Part 4 (1/2)

The room was no Buckingham Palace, but it would do for now. The rest of his conversation with Mullins earlier in the day had been pretty cut-and-dry, mostly tying up loose ends: ”Cody Natter's dealing PCP?” he asked in disbelief. ”Here in Crick City?”

”That's right,” Mullins said. ”And that's why I need you, 'cos you got experience. Besides, I ain't got no one else.”

This comment didn't exactly make Phil feel like Cop of the Year, but he could see Mullins' point. ”So what about my rep with Metro?” he asked.

”You resigned, you were never charged. I don't give a s.h.i.+t what's on your record there. Just don't pop any more kids with quads.”

”Wait a minute, Chief,” Phil felt obliged. ”Let's get one thing clear: I never shot anyone with quads or any other illegal ammo. It was a frame. Some guy named Dign.a.z.io set me up because he wanted my job. h.e.l.l, the only caps I popped were over the kid's head. It was Dign.a.z.io who shot the kid with quads, then he made it look like it was me.”

”Yeah, right,” Mullins rushed. ”Whatever.”

”You don't believe me, do you?”

”'Course I believe ya,” the chief said, smiling. ”And even if you did it, I don't care. What, I'm supposed to give a rat's a.s.s that you snuffed some p.i.s.sant ghetto kid who was spotting for a PCP lab? You ask me, they should've given you a medal. Only thing I know is I got Cody Natter pus.h.i.+ng the same s.h.i.+t in my town, and if I don't take care of it, you and me'll both be punching the night clock at the bedsheet factory. So do you want the job or not?”

”Yes,” Phil said without even thinking. But he didn't really even need to think. The peanuts pay here was still more than he made as a guard, and at least he'd be a cop again.

But it wasn't so much the job as the issue. Phil had a big problem with drugs. In the city, he'd seen what the stuff did to people, to their bodies, their minds, their whole lives. It was the most integral evil he'd ever imagined. They sold the s.h.i.+t to 6-year-olds on the playground, for G.o.d's sake. The younger they got them hooked, the better, then they'd have the kids robbing liquor stores or turning tricks on the street. It was an industry that perpetuated slavery, and the G.o.dd.a.m.n courts seemed more concerned with the rights of the dealers than the innocent lives they destroyed. Crack, heroin, PCP-take your pick. They were all different but all the same, all part of the same machine that preyed on people's weaknesses and used them up until there was nothing left. PCP in particular. They cut the s.h.i.+t with industrial solvents to make it cheaper; each drag caused brain damage, made you crazy. Phil thought if he could ever do anything useful in his life, it would be sending these evil motherf.u.c.kers to the joint for life. And here was Mullins, offering him another chance...

”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.”

”f.u.c.k him. I'm your boss now. Tell him to hire some other monkey for that no-d.i.c.k 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 s.h.i.+t you got for a car and get moved in tonight. I'm putting you on eight-to-eights, the night s.h.i.+ft, 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 f.u.c.kin' 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 pa.s.sport 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 s.h.a.g a.s.s out of here and get your s.h.i.+t squared away,” Mullins remarked, unconsciously flipping through last year's Sw.a.n.k 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 skysc.r.a.pers 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 const.i.tutions 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 sh.o.r.e 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 f.u.c.k with 'em! Ain't no one on the good earth with a pair bra.s.s 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 c.o.c.ked 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 wh.o.r.es 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 hobk.n.o.bbin', 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 hobk.n.o.bbin” 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 hobk.n.o.bbin'. 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 hobk.n.o.bbin'...

It was something he'd heard about since he was little, something about the Creekers. His daddy'd tell him about it when he was on a drunk which was most ever night, yeah, stories about this place the Creekers had way on back in the woods where a fella could buy hisself a Creeker woman, and these Creeker gals, they'se were all f.u.c.ked up an' deformed an all, and it was a place where a fella could go fer some really groaty hobk.n.o.bbin'. 'Course, Gut hisself hadn't seen many Creekers ever, and as for this Creeker wh.o.r.ehouse, well, he didn't know if the place really existed at all, like maybe it was just a bunch of s.h.i.+t his daddy was spoutin' ta scare him, but if Gut could sell Scott-Boy on the idea of tryin' ta find the place, then they wouldn't have ta kill no one tonight, and that sounded just fine to Gut 'cos he still had this really bad feelin' 'bout killin' right now, and that feelin' was a'growin' in his belly like that time he et some bad squirrel pie, and he was just sick as a dog fer two weeks. So Gut just then, he decided to make his pitch: ”Say, Scott-Boy, ya know, fer longer than I can remember I been hearin' stories 'bout some really wild wh.o.r.ehouse back up the boonies somewhere, but this wh.o.r.ehouse, see, it's different from the reg-lar kind 'cos they say it's a Creeker wh.o.r.ehouse where the gals have funny-shaped heads and a couple more t.i.ts than they'se supposed ta and f.u.c.ked-up stuff like that, and I mean I bet if we found it we'se could have us a real rowdy time, some real groaty hobk.n.o.bbin' like we'se never had before, don't'cha think?”

”Aw now, Gut,” Scott dismissed, ”I heard them stories too since I was a kid, and it's just a load of horseflop, and I ain't seen me five Creekers in my whole life I bet. So quit tryin' ta spoil my night of razzin'. There ain't no Creekers, and there sh.o.r.e's s.h.i.+t ain't no Creeker wh.o.r.ehouse.”