Free The Tea Party - A Novel of Horror by Charles L. Grant Page B

seeing a thing. A couple of times he thought one of them was watching him as well, but he had dismissed it as a lingering of his dark mood not yet quite banished.
    Now he wasn’t so sure.
    The man was dark-skinned, dark-haired, his dark blue shirt opened halfway down his chest to free a thatch of black hair that climbed almost to his neck. He wasn’t wearing dark glasses, but he gave that impression, and Doug looked away just as he reached across the table to touch his companion’s arm.
    “Friends of yours?” Judith asked, sweeping past him carrying a tray stacked with empty glasses.
    Someone turned on the projection TV at the far end and a crowd gathered to watch the Mets play baseball.
    he’s dead you killed him
    “No,” he said when she swept past again. She stopped, and looked at him curiously.
    “Are you all right?”
    “Yeah, sure.”
    She looked over her shoulder. “They look like Mafia types.”
    “Hey, there’s no such thing as the Mafia, don’t you know that?”
    “Boy, you have lived in the Hollow too long,” she said, poking a thumb in his waist. “You ought to read a paper now and then, get in touch with the world.” She looked again. “Maybe it’s the guys buying Winterrest. Yeah, how about that? Jesus, I’d like to spike a drink or three of theirs.”
    He smiled, but didn’t look at her. The second man had finally leaned forward, and looked around the booth’s scalloped edge.
    “Oh . . . Christ,” he whispered, half under his breath.
    Suddenly, someone shouted angrily, and his attention was diverted to the television corner, where he saw lumbering Bernie Hallman from the Mogas station squaring off against Judy’s brother. Casey was not much taller than his sister but weighed well over two hundred pounds, most of it, it seemed, solidly planted in his chest and shoulders. His black hair was straggly, his puffed cheeks flaring red, and as he circled the garage owner, he spat disgustedly on the floor.
    Judith screamed at him, even as the baseball crowd made way and started betting.
    Doug looked to Gil, who only shrugged and filled an order. Hell, he thought, took off his apron, and started around the bar. He had no intention of getting into the fight, but he wanted to be close by in case someone needed help.
    But the fight moved too fast for him to get near or follow clearly. Casey was swinging and Bernie was ducking, a few punches landed, and they grappled their way across the floor toward the entrance. The door opened. He saw a flash of metal and realized Casey had drawn a knife.
    Everyone froze.
    Judith, who was fuming behind the bar, shouted, “Goddamn you, Casey Lockhart, put that thing away!”
    Then the two men in the end booth sidled out and slipped past the combatants through the open door, but not before Doug saw their faces clearly and sagged in relief. They weren’t anyone he knew, no one from Seattle. Strangers only, given false places in his nightmare.
    Then Bernie raced outside, Casey followed with a bellow, and Doug didn’t move again until he heard a woman scream.
    5
    By six dinner was finished, all plates and glasses in the dishwasher, and Heather admitted that she had neglected to give her mother a telephone message.
    “Honestly, girl,” Liz said. “There are times when I wonder what’s in that brain of yours.”
    “Mush,” said Keith. “Girl mush.”
    Heather glared at him, changed expressions to contrition, and pointed to the wall phone by the hallway. “It was Mr. Parrish. He wants you to call him back.”
    “Ugh,” Keith said, grimacing and shaking his hands. “That guy’s a creep.”
    “Keith,” Liz scolded absently, and looked at the clock.
    “He said to call anytime.”
    “He wants to take you out, Mom,” Keith told her as she crossed the room to the phone and dialed. “He wants to marry you and give you all his money.”
    “That isn’t funny,” Heather said quietly, and Keith shrugged as he left for the front room.
    Parrish answered on the