"Holy Jesus, Alan, I'm sorry!"

"What have you got in there?" Alan asked, hopping away with his left foot in his hand. "Half of Castle Land Quarry?"

"I guess it has has been awhile since I cleaned em out." John smiled guiltily and began stuffing papers and office supplies helter-skelter back into the drawers. His conventionally handsome face was flaming scarlet. He was on his knees, and when he pivoted to get the paper-clips and staples which had gone under Clut's desk, he kicked over a tall stack of forms and reports that he had stacked on the floor. Now the bullpen area of the Sheriffs Office was beginning to resemble a tornado zone. been awhile since I cleaned em out." John smiled guiltily and began stuffing papers and office supplies helter-skelter back into the drawers. His conventionally handsome face was flaming scarlet. He was on his knees, and when he pivoted to get the paper-clips and staples which had gone under Clut's desk, he kicked over a tall stack of forms and reports that he had stacked on the floor. Now the bullpen area of the Sheriffs Office was beginning to resemble a tornado zone.

"Whoops!" John said.

"Whoops," Alan said, sitting on Norris Ridgewick's desk and trying to ma.s.sage his toes through his heavy black police-issue shoes. "Whoops is good, John. A very accurate description of the situation. This is a whoops if I ever saw one."

"Sorry," John said again, and actually wormed under his desk on his stomach, sweeping errant clips and staples toward him with the sides of his hands. Alan was not sure if he should laugh or cry. John's feet were wagging back and forth as he moved his hands, spreading the papers on the floor widely and evenly.

"John, get out of there!" Alan yelled. He was trying hard not to laugh, but he could tell already it was going to be a lost cause.

LaPointe jerked. His head bonked briskly against the underside of his desk. And another stack of papers, one which had been deposited on the very edge of gravity to make room for the drawers, fell over the side. Most floomped straight to the floor, but dozens went seesawing lazily back and forth through the air.

He's gonna be filing those all day, Alan thought resignedly. Maybe all week.

Then he could hold on no longer. He threw back his head and bellowed laughter. Andy Clutterbuck, who had been in the dispatcher's office, came out to see what was going on.

"Sheriff?" he asked. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah," Alan said. Then he looked at the reports and forms, scattered h.e.l.l to breakfast, and began to laugh again. "John's doing a little creative paperwork here, that's all."

John crawled out from under his desk and stood up. He looked like a man who wishes mightily that someone would ask him to stand at attention, or maybe hit the deck and do forty pushups. The front of his previously immaculate uniform was covered with dust, and in spite of his amus.e.m.e.nt, Alan made a mental note-it had been a long time since Eddie Warburton had taken care of the floor under these bullpen desks. Then he began laughing again. There was simply no help for it. Clut looked from John to Alan and then back to John again, puzzled.

"Okay," Alan said, getting himself under control at last. "What were you looking for, John? The Holy Grail? The Lost Chord? What?"

"My wallet," John said, brushing ineffectually at the front of his uniform. "I can't find my G.o.ddam wallet."

"Did you check your car?"

"Both of them," John said. He pa.s.sed a disgusted glance over the asteroid belt of junk around his desk. "The cruiser I was driving last night and my Pontiac. But sometimes when I'm here I stick it in a desk drawer because it makes a lump against my b.u.t.t when I sit down. So I was checking-"

"It wouldn't bust your a.s.s like that if you didn't keep your whole G.o.ddam life in there, John," Andy Clutterbuck said reasonably.

"Clut," Alan said, "go play in the traffic, would you?"

"Huh?"

Alan rolled his eyes. "Go find something to do. I think John and I can handle this; we're trained investigators. If it turns out we can't, we'll let you know."

"Oh, sure. Just trying to help, you know. I've seen his wallet. It looks like he's got the whole Library of Congress in there. In fact-"

"Thanks for your input, Clut. We'll see you."

"Okay," Clut said. "Always glad to help. Later, dudes."

Alan rolled his eyes. He felt like laughing again, but controlled himself. It was clear from John's unhappy expression that it was no joke to him. He was embarra.s.sed, but that was only part of it. Alan had lost a wallet or two in his time, and he knew what a s.h.i.tty feeling it was. Losing the money in it and the ha.s.sle of reporting credit cards gone west was only part of it, and not necessarily the worst part, either. You kept remembering stuff you had tucked away in there, stuff that might seem like junk to someone else but was irreplaceable to you.

John was hunkered down on his hams, picking up papers, sorting them, stacking them, and looking disconsolate. Alan helped.

"Did you really hurt your toes, Alan?"

"Nah. You know these shoes-it's like wearing Brinks trucks on your feet. How much was in the wallet, John?"

"Aw, no more'n twenty bucks, I guess. But I got my hunting license last week, and that was in there. Also my MasterCard. I'll have to call the bank and tell them to cancel the number if I can't find the d.a.m.ned wallet. But what I really want are the pictures. Mom and Dad, my sisters... you know. Stuff like that."

But it wasn't the picture of his mother and father or the ones of his sisters that John really cared about; the really important one was the picture of him and Sally Ratcliffe. Clut had taken it at the Fryeburg State Fair about three months before Sally had broken up with John in favor of that stonebrain Lester Pratt.

"Well," Alan said, "it'll turn up. The money and the plastic may be gone, but the wallet and pictures will probably come home, John. They usually do. You know that."

"Yeah," John said with a sigh. "It's just that... d.a.m.n, I keep trying to remember if I had it this morning when I came in to work. I just can't."

"Well, I hope you find it. Stick a LOST notice up on the bulletin board, why don't you?"

"I will. And I'll get the rest of this mess cleaned up."

"I know you will, John. Take it easy."

Alan went out to the parking lot, shaking his head.

3.

The small silver bell over the door of Needful Things tinkled and Babs Miller, member in good standing of the Ash Street Bridge Club, came in a little timidly.

"Mrs. Miller!" Leland Gaunt welcomed her, consulting the sheet of paper which lay beside his cash register. He made a small tick-mark on it. "How good that you could come! And right on time! It was the music box you were interested in, wasn't it? A lovely piece of work."

"I wanted to speak to you about it, yes," Babs said. "I suppose it's sold." It was difficult for her to imagine that such a lovely thing could not not have been sold. She felt her heart break a little just at the thought. The tune it played, the one Mr. Gaunt claimed he could not remember... she thought she knew just which one it must be. She had once danced to that tune on the Pavillion at Old Orchard Beach with the captain of the football team, and later that same evening she had willingly given up her virginity to him under a gorgeous May moon. He had given her the first and last o.r.g.a.s.m of her life, and all the while it had been roaring through her veins, that tune had been twisting through her head like a burning wire. have been sold. She felt her heart break a little just at the thought. The tune it played, the one Mr. Gaunt claimed he could not remember... she thought she knew just which one it must be. She had once danced to that tune on the Pavillion at Old Orchard Beach with the captain of the football team, and later that same evening she had willingly given up her virginity to him under a gorgeous May moon. He had given her the first and last o.r.g.a.s.m of her life, and all the while it had been roaring through her veins, that tune had been twisting through her head like a burning wire.

"No, it's right here," Mr. Gaunt said. He took it from the gla.s.s case where it had been hiding behind the Polaroid camera and set it on top. Babs Miller's face lit up at the sight of it.

"I'm sure it's more than I could afford," Babs said, "all at once, that is, but I really really like it, Mr. Gaunt, and if there was any chance that I could pay for it in installments... any chance at like it, Mr. Gaunt, and if there was any chance that I could pay for it in installments... any chance at all... all..."

Mr. Gaunt smiled. It was an exquisite, comforting smile. "I think you're needlessly worried," said he. "You're going to be surprised at how reasonable the price of this lovely music box is, Mrs. Miller. Very surprised. Sit down. Let's talk about it."

She sat down.

He came toward her.

His eyes captured hers.

That tune started up in her head again.

And she was lost.

4.

"I remember now," Jillian Mislaburski told Alan. "It was the Rusk boy. Billy, I think his name is. Or maybe it's Bruce."

They were standing in her living room, which was dominated by the Sony TV and a gigantic plaster crucified Jesus which hung on the wall behind it. Oprah was on the tube. Judging from the way Jesus had His eyes rolled up under His crown of thorns, Alan thought He would maybe have preferred Geraldo. Or Divorce Court. Divorce Court. Mrs. Mislaburski had offered Alan a cup of coffee, which he had refused. Mrs. Mislaburski had offered Alan a cup of coffee, which he had refused.

"Brian," he said.

"That's right!" she said. "Brian!"

She was wearing her bright green wrapper but had dispensed with the red doo-rag this morning. Curls the size of the cardboard cylinders one finds at the centers of toilet-paper rolls stood out around her head in a bizarre corona.

"Are you sure, Mrs. Mislaburski?"

"Yes. I remembered who he was this morning when I got up. His father put the aluminum siding on our house two years ago. The boy came over and helped out for awhile. He seemed like a nice boy to me."

"Do you have any idea what he might have been doing there?"

"He said he wanted to ask if they'd hired anyone to shovel their driveway this winter. I think that was it. He said he'd come back later, when they weren't fighting. The poor kid looked scared to death, and I don't blame him." She shook her head. The large curls bounced softly. "I'm sorry she died the way she did..." Jill Mislaburski lowered her voice confidentially. "But I'm happy for Pete. No one knows what he had to put up with, married to that woman. No one." She looked meaningfully at Jesus on the wall, then back at Alan again.

"Uh-huh," Alan said. "Did you notice anything else, Mrs. Mislaburski? Anything about the house, or the sounds, or the boy?"

She put a finger against her nose and c.o.c.ked her head. "Well, not really. The boy-Brian Rusk-had a cooler in his bike basket. I remember that, but I don't suppose that's the kind of thing-"

"Whoa," Alan said, raising his hand. A bright light had gone on for a moment at the front of his mind. "A cooler?"

"You know, the kind you take on picnics or to tailgate parties? I only remember it because it was really too big for his bike basket. It was in there crooked. It looked like it might fall out."

"Thank you, Mrs. Mislaburski," Alan said slowly. "Thank you very much."

"Does it mean something? Is it a clue?"

"Oh, I doubt it." But he wondered.

I'd like the possibility of vandalism a lot better if the kid was sixteen or seventeen, Henry Payton had said. Alan had felt the same way. but he had come across twelve-year-old vandals before, and he guessed you could tote a pretty fair number of rocks in one of those picnic coolers. Henry Payton had said. Alan had felt the same way. but he had come across twelve-year-old vandals before, and he guessed you could tote a pretty fair number of rocks in one of those picnic coolers.

Suddenly he began to feel a good deal more interested in the talk he would be having with young Brian Rusk this afternoon.

5.

The silver bell tinkled. Sonny Jackett came into Needful Things slowly, warily, kneading his grease-stained Sunoco cap in his hands. His manner was that of a man who sincerely believes he will soon break many expensive things no matter how much he doesn't want to; breaking things, his face proclaimed, was not his desire but his karma.

"Mr. Jackett!" Leland Gaunt cried his customary welcome with his customary vigor, and then made another tiny check-mark on the sheet beside the cash register. "So glad you could stop by!"

Sonny advanced three steps farther into the room and then stopped, glancing warily from the gla.s.s cases to Mr. Gaunt.

"Well," he said, "I didn't come in to buy nuthin. Got to put you straight on that. Ole Harry Samuels said you ast if I'd stop by this mornin if I had a chance. Said you had a socket-wrench set that was some nice. I been lookin for one, but this ain't no store for the likes of me. I'm just makin my manners to you, sir."

"Well, I appreciate your honesty," Mr. Gaunt said, "but you don't want to speak too soon, Mr. Jackett. This is one nice set of sockets-double-measure adjustable."

"Oh, ayuh?" Sonny raised his eyebrows. He knew there were were such things, which made it possible to work on both foreign and domestic cars with the same socket-wrenches, but he had never actually seen such a rig. "That so?" such things, which made it possible to work on both foreign and domestic cars with the same socket-wrenches, but he had never actually seen such a rig. "That so?"

"Yes. I put them in the back room, Mr. Jackett, as soon as I heard you were looking. Otherwise they would have gone almost at once, and I wanted you to at least see them before I sold the set to someone else."

Sonny Jackett reacted to this with instant Yankee suspicion. "Now, why would you want to do that?"

"Because I have a cla.s.sic car, and cla.s.sic cars need frequent repairs. I've been told you're the best mechanic this side of Derry."

"Oh." Sonny relaxed. "Mayhap I am. What've you got for wheels?"

"A Tucker."

Sonny's eyebrows shot up and he looked at Mr. Gaunt with a new respect. "A Torpedo! Fancy that!"

"No. I have a Talisman."

"Ayuh? Never heard of a Tucker Talisman."

"There were only two built-the prototype and mine. In 1953, that was. Mr. Tucker moved to Brazil not long after, where he died." Mr. Gaunt smiled mistily. "Preston was a sweet fellow, and a wizard when it came to auto design. but he was no businessman."

"That so?"

"Yes." The mist in Mr. Gaunt's eyes cleared. "But that's yesterday, and this is today! Turn the page, eh, Mr. Jackett? Turn the page, I always say-face front, march cheerily into the future, and never look back!"

Sonny regarded Mr. Gaunt from the corners of his eyes with some unease and said nothing.

"Let me show you the socket-wrenches."

Sonny didn't agree at once. Instead, he looked doubtfully at the contents of the gla.s.s cases again. "Can't afford nothing too nice. Got bills a mile high. Sometimes I think I ought to get right the h.e.l.l out of bi'ness and go on the County."

"I know what you mean," Mr. Gaunt said. "It's the d.a.m.ned Republicans, that's what I I think." think."

Sonny's knotted, distrustful face relaxed all at once. "You're G.o.dd.a.m.ned right about that, that, chummy!" he exclaimed. "George Bush has d.a.m.n near chummy!" he exclaimed. "George Bush has d.a.m.n near ruint ruint this country... him and his G.o.ddam war! But do you think the Democrats have anyone to put up against 'im next year who can win?" this country... him and his G.o.ddam war! But do you think the Democrats have anyone to put up against 'im next year who can win?"

"Doubtful," Mr. Gaunt said.