Salem's Lot

“My partner is extremely knowledgeable on any subject in which he becomes interested,” Straker said. “He knows that your town is on a highway which serves tourists and summer residents. These are the people with whom we expect to do the bulk of our business. However, that is no accord to you. Do you find the papers in order?”

Larry tapped his desk with the blue folder. “They seem to be. But I’m not going to be horse-traded, no matter what you say you want.”

“No, of course not.” Straker’s voice was edged with well-bred contempt. “You have a lawyer in Boston, I believe. One Francis Walsh.”

“How do you know that?” Larry barked.

“It doesn’t matter. Take the papers to him. He will confirm their validity. The land where this shopping center is to be built will be yours, on fulfillment of three conditions.”

“Ah,” Larry said, and looked relieved. “Conditions.” He leaned back and selected a William Pe

“Number one. You will sell me the Marsten House and the business establishment for one dollar. Your client in the matter of the house is a land corporation in Bangor. The business establishment now belongs to a Portland bank. I am sure both parties will be agreeable if you make up the difference to the lowest acceptable prices. Minus your commission, of course.”

“Where do you get your information?”

“That is not for you to know, Mr Crockett. Condition two. You will say nothing of our transaction here today. Nothing. If the question ever comes up, all you know is what I have told you—we are two partners begi

“I don’t blab.”

“Nonetheless, I want to impress on you the seriousness of the condition. A time may come, Mr Crockett, when you will want to tell someone of the wonderful deal you made on this day. If you do so, I will find out. I will ruin you. Do you understand?”

“You sound like one of those cheap spy movies,” Larry said. He sounded unruffled, but underneath he felt a nasty tremor of fear. The words I will ruin youhad come out as flatly as How are you today. It gave the statement an unpleasant ring of truth. And how in hell did this joker know about Frank Walsh? Not even his wife knew about Frank Walsh.

“Do you understand me, Mr Crockett?”

“Yes,” Larry said. “I’m used to playing them close to the vest.”

Straker offered his thin smile again. “Of course. That is why I am doing business with you.”

“The third condition?”

“The house will need certain renovations.”

“That’s one way of puttin’ it,” Larry said dryly.

“My partner plans to carry this task out himself. But you will be his agent. From time to time there will be requests. From time to time I will require the services of whatever laborers you employ to bring certain things either to the house or to the shop. You will not speak of such services. Do you understand?”

“Yeah, I understand. But you don’t come from these parts, do you?”

“Does that have bearing?” Straker raised his eyebrows.

“Sure it does. This isn’t Boston or New York. It’s not going to be just a matter of me keepin’ my lip buttoned. People are going to talk. Why, there’s an old biddy over on Railroad Street, name of Mabel Werts, who spends all day with a pair of binoculars—”

“I don’t care about the townspeople. My partner doesn’t care about the townspeople. The townspeople always talk. They are no different from the magpies on the telephone wires. Soon they will accept us.”

Larry shrugged. “It’s your party.”

“As you say,” Straker agreed. “You will pay for all services and keep all invoices and bills. You will be reimbursed. Do you agree?”

Larry was, as he had told Straker, used to playing them close to the vest, and he had a reputation as one of the best poker players in Cumberland County. And although he had maintained his outward calm through all of this, he was on fire inside. The deal this crazyman was offering him was the kind of thing that came along once, if ever. Perhaps the guy’s boss was one of those nutty billionaire recluses who—

“Mr Crockett? I am waiting.”

“There are two conditions of my own,” Larry said.

“Ah?” Straker looked politely interested.

He rattled the blue folder. “First, these papers have to check out.”

“Of course.”

“Second, if you’re doing anything illegal up there, I don’t want to know about it. By that I mean—”

But he was interrupted. Straker threw his head back and gave vent to a singularly cold and emotionless laugh.

“Did I say somethin’ fu

“Oh…ah…of course not, Mr Crockett. You must pardon my outburst. I found your comment amusing for reasons of my own. What were you about to add?”

“These renovations. I’m not going to get you anything that would leave my ass out to the wind. If you’re fixing up to make moonshine or LSD or explosives for some hippie radical outfit, that’s your own lookout.”

“Agreed,” Straker said. The smile was gone from his face. “Have we a deal?”

And with an odd feeling of reluctance, Larry had said, “If these papers check out, I guess we do at that. Although it seems like you did all the dealin’ and I did all the money-makin’.”

“This is Monday,” Straker said. “Shall I stop by Thursday afternoon?”

“Better make it Friday.”

“So it is. Very well.” He stood. “Good day, Mr Crockett.”

The papers had checked out. Larry’s Boston lawyer said the land where the Portland shopping center was to be built had been purchased by an outfit called Continental Land and Realty, which was a dummy company with office space in the Chemical Bank Building in New York. There was nothing in Continental’s offices but a few empty filing cabinets and a lot of dust.

Straker had come back that Friday and Larry signed the necessary title papers. He did so with a strong taste of doubt in the back of his mouth. He had overthrown his own personal maxim for the first time: You don’t shit where you eat. And although the inducement had been high, he realized as Straker put the ownership papers to the Marsten House and erstwhile Village Washtub into his briefcase that he had put himself at this man’s beck and call. And the same went for his partner, the absent Mr Barlow.

As last August had passed, and as summer had slipped into fall and then fall into winter, he had begun to feel an indefinable sense of relief. By this spring he had almost managed to forget the deal he had made to get the papers which now resided in his Portland safe-deposit box.

Then things began to happen.

That writer, Mears, had come in a week and a half ago, asking if the Marsten House was available for rental, and he had given Larry a peculiar look when he told him it was sold.

Yesterday there had been a long tube in his post office box and a letter from Straker. A note, really. It had been brief: “Kindly have the poster which you will be receiving mounted in the window of the shop—R.T. Straker.” The poster itself was common enough, and more subdued than some. It only said: “Opening in one week. Barlow and Straker. Fine furnishings. Selected antiques. Browsers welcome.” He had gotten Royal Snow to put it right up.

And now there was a car up there at the Marsten House. He was still looking at it when someone said at his elbow: “Fallin’ asleep, Larry?”

He jumped and looked around at Parkins Gillespie, who was standing on the corner next to him and lighting a Pall Mall.

“No,” he said, and laughed nervously. “Just thinking.”

Parkins glanced up at the Marsten House, where the sun twinkled on chrome and metal in the driveway, then down at the old laundry with its new sign in the window. “And you’re not the only one, I guess. Always good to get new folks in town. You’ve met ’em, ain’t you?”