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crocodile. If it keeps up, this burg’s gonna be a ghost town.” He stood up straight and tried to square
his shoulders—an impossible task, because they were as round as the rest of him. “But who gives a
rip? Come October first, I’m gone. Down the road. Happy trails to you, until we meet again.”
“The father of this boy, Dorsey . . . he didn’t kill any of the others?”
“Naw, he was alibi’d up. I guess he was the kid’s stepfather, now that I think about it. Dicky
Macklin. Johnny Keeson at the desk—he probably checked you in—told me he used to come in here
and drink sometimes, until he got banned for trying to pick up a stewardess and getting nasty when
she told him to go peddle his papers. After that I guess he did his drinking at the Spoke or the
Bucket. They’ll have anybody in those places.”
He leaned over close enough for me to smell the Aqua Velva on his cheeks.
“You want to know the worst?”
I didn’t, but thought I ought to. So I nodded.
“There was also an older brother in that fucked-up family. Eddie. He disappeared last June. Just
poof. Gone, no forwarding, if you dig what I’m saying. Some people think he ran off to get away from
Macklin, but anybody with any sense knows he would have turned up in Portland or Castle Rock or
Portsmouth if that was the case—no way a ten-year-old can stay out of sight for long. Take it from
me, Eddie Corcoran got the hammer just like his little brother. Macklin just won’t own up to it.” He
grinned, a sudden and sunny grin that made his moon face almost handsome. “Have I talked you out
of buying real estate in Derry yet, mister?”
“That’s not up to me,” I said. I was flying on autopilot by then. Hadn’t I heard or read about a
series of child-murders in this part of Maine? Or maybe watched it on TV, with only a quarter of my
brain turned on while the rest of it was waiting for the sound of my problematic wife walking—or
staggering—up to the house after another “girls’ night out”? I thought so, but the only thing I
remembered for sure about Derry was that there was going to be a flood in the mid-eighties that
would destroy half the town.
“It’s not?”
“No, I’m just the middleman.”
“Well, good luck to you. This town isn’t as bad as it was—last July, folks were strung as tight as
Doris Day’s chastity belt—but it’s still a long way from right. I’m a friendly guy, and I like friendly
people. I’m splitting.”
“Good luck to you, too,” I said, and dropped two dollars on the bar.
“Gee, sir, that’s way too much!”
“I always pay a surcharge for good conversation.” Actually, the surcharge was for a friendly face.
The conversation had been disquieting.
“Well, thanks!” He beamed, then stuck out his hand. “I never introduced myself. Fred Toomey.”
“Nice to meet you, Fred. I’m George Amberson.” He had a good grip. No talcum powder.
“Want a piece of advice?”
“Sure.”
“While you’re in town, be careful about talking to kids. After last summer, a strange man talking
to kids is apt to get a visit from the police if people see him doing it. Or he could take a beating. That
sure wouldn’t be out of the question.”
“Even without the clown suit, huh?”
“Well, that’s the thing about dressing up in an outfit, isn’t it?” His smile was gone. Now he
looked pale and grim. Like everyone else in Derry, in other words. “When you put on a clown suit and
a rubber nose, nobody has any idea what you look like inside.”