The Blob (11 page)

He couldn’t believe his eyes. Meg was carrying a credit card in one of her hands, and she was showing it to him.

Brian jabbed a finger back at the jail. “What do you think that is, Neiman-Marcus? They don’t take plastic.” He took the card and slipped it into her shirt pocket, relaxing a bit. “Look, I appreciate the thought. Now go home.”

“But I need to talk to you,” Meg insisted.

“I’m sorry about your boyfriend. I really am. But I’m tired, I’m hungry, and I’m in no mood for conversation.”

He swiveled around and headed off away from her. Up ahead the neon of the Tick Tock Diner flashed invitingly, and Brian Flagg desperately wanted to put a cheeseburger into his gurgling stomach.

He didn’t hear her following him, and it surprised him that he was disappointed she hadn’t. You’re getting soft, boyo, he told himself, and struck out at a faster pace for the Tick Tock.

When he got there, Fran the waitress was still tending shop, cleaning up while George the short-order cook hauled out a mop and a pail to clean up the tile. They looked as if they were closed for business, but Brian had to give it a try.

He opened the door and headed straight for the counter. “George, Franny.
¿Qué pasa?”

Fran flashed him a crooked smile. “Hey, hotshot. We’re closed.”

Brian flopped onto a chair and leaned his chin into his hands. “Fran, please, I’ve been dumped on all day. Gimme a break, huh?”

Fran was cool. She liked to trade quips with him, and he enjoyed that. “Aww, what’s the matter, dear? Tough day at the office?” She returned his grin, then stuck a thumb behind her, indicating the kitchen. “Grill’s shut down. How about a sandwich?”

He’d had his heart set on that cheeseburger, but his stomach would accept anything. “Beautiful,” he said. “I’ll just sit in one of these booths here, get outta your way, George, okay?”

He folded into a booth, trying to let the tension go from his muscles. He closed his eyes. Shit, what a day. If he could just forget everything . . .

The next thing he knew, he heard the door fly open, followed by the sound of footsteps on tile, and the thump of a fanny hitting the booth seat across from him.

He opened his eyes, and there was Meg Penny.

“Jeez,” he said. “You don’t give up.”

“I need your help,” she said insistently.

“What a surprise. And I thought you came out of the goodness of your heart.”

“I came because I thought we could help each other.”

“In three years of school you haven’t said shit to me, but now that you need my help we’re old buddies, huh.”

She looked down. She knew he was right. She was one of the preppy chicks he’d tried to talk to before. But she’d given him the cold shoulder, then and always.

Now she spoke in a low, almost pleading voice. “Nobody believed me about what happened tonight.”

“What
did
happen?”

“You were there. You saw!” she said.

“All I saw was an old man with a funky hand.”

And then Fran was there with a plateful of Lebanon-bologna-and-cheese sandwich, along with a big pile of chips and a fat dill pickle. His mouth watered at the smell of the vinegar and the mustard and the sweet scent of fresh chips as she set it down in front of him.

“Can I get you something, hon?” she asked Meg, looking at Brian as though to say, What’s a clean-cut looker like this doing hanging out with a guy like you?

“No, thanks,” said Meg.

Fran shrugged and left. As Brian stuck a corner of sandwich in his mouth, Meg leaned over to him, speaking in a low and desperate voice. “That thing on his hand . . . it
killed
him. And it killed
Paul.
And whatever it is . . . it’s getting
bigger.
I saw it.”

Brian chewed, giving her a long, blank stare. After he swallowed, he said, “That what you told the cops?”

She nodded.

“Can I ask you a personal question?”

“Sure.”

“I know you’re the homecoming queen type and all that . . . but are you a little strung out on something?”

Her eyes lit up with anger. Her face trembled with frustration. “You’re just the same!” she said in a low, tight voice.

“Huh?”

“You act like you’re different . . . You put on a big show . . . But you’re just like everybody else in this town.” She got up. “You’re full of shit, Flagg.” She started to take off.

That surprised him. What surprised him even more was his immediate reaction. He got up and grabbed her and gently but firmly pushed her back into the seat.

“Hey, wait a second. C’mon, take it easy.”

Suddenly she seemed to cave in, as though trying to hold back tears but not quite succeeding. Gradually they started leaking out, down her cheeks and onto the Formica table-top. Brian took the half of sandwich he hadn’t bitten into and offered it to her.

“Here,” he said, “eat something.”

She shook her head, refusing it.

“Go ahead,” he insisted. “You’ll feel better.”

She took the half sandwich and started nibbling at it. Brian watched her for a moment. “I’m amazed,” he said finally. “I never heard you say
shit
before. What was that like for you?”

She looked at him oddly, and then couldn’t help herself. She laughed, and Brian could see the nervous tension draining out of her face.

“So go ahead, I’m listening,” he said, softening his voice. “Tell me all about what happened. What you saw. I’m sorry I wasn’t listening, but you’ve got to admit, if someone told you that that little bit of something on the Can Man’s hand devoured two guys almost six feet tall, then you’d have a hard time believing it, wouldn’t you?”

She nodded. “Yeah. I guess maybe I would at that.”

“So tell me what happened. Everything, from the moment I left that clinic. I want to know. I really do.”

She nodded. She looked him straight in the eye, and she told him.

A
s soon as they’d let Brian Flagg go, Deputy Bill Briggs had been dispatched to return to the team of firemen and paramedics searching around the clinic grounds and the nearby woods for the body of Paul Tyler.

Forty-five minutes later he reported in.

“All we’ve found,” Briggs said through his walkie-talkie, “is lots of ground mist, trees, and a couple of dead rats. We’re coming up empty, Sheriff. And we’ve got our best searchlights sweeping the area. You want us to head into the foothills?”

Herb Geller sighed heavily, thought about it a moment, and decided against it. “Negative. I’d rather have you patrolling the streets. We’ll start again at first light when the state police get here.”

“Ten-four,” said Bill Briggs, signing off.

Herb hung the hand mike up and clicked the radio off. He rubbed his face wearily; the springs of the chair squeaked as he leaned back in it. A night to remember, this one, he thought. Or rather, a night to forget, quickly, soon as it got cleaned up. This shit had a
weird
quality he hadn’t seen here or back in the city. Something out of sync, out of whack. Sheriff Herb Geller didn’t like it, not one little bit. And he had the uneasy feeling that it was far from over.

Just then Sally Jeffers entered, a steaming cup of coffee in her hand and an understanding smile on her face. “You look tired,” she said, putting down the coffee.

The smell of chicory, the warmth of steam, caressed his face as he picked up the cup and sipped. Ah. “Been a long night. Thanks.”

“Gonna be even longer,” she said.

“That’s the truth,” said Herb, after another sip of the coffee. He shook his head. “One deputy and six volunteers. I feel like that one-legged man in the ass-kicking contest.”

“You’re doing all you can, Herb. This isn’t your standard Friday-night drunk.”

Yeah, ain’t that right! he thought. And then another thought occurred to him. He unbuttoned the flap to his shirt pocket and dug out the check on which Fran had scribbled her message. He stared at it a moment, admiring how nice the handwriting was, even though Fran had done it in a hurry.
I’m off at 11:00.

He glanced up at the clock. Ten forty-five.

“Something wrong?” Sally asked.

“Just worried about a friend of mine,” said Herb. “Guess I’m worried about everybody tonight.”

He squeaked out of his chair and got ready to go.

“Think you can hold the fort around here for an hour or so, Sally?”

“Sure. That’s my job.”

“Good girl. I’ll bring you back some doughnuts.”

“Aren’t you gonna finish your coffee, sheriff?”

He looked down at the coffee. “Yeah. I guess I better have a little more. Something tells me I might need it.”

He managed to drink down half of it.

It was a heavy-duty kitchen, the old-fashioned type with zinc sinks and a mammoth grill, and chipped dishes skulking beneath the counters. Fran Hewitt had seen dozens like it in her waitressing peregrinations across the US of A.

Fran had always wanted to do something more than be a waitress, but it always seemed like the fastest and easiest way to do short-term work. Besides, it was the job she always found most available. She’d waitressed in L.A., in Denver, in New Jersey—all over the place. Wherever the men went with whom she was involved, there went Fran Hewitt, and she could rely on a waitressing job waiting for her that had a big grill, a Formica counter, greasy refrigerators, and a large industrial sink by the dishwashing contraption.

She carried the last of the dirty dishes back to that sink now, looking forward to her date with Herb Geller coming up in just a few minutes. Just a couple months ago she wouldn’t have gone out with him. Not that she hadn’t liked his rugged Western looks. No, she’d been living with Freddy Nichols then, the guy she’d come west with. Freddy was a ski instructor looking for work, but the job never really went anywhere. And so he had taken solace in lots of drugs and alcohol. Then, in July, when he’d finally come out of his stupor, he’d just up and gone, leaving her in the lurch. Now she had to keep working here until she scraped up enough money to go somewhere else.

Or got hitched up with another man.

With a sigh Fran dumped the heavy plastic box onto the sideboard by the sink. George would deal with this mess; that was his job. And she’d be able to split this joint for her date with Sheriff Herb Geller. She’d gone out with cops before, but never with a sheriff. The idea intrigued her.

Clump! went the dishes, silverware rattling.

And then she noticed the gurgling sound coming from the main sink. Fran walked over and looked down into the yawning basin.

The drain was backing up. Filthy water was welling up a good eight inches into the basin. Greasy bubbles broke the surface.

Goddammit, she thought. What a time for catastrophe to strike! Before a big date! Usually it struck a few months
after
a big date. She sighed and grabbed the plunger from below the sink. Gotta deal with this before it gets worse, she thought.

She was about to put the base of the plumber’s helper down over the lips of the drain, when George entered the kitchen.

“Hey, didn’t I hear something about a date with the sheriff?” George said.

“That’s right,” she said.

“You ain’t got no time to be muckin’ around with that!” George was a squat man of forty or so, big and not handsome. He grabbed the plunger and smiled at her. “Now, shoo!”

“Hey, knock yourself out!” she said, smiling with thanks for his chivalry.

The sink gurgled behind her as she left.

Fuckin’ sink!

George was a short-order cook, not a plumber, but he could fix a sink or a john as good as anyone. All it was usually was just some shit clogging up the pipes—figuratively or literally.

George attacked the sink with the plunger, wanting to beat his record at quick solutions to life’s little problems. “Simple!” That was George Ruiz’s dictum for life. You have to stop being scared of it, then just go in for the attack, and bang-o—your problem is solved.

He put the black rubber base of the plunger down into the water and started plunging. The sink rattled and thumped, and the greasy water in the basin splashed around. After a half a minute of serious plunging he removed the plunger and took a look down at his handiwork.

A couple of bubbles wavered up. Nothing more. The sludgy water hadn’t gone down an inch.

“Hell,” said George. What this place needed was a plumber’s snake, but the owner was too cheap to get one. Still, maybe the obstruction was near the drain, and he could work it out with his bare hand.

George rolled back his shirt sleeve and stuck his hand in. All the way up to the elbow. He felt around down there, but his groping fingers didn’t touch anything.

What the hell could it be? he wondered. It must be farther down.

He pulled his arm out and leaned over the sink, looking down into the drain, contemplating the problem. Maybe he could use a coat hanger, sometimes that—

A slimy red coil shot up from out of the drain. Before George could move away, the tentacle was wound around his neck and face like an insanely long frog’s tongue.

He was yanked headfirst into the mucky water with a great splash.

Fran could tell the kids were having a heavy-duty conversation. As she approached, she could hear Brian Flagg saying, “Look, even if I
were
convinced, I’m the wrong guy to back you up. I’m not exactly Mr. Credibility in this town, you know.”

No, he wasn’t that for sure, thought Fran. But she liked Brian. For some reason, despite the way he dressed and acted, she could see that he wasn’t hard-core punk. After over twenty years of relationships with men, Fran Hewitt knew hard-core baddies, all right. Brian Flagg wasn’t one—not yet, anyway.

She arrived at their table and set down the two plates she carried. On each was a slice of apple pie.

Brian looked up. “Gee, Fran. The sandwich busted me.”

“On the house,” said Fran, getting a charge from being charitable with the boss’s goods. “Eat up or I chuck ’em in the garbage!”

“I’m not proud,” said Brian, pulling his plate closer and digging in. The girl, though, didn’t touch hers. Fran gathered up the sandwich plate and went back to the kitchen.