stephenking

he believed that would be ‘counterproductive to her case at: this
time.†Then, even more unbelievably (to my mind, at least) he
asked in a grotesquely solicitous voice how I was doing.
I'm in the pink,†I said. I was sitting at my desk with my head down
and my left hand curled around my forehead. My eyes were shut so
I wouldnâ€t have to look into the bright gray socket of my computer
screen. Iâ€d been crying a lot, and my eyes felt like they were full of
sand. ‘Mr Humboldt ... it is mister, I take it, and -not doctor?â€
‘I use mister, although I have degrees-‘
‘Mr Humboldt, if Diane doesnâ€t want to come home and doesnâ€t
want to talk to me, what does she want? Why did you call me?â€
‘Diane would like access to the safe deposit box,†he said in his
mooch, purry little voice. ‘Your joint safe deposit box.â€
I suddenly understood the punched, rumpled look of the bedroom
and felt the first bright stirrings of anger. She had been looking for
the key to the box, of course. She hadnâ€t been interested in my
little collection of pre-World War II silver dollars or the onyx
pinkie ring sheâ€d bought me for our first anniversary (weâ€d only
had two in all) . . . but in the safe deposit box was the diamond
necklace Iâ€d given her, and about thirty thousand dollars†worth of
negotiable securities. The key was at our little summer cabin in the
Adirondacks, I realized. Not on purpose, but out of simple
forgetfulness. Iâ€d left it on top of the bureau, pushed way back
amid the dust and the mouse turds.
Pain in my left hand. I looked down and my hand rolled into a
right fist, and rolled it open. The nails had cut crescents in the pad
of the palm.
‘Steve?†Humboldt was purring. ‘Steve, are you there?â€
‘Yes,†I said. ‘Iâ€ve got two things for you. Are you ready?â€
‘Of course,†he said in that parry little voice, and for a moment I
had a bizarre vision: William Humboldt blasting through the desert
on a Harley-Davidson, surrounded by a pack of Hellâ€s Angels. On
the back of his leather jacket: BORN TO COMFORT.
Pain in my left hand again. It had closed up again on its own, just
liken clam. This time when I unrolled it, two of the four little
crescents were oozing blood.
‘First,†I said, ‘that box is going to stay closed unless some divorce
court judge orders it opened in the presence of Dianeâ€s attorney
and mine. In the meantime, no one is going to loot it, and thatâ€s a
promise. Not me, not her.†I paused. ‘Not you, either.â€
‘I think that your hostile attitude is counterproductive,†he said.
‘And if you examine your last few statements, Steve, you may
begin to understand why your wife is so emotionally shattered,
so—‘
‘Second,†I overrode him (itâ€s something we hostile people are
good at), ‘I find you calling me by my first name patronizing and
insensitive. Do it again on the phone and Iâ€ll hang up on you. Do it
to my face and youâ€ll find out just how hostile my attitude can be.â€
‘Steve.. . Mr Davis . . . I hardly think—‘
I hung up on him. It was the first thing Iâ€d done that gave me any
pleasure since finding that note on the dining room table, with her
three apartment keys on top of it to hold it down.