood.
And the vague, half-seen horrors of The House.
««—»»
Yes, sir, sooner or later, Gut thought, we’se gonna pick the wrong folks to razz…
Scott-Boy crumpled his empty beer can, tossed it out, and cracked open another. They could go through a case a night, no problem, healthy young livers and constitutions and all. But Gut was nursing his.
“What’s buggin’ you?” Scott inquired, never one to sit calm whiles his only razzin’ buddy displayed signs of psychic distress. “You done look plumb et up with a case of the blahs tonight, Gut.”
“Aw, it’s nothin’. Just feelin’ a tad spotty’s all.”
“Well, we’se shore gonna put a fixin’ to that right soon enough. Coupla bad razzers like us, we gots it all, ya know? Good beer, good set of wheels, plus laters on we’ll both have ourselfs a horse-choke-size wad of cash in each our pockets after we’re done with our run. Yes, sir. We’se plumb got it made.”
“Uh, yeah,” Gut replied with little enthusiasm. But then he decided it couldn’t hurt to air his feelings. He felt weird tonight, he felt really bad. “But I’se been thinkin’, Scott-Boy. Like maybe sooner or later we’se gonna pick the wrong folks to razz.”
“Sheee-it!” Scott whooped. “Yeah, and if worms had guns, birds wouldn’t fuck with ’em! Ain’t no one on the good earth with a pair brass enough to take us on. We’re bad razzin’ fellas, Gut. Ain’t no one can touch us. Why—I’ll show ya! Just lookit this!” And then Scott-Boy shucked his daddy’s big Webley .455 and cocked that sucker.
Scott-Boy laughed, guzzlin’ his brew, and givin’ his crotch a rub now and again on account of the idea of killing gave him as much spark in the loins as seeing a real looker in the buff or a nice big joggly set of milkers, but Gut still had that low sicklike feeling way down deep in his belly. The feeling deepened as he drove the truck on down the road. The moon went right along with them over the trees, kind of funny-colored and not quite full, and there weren’t a cloud in the sky, just a big glittery bunch of stars, and the harder Gut looked into them stars, the worse he felt.
He just didn’t feel like killin’ anyone tonight.
“Scott-Boy, look, I really don’t feel up to a good razz right now. I means like we’se got that run ta make soon. So why don’t we do somethin’ quick, like buy us some whores or somethin’?”
“’Cos, Gut, see, I already told ya, there ain’t no kick to that. That’s like drinkin’ Yoo-Hoo instead of the good beer like we’se always drink,” Scott explained, and cracked open another one. “Can’t have no fun unless we’se into the really groaty hobknobbin’, ya know? And why waste time? We ain’t due fer the pick up fer a good spell, so let’s have us a hoot till then.”
“Uh, yeah,” Gut came back. He could see there was no point; once Scott “Scott-Boy” Tuckton had his mind set, there weren’t no swayin’ him. And what Scott meant by “groaty hobknobbin” was his usual kind of razz, the kinky, down ’n’ dirty kind like he was used to. The really wild, un-Christian kind of stuff like the time they did the job on that old lady walkin’ on crutches, or that time last summer when they’se spotted that gal in the wheelchair waitin’ fer that special bus at the junction, and they stopped and just throwed her in the back of the truck and droved off to one of their fave-urt clearings back in the woods, and Scott-Boy did all kinds of rowdy things to that poor gal ‘fore he got ta snuffin’ her. That’s what Scott meant by groaty hobknobbin’. That’s what gave him his biggest kick: the really pree-verted stuff.
And that gave Gut an idea.
Yeah, pre-versions. Some really plumb bad, down ’n dirty groaty hobknobbin’…