Desperation by Stephen King Page A

him on the cellular later on this afternoon . . . if the cellulars worked out here, that was. Now that he thought about it, he supposed they didn’t. The battery in his was up, he’d had it on the charger all last night, but he hadn’t actually talked to Steve on the damned thing since leaving Salt Lake City. In truth he wasn’t all that crazy about the cellulars. He didn’t think they actually did cause cancer, that was probably just more tabloid scare-stuff, but . . .
    â€œHoly shit,” the cop muttered. His right hand, the one below the bloodstained cuff and sleeve, went up to his right cheek. For one bizarre moment he looked to Johnny like a pro football lineman doing a Jack Benny riff. “Ho-lee shit. ”
    â€œWhat’s the trouble, Officer?” Johnny asked. He was, with some difficulty, suppressing a smile. One thing hadn’t changed over the years: he loved to be recognized. God, how he loved it.
    â€œYou’re . . . JohnEdwardMarinville!” the cop gasped, running it all together, as if he really had only one name, like Pelé or Cantinflas. The cop was now starting to grin himself, and Johnny thought, Oh Mr. Policeman, what big teeth you have. “I mean, you are, aren’t you? You wrote Delight ! And, oh shit, Song of the Hammer ! I’m standing right next to the guy who wrote Song of the Hammer !” And then he did something which Johnny found genuinely endearing: reached out and touched the sleeve of his motorcycle jacket, as if to prove that the man wearing it was actually real. “Ho-lee shit !”
    â€œWell, yes, I’m Johnny Marinville,” he said, speaking in the modest tones he reserved for these occasions (and these occasions only, as a rule). “Although I have to tell you that I’ve never been recognized by someone who’s just watched me take a leak by the side of the road.”
    â€œOh, forget that, ” the cop said, and seized Johnny’s hand. For just a moment before the cop’s fingers closed over his, Johnny saw that the man’s hand was also smeared with half-dried blood; both lifeline and loveline stood out a dark, liverish red. Johnny tried to keep his smile in place as they shook, and thought he did pretty well, but he was aware that the corners of his mouth seemed to have gained weight. It’ s getting on me, he thought. And there won’t be anyplace to wash it off before Austin.
    â€œMan,” the cop was saying, “you are one of my favorite writers! I mean, gosh, Song of the Hammer  . . . I know the critics didn’t like it, but what do they know?”
    â€œNot much,” Johnny said. He wished the cop would let go of his hand, but the cop was apparently one of those people who shook for punctuation and emphasis as well as greeting. Johnny could feel the latent strength in the cop’s grip; if the big guy squeezed down, his favorite writer would be keyboarding his new book lefthanded, at least for the first month or two.
    â€œNot much, damned straight! Song of the Hammer’s the best book about Vietnam I ever read. Forget Tim O’Brien, Robert Stone—”
    â€œWell, thank you, thanks very much.”
    The cop finally loosened his grip and Johnny retrieved his hand. He wanted to look down at it, see how much blood was on it, but this clearly wasn’t the time. The cop was sticking his abused notepad into his back pocket again and staring at Johnny in a wide-eyed, intense way that was actually a little disturbing. It was as if he feared Johnny would disappear like a mirage if he so much as blinked.
    â€œWhat are you doing out here, Mr. Marinville? Gosh! I thought you lived back East!”
    â€œWell, I do, but—”
    â€œAnd this is no kind of transportation for a . . . a . . . well, I’ve got to say it: for a national resource. Why, do you realize what the ratio of drivers-to-accidents on