Mr. Mercedes by Stephen King Page A

mother.”
    â€œThe wino.”
    He smiles. “My mother is actually more of a vodka-o.”
    â€œInvite me over,” Freddi says grimly. “I’ll drag her to a fucking AA meeting.”
    â€œWouldn’t work. You know what Dorothy Parker said, right? You can lead a whore to culture, but you can’t make her think.”
    Freddi considers this for a moment, then throws back her head and voices a Marlboro-raspy laugh. “I don’t know who Dorothy Parker is, but I’m gonna save that one.” She sobers. “Seriously, why don’t you just ask Frobisher for more hours? That other job of yours is strictly rinky-dink.”
    â€œI’ll tell you why he doesn’t ask Frobisher for more hours,” Frobisher says, stepping out onto the loading platform. Anthony Frobisher is young and geekily bespectacled. In this he is like most of the Discount Electronix employees. Brady is also young, but better-looking than Tones Frobisher. Not that this makes him handsome. Which is okay. Brady is willing to settle for nondescript.
    â€œLay it on us,” Freddi says, and mashes her cigarette out. Across the loading zone behind the big-box store, which anchors the south end of the Birch Hill Mall, are the employees’ cars (mostly old beaters) and three VW Beetles painted bright green. These are always kept spotless, and late-spring sun twinkles on their windshields. On the sides, in blue, is COMPUTER PROBLEMS? CALL THE DISCOUNT ELECTRONIX CYBER PATROL!
    â€œCircuit City is gone and Best Buy is tottering,” Frobisher says in a schoolteacherly voice. “Discount Electronix is also tottering, along with several other businesses that are on life support thanks to the computer revolution: newspapers, book publishers, record stores, and the United States Postal Service. Just to mention a few.”
    â€œRecord stores?” Freddi asks, lighting another cigarette. “What are record stores?”
    â€œThat’s a real gut-buster,” Frobisher says. “I have a friend who claims dykes lack a sense of humor, but—”
    â€œYou have friends?” Freddi asks. “Wow. Who knew?”
    â€œâ€”but you obviously prove him wrong. You guys don’t have more hours because the company is now surviving on computers alone. Mostly cheap ones made in China and the Philippines. The great majority of our customers no longer want the other shit we sell.” Brady thinks only Tones Frobisher would say the great majority . “This is partly because of the technological revolution, but it’s also because—”
    Together, Freddi and Brady chant, “— Barack Obama is the worst mistake this country ever made! ”
    Frobisher regards them sourly for a moment, then says, “At least you listen. Brady, you’re off at two, is that correct?”
    â€œYes. My other gig starts at three.”
    Frobisher wrinkles the overlarge schnozzola in the middle of his face to show what he thinks of Brady’s other job. “Did I hear you say something about returning to school?”
    Brady doesn’t reply to this, because anything he says might be the wrong thing. Anthony “Tones” Frobisher must not know that Brady hates him. Fucking loathes him. Brady hates everybody, including his drunk mother, but it’s like that old country song says: no one has to know right now.
    â€œYou’re twenty-eight, Brady. Old enough so you no longer have to rely on shitty pool coverage to insure your automobile—which is good—but a little too old to be training for a career in electrical engineering. Or computer programming, for that matter.”
    â€œDon’t be a turd,” Freddi says. “Don’t be a Tones Turd.”
    â€œIf telling the truth makes a man a turd, then a turd I shall be.”
    â€œYeah,” Freddi says. “You’ll go down in history. Tones the Truth-Telling Turd. Kids will learn about you in