"Astin. I'll know it."
"The smallest size they have is what I want, because six bucks really isn't much money. Then go next door, to that place that says Bridgton Pizza and Sandwiches. If you've still got at least sixteen of those money-coins left, tell them you want a hoagie."
Roland nodded, which wasn't good enough for Eddie. "Let me hear you say it."
"Hoggie."
"Hoagie."
"HOOG-gie"
"Ho-" Eddie quit. "Roland, let me hear you say 'poorboy.'"
"Poor boy."
"Good. If you have at least sixteen quarters left, ask for a poorboy. Can you say 'lots of mayo'?"
"Lots of mayo."
"Yeah. If you have less than sixteen, ask for a salami and cheese sandwich. Sandwich, not a popkin."
"Salommy sanditch."
"Close enough. And don't say anything else unless you absolutely have to."
Roland nodded. Eddie was right, it would be better if he did not speak. People only had to look at him to know, in their secret hearts, that he wasn't from these parts. They also had a tendency to step away from him. Better he not exacerbate that.
The gunslinger dropped a hand to his left hip as he turned toward the street, an old habit that paid no comfort this time; both revolvers were in die trunk of Cullum's Galaxie, wrapped in their cartridge belts.
Before he could get going again, Eddie grabbed his shoulder.
The gunslinger swung round, eyebrows raised, faded eyes on his friend.
"We have a saying in our world, Roland-we say so-and-so was grasping at straws."
"And what does it mean?"
"This," Eddie said bleakly. "What we're doing. Wish me good luck, fella."
Roland nodded. "Aye, so I do. Both of us."
He began to turn away and Eddie called him back again.
This time Roland wore an expression of faint impatience.
"Don't get killed crossing the street," Eddie said, and then briefly mimicked Cullum's way of speaking. "Summah folks're thicker'n ticks on a dog. And they're not ridin hosses."
"Make your call, Eddie," Roland said, and then crossed Bridgton's high street with slow confidence, walking in the same rolling gait that had taken him across a thousand other high streets in a thousand small towns.
Eddie watched him, then turned to the telephone and consulted the directions. After that he lifted the receiver and dialed the number for Directory Assistance.
SIX
He didn't go, the gunslinger had said, speaking of John Cullum with flat certainty. And why? Because Cullum was the end of the line, there was no one else for them to call. Roland of Gilead's damned old ka, in other words.
After a brief wait, the Directory Assistance operator coughed up Cullum's number. Eddie tried to memorize it-he'd always been good at remembering numbers, Henry had sometimes called him Little Einstein-but this time he couldn't be confident of his ability. Something seemed to have happened either to his thinking processes in general (which he didn't believe) or to his ability to remember certain artifacts of this world (which he sort of did). As he asked for the number a second time-and wrote it in the gathered dust on the phone kiosk's litde ledge-Eddie found himself wondering if he'd still be able to read a novel, or follow the plot of a movie from the succession of images on a screen. He rather doubted it. And what did it matter? The Magic Lantern next door was showing Star Wars, and Eddie thought that if he made it to the end of his life's path and into the clearing without another look at Luke Skywalker and another listen to Darth Vader's noisy breathing, he'd still be pretty much okay.
"Thanks, ma'am," he told the operator, and was about to dial again when there was a series of explosions behind him. Eddie whirled, heart-rate spiking, right hand dipping, expecting to see Wolves, or harriers, or maybe that son of a bitch Flagg-
What he saw was a convertible filled with laughing, goofytaced high school boys with sunburned cheeks. One of had just tossed out a string of firecrackers left over from the Fourth of July-what kids their age in Calla Bryn Sturgis would have called bangers.
If I'd had a gun on my hip, I might have shot a couple of those bucks, Eddie thought. You want to talk goofy, start with that. Yes.
Well. And maybe he might not have. Either way, he had to admit the possibility that he was no longer exactly safe in the more civilized quarters.
"Live with it," Eddie murmured, then added the great sage and eminent junkie's favorite advice for life's little problems:
"Deal.n He dialed John Cullum's number on the old-fashioned rotary phone, and when a robot voice-Blaine the Mono's great-great-great-great-great-grandmother, mayhap-asked him to deposit ninety cents, Eddie dropped in a buck. What the hell, he was saving the world.
The phone rang once... rang twice... and was picked up!
"John!" Eddie almost yelled. "Good f**king deal! John, this is-"
But the voice on the other end was already speaking. As a child of the late eighties, Eddie knew this did not bode well.
"-have reached John Cullum of Cullum Caretakin and Camp Checkin," said Cullum's voice in its familiar slow Yankee drawl. "I gut called away kinda sudden, don'tcha know, and can't say with any degree a' certainty just when I'll be back. If this inconveniences ya, I beg pa'aad'n, but you c'n call Gary Crowell, at 926-5555, or Junior Barker, at 929-4211."
Eddie's initial dismay had departed-depaa-aated, Cullum himself would have said-right around the time the man's wavery recorded voice was telling Eddie that he, Cullum, couldn't say with any degree of certainty when he'd be back.
Because Cullum was right there, in his hobbity little cottage on the western shore of Keywadin Pond, either sitting on his overstuffed hobbity sofa or in one of the two similarly overstuffed hobbity chairs. Sitting there and monitoring messages on his no-doubt-clunky mid-seventies answering machine. And Eddie knew this because... well... Because he just knew.
The primitive recording couldn't completely hide the sly humor that had crept into Cullum's voice by the end of the message.
"Coss, if you're still set on talkin to nobody but yours truly, you c'n leave me a message at the beep. Keep it short." The final word came out shawt.
Eddie waited for the beep and then said, "It's Eddie Dean,
John. I know you're there, and I think you've been waiting for my call. Don't ask me why I think that, because I don't really know, but-"
There was a loud click in Eddie's ear, and then Cullum's voice-his live voice-said, "Hello there, son, you takin good care of my car?"
For a moment Eddie was too bemused to reply, for Cullum's Downeast accent had turned the question into something quite different: You takin good care ofmyka?
"Boy?" Cullum asked, suddenly concerned. 'You still on the wire?"
"Yeah," Eddie said, "and so are you. I thought you were going to Vermont, John."
"Well, I tell you what. This place ain't seen a day this excitin prob'ly since South Stoneham Shoe burnt down in 1923. The cops've gut all the ruds out of town blocked off."
Eddie was sure they were letting folks through the roadblocks if they could show proper identification, but he ignored that issue in favor of something else. "Want to tell me you couldn't find your way out of that town without seeing a single cop, if it suited your fancy?"
There was a brief pause. In it, Eddie became aware of someone at his elbow. He didn't turn to look; it was Roland. Who else in this world would smell-subtly but unquestionably-of another world?
"Oh, well," Cullum said at last. "Maybe I do know a woods road or two that come out over in Lovell. It's been a dry summer, n I guess I could get m'truck up em."
"One or two?"
"Well, say three or four." A pause, which Eddie didn't break.
He was having too much fun. "Five or six," Cullum amended, and Eddie chose not to respond to this, either. "Eight," Cullum said at last, and when Eddie laughed, Cullum joined in. "What's on your mind, son?"
Eddie glanced at Roland, who was holding out a tin of aspirin between die two remaining fingers of his right hand.
Eddie took it gratefully. "I want you to come over to Lovell," he said to Cullum. "Seems like we might have a litde more palavering to do, after all."
"Ayuh, and it seems like I musta known it," Cullum said,
"although it was never right up on the top of my mind; up there I kep' thinkin 'I'll be gettin on the road to Montpelier soon," and still I kep' findin one more thing and one more diing to do around here. If you'da called five minutes ago, you woulda gotten a busy-I 'us on the phone to Charlie Beemer. It was his wife 'n sister-in-law that got killed in the market, don't you know. And then I thought, 'What the hell, I'll just give the whole place a good sweep before I put my gear in the back of the truck and go.' Notfiin up on top is what I'm sayin, but down underneath I guess I been waitin for your call ever since I got back here. Where'll you be? Turtleback Lane?"
Eddie popped open the aspirin tin and looked greedily at the little line-up of tablets. Once a junkie, always a junkie, he reckoned. Even when it came to this stuff. "Ayuh," he said, with his tongue only pardy in his cheek; he had become quite the mimic of regional dialects since meeting Roland on a Delta jet descending into Kennedy Airport. 'You said that lane was nothing but a two-mile loop off Route 7, didn't you?"