Salem's Lot

‘Yes. My name is Straker. Richard Throckett Straker. All papers will be in my name.’

‘Very good,’ Larry said. The man meant business, that much seemed clear enough. ‘The asking price on the Marsten House is fourteen thousand, although I think my clients could be persuaded to take a little less. On the old washateria-’

‘That is no accord. I have been authorized to pay one dollar.’

‘One-?’ Larry tilted his head forward the way a man will when he has failed to hear something correctly.

‘Yes. Attend, please.’

Straker’s long fingers undid the clasps on his briefcase, opened it, and took out a number of papers bound in a blue transparent folder.

Larry Crockett looked at him, frowning.

‘Read, please. That will save time.’

Larry thumbed back the folder’s plastic cover and glanced down at the first sheet with the air of a man humoring a fool. His eyes moved from left to right randomly for a moment, then riveted on something.

Straker smiled thinly. He reached inside his suit coat produced a flat gold cigarette case, and selected a cigarette. He tamped it and then lit it with a wooden match. The harsh aroma of a Turkish blend filled the office and was eddied around by the fan.

There had been silence in the office for the next ten minutes, broken only by the hum of the fan and the muted passage of traffic on the street outside. Straker smoked his cigarette down to a shred, crushed the glowing ash between his fingers, and lit another.

Larry looked up, his face pale and shaken. ‘This is a joke. Who put you up to it? John Kelly?’

‘I know no John Kelly. I don’t joke.’

‘These papers… quit-claim deed… land title search… my God, man, don’t you know that piece of land is worth one and a half million dollars?’

‘You pike,’ Straker said coldly. ‘It is worth four million. Soon to be worth more, when the shopping center is built.’

‘What do you want?’ Larry asked. His voice was hoarse.

‘I have told you what I want. My partner and I plan to open a business in this town. We plan to live in the Marsten House.’

‘What sort of business? Murder Incorporated?’

Straker smiled coldly. ‘A perfectly ordinary furniture business, I am afraid. With a line of rather special antiques for collectors. My partner is something of an expert in that field.’

‘Shit,’ Larry said crudely. ‘The Marsten House you could have for eight and a half grand, the shop for sixteen. Your partner must know that. And you both must know that this town can’t support a fancy furniture and antique place.’

‘My partner is extremely knowledgeable on any subject in which he becomes interested,’ Straker said. ‘He knows that your town is on a highway which serves tourists and summer residents. These are the people with whom we expect to do the bulk of our business. However, that is no accord to you. Do you find the papers in order?’

Larry tapped his desk with the blue folder. ‘They seem to be. But I’m not going to be horse-traded, no matter what you say you want.’

‘No, of course not.’ Straker’s voice was edged with well-bred contempt. ‘You have a lawyer in Boston, I believe. One Francis Walsh.’

‘How do you know that?’ Larry barked.

‘It doesn’t matter. Take the papers to him. He will confirm their validity. The land where this shopping center is to be built will be yours, on fulfillment of three conditions.’

‘Ah,’ Larry said, and looked relieved. ‘Conditions.’ He leaned back and selected a William Penn from the ceramic cigar box on his desk. He scratched a match on shoe leather and puffed. ‘Now we’re getting down to the bone. Fire away.’

‘Number one. You will sell me the Marsten House and the business establishment for one dollar. Your client in the matter of the house is a land corporation in Bangor. The business establishment now belongs to a Portland bank. I am sure both parties will be agreeable if you make up the difference to the lowest acceptable prices. Minus your commission, of course.’

‘Where do you get your information?’

That is not for you to know, Mr Crockett. Condition two. You will say nothing of our transaction here today. Nothing. If the question ever comes up, all you know is what I have told you-we are two partners beginning a business aimed at tourists and summer people. This is very important.’

‘I don’t blab.’

‘Nonetheless, I want to impress on you the seriousness of the condition. A time may come, Mr Crockett, when you will want to tell someone of the wonderful deal you made on this day. If you do so, I will find out. I will ruin you. Do you understand?’

‘You sound like one of those cheap spy movies,’ Larry said. He sounded unruffled, but underneath he felt a nasty tremor of fear. The words I will ruin you had come out as flatly as How are you today. It gave the statement an unpleasant ring of truth. And how in hell did this joker know about Frank Walsh? Not even his wife knew about Frank Walsh.

‘Do you understand me, Mr Crockett?’

‘Yes,’ Larry said. ‘I’m used to playing them close to the vest.’