Salem's Lot

11

12:00 noon.

The town whistle went off with a great twelve-second blast, ushering in lunch hour at all three schools and welcoming the afternoon. Lawrence Crockett, the Lot’s second selectman and proprietor of Crockett’s Southern Maine Insurance and Realty, put away the book he had been reading (Satan’s Sex Slaves) and set his watch by the whistle. He went to the door and hung the ‘Back at One O’clock’ sign from the shade pull. His routine was unvarying. He would walk up to the Excellent Café, have two cheeseburgers with the works and a cup of coffee, and watch Pauline’s legs while he smoked a William Penn.

He rattled the doorknob once to make sure the lock had caught and moved off down Jointner Avenue. He paused on the corner and glanced up at the Marsten House. There was a car in the driveway. He could just make it out, twinkling and shining. It caused a thread of disquiet somewhere in his chest. He had sold the Marsten House and the long-defunct Village Washtub in a package deal over a year ago. It had been the strangest deal of his life - and he had made some strange ones in his time. The owner of the car up there was, in all probability, a man named Straker. R. T. Straker. And just this morning he had received something in the mail from this Straker.

The fellow in question had driven up to Crockett’s office on a shimmering July afternoon just over a year ago. He got out of the car and stood on the sidewalk for a moment before coming inside, a tall man dressed in a sober three-piece suit in spite of the day’s heat. He was as bald as a cueball and as sweatless as same. His eyebrows were a straight black slash, and the eye sockets shelved away below them to dark holes that might have been carved into the angular surface of his face with drill bits. He carried a slim black briefcase in one hand. Larry was alone in his office when Straker came in; his part-time secretary, a Falmouth girl with the most delectable set of jahoobies you ever clapped an eye to, worked for a Gates Falls lawyer on her afternoons.

The bald man sat down in the client’s chair, put his briefcase in his lap, and stared at Larry Crockett. It was impossible to read the expression in his eyes, and that bothered Larry. He liked to be able to read a man’s wants in his baby blues or browns before the man even opened his mouth. This man had not paused to look at the pictures of local properties that were tacked up on the bulletin board, had not offered to shake hands and introduce himself, had not even said hello.

‘How can I help you?’ Larry asked.

‘I have been sent to buy a residence and a business establishment in your so-fair town,’ the bald man said. He spoke with a flat, uninfected tonelessness that made Larry think of the recorded announcements you got when you dialed the weather.

‘Well, hey, wonderful,’ Larry said. ‘We have several very nice properties that might-’

‘There is no need,’ the bald man said, and held up his hand to stop Larry’s words. Larry noted with fascination that his fingers were amazingly long-the middle finger looked four or five inches from base to tip. ‘The business establishment is a block beyond the Town Office Building. It fronts on the park.’

‘Yeah, I can deal with you on that. Used to be a Laundromat. Went broke a year ago. That’d be a real good location if you-’

‘The residence,’ the bald man overrode him, ‘is the one referred to in town as the Marsten House.’

Larry had been in the business too long to show his thunderstruck feelings on his face. ‘Is that so?’

‘Yes. My name is Straker. Richard Throckett Straker. All papers will be in my name.’

‘Very good,’ Larry said. The man meant business, that much seemed clear enough. ‘The asking price on the Marsten House is fourteen thousand, although I think my clients could be persuaded to take a little less. On the old washateria-’

‘That is no accord. I have been authorized to pay one dollar.’

‘One-?’ Larry tilted his head forward the way a man will when he has failed to hear something correctly.

‘Yes. Attend, please.’

Straker’s long fingers undid the clasps on his briefcase, opened it, and took out a number of papers bound in a blue transparent folder.

Larry Crockett looked at him, frowning.

‘Read, please. That will save time.’

Larry thumbed back the folder’s plastic cover and glanced down at the first sheet with the air of a man humoring a fool. His eyes moved from left to right randomly for a moment, then riveted on something.

Straker smiled thinly. He reached inside his suit coat produced a flat gold cigarette case, and selected a cigarette. He tamped it and then lit it with a wooden match. The harsh aroma of a Turkish blend filled the office and was eddied around by the fan.

There had been silence in the office for the next ten minutes, broken only by the hum of the fan and the muted passage of traffic on the street outside. Straker smoked his cigarette down to a shred, crushed the glowing ash between his fingers, and lit another.

Larry looked up, his face pale and shaken. ‘This is a joke. Who put you up to it? John Kelly?’

‘I know no John Kelly. I don’t joke.’

‘These papers… quit-claim deed… land title search… my God, man, don’t you know that piece of land is worth one and a half million dollars?’

‘You pike,’ Straker said coldly. ‘It is worth four million. Soon to be worth more, when the shopping center is built.’

‘What do you want?’ Larry asked. His voice was hoarse.

‘I have told you what I want. My partner and I plan to open a business in this town. We plan to live in the Marsten House.’

‘What sort of business? Murder Incorporated?’

Straker smiled coldly. ‘A perfectly ordinary furniture business, I am afraid. With a line of rather special antiques for collectors. My partner is something of an expert in that field.’

‘Shit,’ Larry said crudely. ‘The Marsten House you could have for eight and a half grand, the shop for sixteen. Your partner must know that. And you both must know that this town can’t support a fancy furniture and antique place.’

‘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 Penn from the ceramic cigar box on his desk. He scratched a match on shoe leather and puffed. ‘Now we’re getting down to the bone. Fire away.’

‘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 beginning a business aimed at tourists and summer people. This is very important.’

‘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 you had 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’ funny?’ Larry asked, without a trace of a smile.

‘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,

At 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: ‘Failin’ 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?’

‘One of them. Last year.’

‘Mr Barlow or Mr Straker?’

‘Straker.’

‘Seem like a nice enough sort, did he?’

‘Hard to tell,’ Larry said, and found he wanted to lick his lips. He didn’t. ‘We only talked business. He seemed okay.’

‘Good. That’s good. Come on. I’ll walk up to the Excellent with you.’

When they crossed the street, Lawrence Crockett was thinking about deals with the devil.