Doctor Sleep by Stephen King Page A

things in any given landscape.
    There was a coffee table in front of the sofa. On it was an ashtray filled with butts, a baggie filled with white powder, and a People magazine with more blow scattered across it. Beside it, completing the picture, was a dollar bill, still partly rolled up. He didn’t know how much they had snorted, but judging by how much still remained, he could kiss his five hundred dollars goodbye.
    Fuck. I don’t even like coke. And how did I snort it, anyway? I can hardly breathe .
    He hadn’t. She had snorted it. He had rubbed it on his gums. It was all starting to come back to him. He would have preferred it stay away, but too late.
    The deathflies in the restroom, crawling in and out of Mr. Businessman’s mouth and over the wet surfaces of his eyes. Mr. Dealerman asking what Dan was looking at. Dan telling him it was nothing, it didn’t matter, let’s see what you’ve got. It turned out Mr. Dealerman had plenty. They usually did. Next came the ride back to her place in another taxi, Deenie already snorting from the back of her hand, too greedy—or too needy—to wait. The two of them trying to sing “Mr. Roboto.”
    He spied her sandals and his Reeboks right inside the door, and here were more golden memories. She hadn’t kicked the sandals off, only dropped them from her feet, because by then he’d had his hands planted firmly on her ass and she had her legs wrapped around his waist. Her neck smelled of perfume, her breath of barbecue-flavored pork rinds. They had been gobbling them by the handful before moving on to the pool table.
    Dan put on his sneakers, then walked across to the kitchenette, thinking there might be instant coffee in the single cupboard. He didn’t find coffee, but he did see her purse, lying on the floor. He thought he could remember her tossing it at the sofa and laughing when it missed. Half the crap had spilled out, including a red imitation leather wallet. He scooped everything back inside and took it over to the kitchenette. Although he knew damned well that his money was now living in the pocket of Mr. Dealerman’s designer jeans, part of him insisted that there must be some left, if only because he needed some to be left. Ten dollars was enough for three drinks or two six-packs, but it was going to take more than that today.
    He fished out her wallet and opened it. There were some pictures—a couple of Deenie with some guy who looked too much like her not to be a relative, a couple of Deenie holding a baby, one of Deenie in a prom dress next to a bucktoothed kid in a gruesome blue tux. The bill compartment was bulging. This gave him hope until he pulled it open and saw a swatch of food stamps. There was also some currency: two twenties and three tens.
    That’s my money . What’s left of it, anyway .
    He knew better. He never would have given some shitfaced pickup his week’s pay for safekeeping. It was hers.
    Yes, but hadn’t the coke been her idea? Wasn’t she the reason he was broke as well as hungover this morning?
    No. You’re hungover because you’re a drunk. You’re broke because you saw the deathflies .
    It might be true, but if she hadn’t insisted they go to the train station and score, he never would have seen the deathflies.
    She might need that seventy bucks for groceries .
    Right. A jar of peanut butter and a jar of strawberry jam. Also a loaf of bread to spread it on. She had food stamps for the rest.
    Or rent . She might need it for that.
    If she needed rent money, she could peddle the TV. Maybe her dealer would take it, crack and all. Seventy dollars wouldn’t go very far on a month’s rent, anyway, he reasoned, even for a dump like this one.
    That’s not yours, doc . It was his mother’s voice, the last one he needed to hear when he was savagely hungover and in desperate need of a drink.
    â€œFuck you, Ma.” His voice was low but sincere.