The young man peered into the viewing machine. The cop put an answer-key over the young man’s exam sheet. Johnny moved down the center aisle of the Jackson town hall and clicked a picture of the rostrum at the front.
‘Stop sign,’ the young man said from behind him. ‘The next one’s a yield sign … and the next one is a traffic information sign … no right turn, no left turn, like that…’
He hadn’t expected a cop in the town hall; he hadn’t even bothered to buy film for the camera he was using as a prop. But now it was too late to back out anyway. This was Friday, and Stillson would be here tomorrow if things went the way they were supposed to go. He would be answering questions and listening to suggestions from the good people of Jackson. There would be a fair-sized entourage with him. A couple of aides, a couple of advisors – and several others, young men in sober suits and sports jackets who had been’ wearing jeans and riding motorcycles not so long ago. Greg Stillson was still a firm believer in guards for the body. At the Trimbull rally they had been carrying sawedoff pool cues. Did they carry guns now? Would it be so difficult for a U.S.
representative to get a permit to carry a concealed weapon? Johnny didn’t think so. He could count on one good chance only; he would have to make the most of it. So it was important to look the place over, to try and decide if he could take Stillson in here or if it would be better to wait in the parking lot with the window rolled down and the rifle on his lap.
So he had come and here he was, casing the joint while a state cop gave driver-permit exams not thirty feet away.
There was a bulletin board on his left, and Johnny snapped his unloaded camera at it –
why in God’s name hadn’t he taken another two minutes and bought himself a roll of film? The board was covered with chatty small-town intelligence concerning baked-bean suppers, an upcoming high school play, dog-licensing information, and, of course, more on Greg. A file card said that Jackson’s first selectman was looking for someone who
could take shorthand, and Johnny studied this as though it were of great interest to him while his mind moved into high gear.
Of course if Jackson looked impossible – or even chancy – he could wait until next week, where Stillson would be doing the whole thing all over again in the town of Upson. Or the week after, in Trimbull. Or the week after that. Or never.
It should be this week. It ought to be tomorrow.
He snapped the big woodstove in the corner, and then glanced upward. There was a balcony up there. No – not precisely a balcony, more like a gallery with a waist-high railing and wide, white-painted slats with small, decorative diamonds and curlicues cut into the wood. It would be very possible for a man to crouch behind that railing and look through one of those doodads. At the right moment, he could just stand up and -‘What kind of camera is that?’
Johnny looked around, sure it was the cop. The cop would ask to see his filmless camera
– and then he would want to see some ID – and then it would be all over.
But it wasn’t the cop. It was the young man who had been taking his driver’s permit test.
He was about twenty. two, with long hair and pleasant, frank eyes. He was wearing a suede coat and faded jeans.
‘A Nikon,’ Johnny said.
‘Good camera, man. I’m a real camera nut. How long have you been working for
Yankee?’
‘Well, I’m a free lance,’ Johnny said. ‘I do stuff for them, sometimes for Country Journal, sometimes for Downeast, you know.’
‘Nothing national, like People or Life?’
‘No. At least, not yet. ‘What f-stop do you use in here?’ What in hell is an f-stop.’
Johnny shrugged. ‘I play it mostly by ear.’
‘By eye, you mean,’ the young man said, smiling. ‘That’s right, by eye.’ Get lost, kid, please get lost. ‘I’m interested in f,ree4andng myself,’ the young man said, and grinned.