“I absolutely do, but it’s neither here nor there,” Eddie said. “The point is, they’ll come after you. Not to kill you, but to turn you around in their direction again. If you stay here, Cal, I think you can look forward to a serious maiming at the very least. Is there a place you can go until the fifteenth of next month? Do you have enough money? I don’t have any, but I guess I could get some.”
In his mind, Eddie was already in Brooklyn. Balazar guardian-angeled a poker game in the back room of Bernie’s Barber Shop, everybody knew that. The game might not be going on during a weekday, but there’d be somebody back there with cash. Enough to—
“Aaron has some money,” Tower was saying reluctantly. “He’s offered a good many times. I’ve always told him no. He’s also always telling me I need to go on a vacation. I think by this he means I should get away from the fellows you just turned out. He is curious about what they want, but he doesn’t ask. A hothead, but a gentleman hothead.” Tower smiled briefly. “Perhaps Aaron and I could go on a vacation together, young sir.
After all, we might not get another chance.”
Eddie was pretty sure the chemo and radiation treatments were going to keep Aaron Deepneau up and on his feet for at least another four years, but this was probably not the time to say so. He looked toward the door of The Manhattan Restaurant of the Mind and saw the other door. Beyond it was the mouth of the cave. Sitting there like a comic-strip yogi, just a cross-legged silhouette, was the gunslinger. Eddie wondered how long he’d been gone over there, how long Roland had been listening to the muffled but still maddening sound of the todash chimes.
“Would Atlantic City be far enough, do you think?” Tower asked timidly.
Eddie Dean almost shuddered at the thought. He had a brief vision of two plump sheep—getting on in years, yes, but still quite tasty—wandering into not just a pack of wolves but a whole city of them.
“Not there,” Eddie said. “Anyplace but there.”
“What about Maine or New Hampshire? Perhaps we could rent a cottage on a lake somewhere until the fifteenth of July.”
Eddie nodded. He was a city boy. It was hard for him to imagine the bad guys way up in northern New England, wearing those checkered caps and down vests as they chomped their pepper sandwiches and drank their Ruffino. “That’d be better,” he said. “And while you’re there, you might see if you could find a lawyer.”
Tower burst out laughing. Eddie looked at him, head cocked, smiling a little himself. It was always good to make folks laugh, but it was better when you knew what the fuck they were laughing at.
“I’m sorry,” Tower said after a moment or two. “It’s just that Aaron ivas a. lawyer. His sister and two brothers, all younger, are still lawyers. They like to boast that they have the most unique legal letterhead in New York,
perhaps in the entire United States. It reads simply ‘deepneau.’ ”
“That speeds things up,” Eddie said. “I want you to have Mr. Deepneau draw up a contract while you’re vacationing in New England—”
” Hiding in New England,” Tower said. He suddenly looked morose. ” Holed up in New England.”
“Call it whatcha wanna,” Eddie said, “but get that paper drawn up. You’re going to sell that lot to me and my friends. To the Tet Corporation. You’re just gonna get a buck to start with, but I can almost guarantee you that in the end you’ll get fair market value.”
He had more to say, lots, but stopped there. When he’d held his hand out for the book, The Dogan or The Hogan or whatever it was, an expression of miserly reluctance had come over Tower’s face. What made the look unpleasant was the undercurrent of stupidity in it… and not very far under, either. Oh God, he’s gonna fight me on this. After everything that’s happened, he’s still gonna fight me on it. And why? Because he really is apackrat.
“You can trust me, Cal,” he said, knowing trust was not exactly the issue. “I set my watch and warrant on it.
Hear me, now. Hear me, I beg.”
“I don’t know you from Adam. You walk in off the street—”
“—and save your life, don’t forget that part.”
Tower’s face grew set and stubborn. “They weren’t going to kill me. You said that yourself.”
“They were gonna burn your favorite books. Your most valuable ones.”
“Not my most valuable. Also, that might have been a bluff.”
Eddie took a deep breath and let it out, hoping his suddenly strong desire to lean across the counter and sink his fingers into Tower’s fat throat would depart or at least subside. He reminded himself that if Tower hadn’t been stubborn, he probably would have sold the lot to Sombra long before now. The rose would have been plowed under. And the Dark Tower? Eddie had an idea that when the rose died, the Dark Tower would simply fall… like the one in Babel when God had gotten tired of it and wiggled His finger. No waiting around another hundred or thousand years for the machinery running the Beams to quit. Just ashes, ashes, we all fall down. And then? Hail the Crimson King, lord of todash darkness.
“Cal, if you sell me and my friends your vacant lot, you’re off the hook. Not only that, but you’ll eventually have enough money to run your little shop for the rest of your life.” He had a sudden thought. “Hey, do you know a company called Holmes Dental?”
Tower smiled. “Who doesn’t? I use their floss. And their toothpaste. I tried the mouthwash, but it’s too strong.
Why do you ask?”
“Because Odetta Holmes is my wife. I may look like Froggy the Gremlin, but in truth I’m Prince Fuckin Charming.”
Tower was quiet for a long time. Eddie curbed his impatience and let the man think. At last Tower said, “You think I’m being foolish. That I’m being Silas Marner, or worse, Ebenezer Scrooge.”
Eddie didn’t know who Silas Marner was, but he took Tower’s point from the context of the discussion. “Let’s
put it this way,” he said. “After what you’ve just been through, you’re too smart not to know where your best interests lie.”
“I feel obligated to tell you that this isn’t just mindless miserliness on my part; there’s an element of caution, as well. I know that piece of New York is valuable, any piece of Manhattan is, but it’s not just that. I have a safe out back. There’s something in it. Something perhaps even more valuable than my copy of Ulysses.”
“Then why isn’t it in your safe-deposit box?”
“Because it’s supposed to be here,” Tower said. “It’s always been here. Perhaps waiting for you, or someone like you. Once, Mr. Dean, my family owned almost all of Turtle Bay, and… well, wait. Will you wait?”
“Yes,” Eddie said.
What choice?
ELEVEN
When Tower was gone, Eddie got off the stool and went to the door only he could see. He looked through it.
Dimly, he could hear chimes. More clearly he could hear his mother. “Why don’t you get out of there?” she called dolorously. “You’ll only make things worse, Eddie—you always do.”
That’s my Ma, he thought, and called the gunslinger’s name.
Roland pulled one of the bullets from his ear. Eddie noted the oddly clumsy way he handled it—almost pawing at it, as if his fingers were stiff—but there was no time to think about it now.
“Are you all right?” Eddie called.
“Do fine. And you?”
“Yeah, but… Roland, can you come through? I might need a little help.”
Roland considered, then shook his head. “The box might close if I did. Probably would close. Then the door would close. And we’d be trapped on that side.”
“Can’t you prop the damn thing open with a stone or a bone or something?”
“No,” Roland said. “It wouldn’t work. The ball is powerful.”
And it’s working on you, Eddie thought. Roland’s face looked haggard, the way it had when the lobstrosities’
poison had been inside him.
“All right,” he said.
“Be as quick as you can.”
“I will.”
TWELVE
When he turned around, Tower was looking at him quizzically. “Who were you talking to?”
Eddie stood aside and pointed at the doorway. “Do you see anything there, sai?”
Calvin Tower looked, started to shake his head, then looked longer. “A shimmer,” he said at last. “Like hot air over an incinerator. Who’s there? What’s there?”
“For the time being, let’s say nobody. What have you got in your hand?”
Tower held it up. It was an envelope, very old. Written on it in copperplate were the words Stephen Toren and Dead Letter. Below, carefully drawn in ancient ink, were the same symbols that were on the door and the box: