Free Finders Keepers by Stephen King Page A

was, at least in the physical sense; all at once his cheeks and the nape of his neck were burning. Andy was acting as if he’d shit his pants instead of pulling off the crime of the century. “No one can connect me to Rothstein, and I know it’ll be awhile before we can sell them to a private collector. I’m not stupid.”
    â€œSell them to a col— Morrie, do you hear yourself?”
    Morris crossed his arms and stared at his friend. The man who used to be his friend, at least. “You act as if we never talked about this. As if we never planned it.”
    â€œWe didn’t plan anything ! It was a story we were telling ourselves, I thought you understood that!”
    What Morris understood was Andy Halliday would tell the police exactly that if he, Morris, were caught. And Andy expected him to be caught. For the first time Morris realized consciouslythat Andy was no intellectual giant eager to join him in an existential act of outlawry but just another nebbish. A bookstore clerk only a few years older than Morris himself.
    Don’t give me your dumbass literary criticism, Rothstein had said to Morris in the last two minutes of his life. You’re a common thief, my friend .
    His temples began to throb.
    â€œI should have known better. All your big talk about private collectors, movie stars and Saudi princes and I don’t know who-all. Just a lot of big talk. You’re nothing but a blowhard.”
    That was a hit, a palpable hit. Morris saw it and was glad, just as he had been when he had managed to stick it to his mother once or twice in their final argument.
    Andy leaned forward, cheeks flushed, but before he could speak, a waitress appeared with a wad of napkins. “Let me get that spill,” she said, and wiped it up. She was young, a natural ash-blonde, pretty in a pale way, maybe even beautiful. She smiled at Andy. He returned a pained grimace, at the same time drawing away from her as he had from the Moleskine notebook.
    He’s a homo, Morris thought wonderingly. He’s a goddam homo. How come I didn’t know that? How come I never saw? He might as well be wearing a sign.
    Well, there were a lot of things about Andy he’d never seen, weren’t there? Morris thought of something one of the guys on the housing job liked to say: All pistol and no bullets .
    With the waitress gone, taking her toxic atmosphere of girl with her, Andy leaned forward again. “Those collectors are out there,” he said. “They pile up paintings, sculpture, first editions . . . there’s an oilman in Texas who’s got a collection of early wax-cylinder recordings worth a million dollars, and another one who’s got a complete run of every western, science fiction, and shudder-pulpmagazine published between 1910 and 1955. Do you think all of that stuff was legitimately bought and sold? The fuck it was. Collectors are insane, the worst of them don’t care if the things they covet were stolen or not, and they most assuredly do not want to share with the rest of the world.”
    Morris had heard this screed before, and his face must have shown it, because Andy leaned even farther forward. Now their noses were almost touching. Morris could smell English Leather, and wondered if that was the preferred aftershave of homos. Like a secret sign, or something.
    â€œBut do you think any of those guys would listen to me ?”
    Morris Bellamy, who was now seeing Andy Halliday with new eyes, said he guessed not.
    Andy pooched out his lower lip. “They will someday, though. Yeah. Once I get my own shop and build up a clientele. But that’ll take years .”
    â€œWe talked about waiting five.”
    â€œ Five? ” Andy barked a laugh and drew back to his side of the table again. “I might be able to open my shop in five years—I’ve got my eye on a little place in Lacemaker Lane, there’s a fabric store there now but it