Free Cell: A Novel by Stephen King Page B

bag they put three bottles of water.
    The tables had been made up for a dinner-service that was never going to happen. Two or three had been tumbled over but most stood perfect, with their glasses and silver shining in the hard light of the emergency boxes on the walls. Something about their calm orderliness hurt Clay’s heart. The cleanliness of the folded napkins, and the little electric lamps on each table. Those were now dark, and he had an idea it might be a long time before the bulbs inside lit up again.
    He saw Alice and Tom gazing about with faces as unhappy as his felt, and a desire to cheer them up—almost manic in its urgency—came over him. He remembered a trick he used to do for his son. He wondered again about Johnny’s cell phone and the panic-rat took another nip out of him. Clay hoped with all his heart the damned phone was lying forgotten under Johnny-Gee’s bed among the dust-kitties, with its battery flat-flat-flat.
    “Watch this carefully,” he said, setting his bag of sandwiches aside, “and please note that at no time do my hands leave my wrists.” He grasped the hanging skirt of a tablecloth.
    “This is hardly the time for parlor tricks,” Tom said.
    “I want to see,” Alice said. For the first time since they’d met her, there was a smile on her face. It was small but it was there.
    “We need the tablecloth,” Clay said, “it won’t take a second, and besides, the lady wants to see.” He turned to Alice. “But you have to say a magic word. Shazam will do.”
    “Shazam!” she said, and Clay pulled briskly with both hands.
    He hadn’t done the trick in two, maybe even three years, and it almost didn’t work. And yet at the same time, his mistake—some small hesitation in the pull, no doubt—actually added to the charm of the thing. Instead of staying where they were while the tablecloth magically disappeared from beneath them, all the place-settings on the table moved about four inches to the right. The glass nearest to where Clay was standing actually wound up with its circular base half on and half off the table.
    Alice applauded, now laughing. Clay took a bow with his hands held out.
    “Can we go now, O great Vermicelli?” Tom asked, but even Tom was smiling. Clay could see his small teeth in the emergency lights.
    “Soon’s I rig this,” Clay said. “She can carry the knife on one side and a bag of sandwiches on the other. You can tote the water.” He folded the tablecloth over into a triangle shape, then rolled it quickly into a belt. He slipped a bag of sandwiches onto this by the bag’s carrier handles, then put the tablecloth around the girl’s slim waist, having to take a turn and a half and tie the knot in back to make the thing secure. He finished by sliding the serrated bread-knife home on the right side.
    “Say, you’re pretty handy,” Tom said.
    “Handy is dandy,” Clay said, and then something else blew up outside, close enough to shake the cafe. The glass that had been standing half on and half off the table lost its balance, tumbled to the floor, and shattered. The three of them looked at it. Clay thought to tell them he didn’t believe in omens, but that would only make things worse. Besides, he did.
     
    17
    Clay had his reasons for wanting to go back to the Atlantic Avenue Inn before they set off. One was to retrieve his portfolio, which he’d left sitting in the lobby. Another was to see if they couldn’t find some sort of makeshift scabbard for Alice’s knife—he reckoned even a shaving kit would do, if it was long enough. A third was to give Mr. Ricardi another chance to join them. He was surprised to find he wanted this even more than he wanted the forgotten portfolio of drawings. He had taken an odd, reluctant liking to the man.
    When he confessed this to Tom, Tom surprised him by nodding. “It’s the way I feel about anchovies on pizza,” he said. “I tell myself there’s something disgusting about a combination of cheese, tomato