It occurred to him briefly that since this world was different from the one in which he and Jake had grown up - the world of Claudia y Inez Bachman instead of Beryl Evans - that maybe the big computer genius herewouldn't be Gates; could be someone named Chin Ho Fuk, for all Eddie knew. But he also knew that wasn't likely. This world was very close to his: same cars, same brand names (Coke and Pepsi rather than Nozz-A-La), same people on the currency. He thought he could count on Bill Gates (not to mention Steve Jobs-a-rino) showing up when he was supposed to.
In one way, he didn't even care. Calvin Tower was in many respects a total shithead. On the other hand, Tower had stood up to Andolini and Balazar for as long as he had to. He'd held onto the vacant lot. And now Roland had the bill of sale in his pocket. They owed Tower a fair return for what he'd sold them. It had nothing to do with how much or how little they liked the guy, which was probably a good thing for old Cal.
"This Microsoft stuff," Eddie said, "you can pick it up for fifteen dollars a share in 1982. By 1987 - which is when I sort of went on permanent vacation - those shares will be worth thirty-five apiece. That's a hundred per cent gain. A little more."
"Says you," Tower said, and finally succeeded in pulling his hand free.
"If he says so," Roland said, "it's the truth."
"Say thanks," Eddie said. It occurred to him that he was suggesting that Tower take a fairly big leap based on a stone junkie's observations, but he thought that in this case he could do that.
"Come on," Roland said, and made that twirling gesture with his fingers. "If we're going to see the writer, let's go."
Eddie slid behind the wheel of Cullum's car, suddenly sure that he would never see either Tower or Aaron Deepneau again. With the exception of Pere Callahan, none of them would. The partings had begun.
"Do well," he said to them. "May ya do well."
"And you," Deepneau said.
"Yes," Tower said, and for once he didn't sound a bit grudging. "Good luck to you both. Long days and happy nights, or whatever it is."
There was just room to turn around without backing, and Eddie was glad - he wasn't quite ready for reverse, at least not yet.
As Eddie drove back toward the Rocket Road, Roland looked over his shoulder and waved. This was highly unusual behavior for him, and the knowledge must have shown on Eddie's face.
"It's the end-game now," Roland said. "All I've worked for and waited for all the long years. The end is coming. I feel it. Don't you?"
Eddie nodded. It was like that point in a piece of music when all the instruments begin rushing toward some inevitable crashing climax.
"Susannah?" Roland asked.
"Still alive."
"Mia?"
"Still in control."
"The baby?"
"Still coming."
"And Jake? Father Callahan?"
Eddie stopped at the road, looked both ways, then made his turn.
"No," he said. "From them I haven't heard. What about you?"
Roland shook his own head. From Jake, somewhere in the future with just an ex-Catholic priest and a billy-bumbler for protection, there was only silence. Roland hoped the boy was all right.
For the time being, he could do no more.
STAVE: Commala-me-mine
You have to walk the line.
When you finally get the thing you need
It makes you feel so fine.
RESPONSE: Commala-come-nine!
It makes ya feel fine!
But if you'd have the thing you need
You have to walk the line.
10th Stanza: Susannah-Mio, Divided Girl of Mine
One
"John Fitzgerald Kennedy died this afternoon at Parkland Memorial Hospital."
This voice, this grieving voice: Walter Cronkite's voice, in a dream.
"America's last gunslinger is dead. O Discordia!"
Two
As Mia left room 1919 of the New York Plaza - Park (soon to be the Regal U.N. Plaza, a Sombra/North Central project, O Discordia), Susannah fell into a swoon. From a swoon she passed into a savage dream filled with savage news.
Three
The next voice is that of Chet Huntley, co-anchor ofThe Huntley-Brinkley Report. It's also - in some way she cannot understand - the voice of Andrew, her chauffeur.
"Diem and Nhu are dead," says that voice. "Now do slip the dogs of war, the tale of woe begins; from here the way to Jericho Hill is paved with blood and sin. Ah, Discordia! Charyou tree! Come, reap!"
Where am I?
She looks around and sees a concrete wall packed with a jostling intaglio of names, slogans, and obscene drawings. In the middle, where anyone sitting on the bunk must see it, is this greeting: HELLO NIGGER WELCOME TO OXFORD DON ' T LET THE SUN SET ON YOU HERE!
The crotch of her slacks is damp. The underwear beneath is downright soaked, and she remembers why: although the bail bondsman was notified well in advance, the cops held onto them as long as possible, cheerfully ignoring the increasing chorus of pleas for a bathroom break. No toilets in the cells; no sinks; not even a tin bucket. You didn't need to be a quiz-kid onTwenty-one to figure it out; they weresupposed to piss in their pants, supposed to get in touch with their essential animal natures, and eventually she had,she, Odetta Holmes -
No,she thinks,I am Susannah. Susannah Dean. I've been taken prisoner again, jailed again, but I am still I.
She hears voices from beyond this wing of jail cells, voices which for her sum up the present. She's supposed to think they're coming from a TV out in the jail's office, she assumes, but it's got to be a trick. Or some ghoul's idea of a joke. Why else would Frank McGee be saying President Kennedy's brother, Bobby, is dead? Why would Dave Garroway from theToday show be saying that the President's littleboy is dead, that John-John has been killed in a plane crash? What sort of awful lie is that to hear as you sit in a stinking southern jail with your wet underpants clinging to your crotch? Why is "Buffalo" Bob Smith of theHowdy Doody show yelling "Cowabunga, kids, Martin Luther King is dead"? And the kids all screaming back, "Commala-come-Yay!We love the things ya say! Only good nigger's a dead nigger, so kill a coontoday! "