Popsy.pdf

Popsy

by Stephen King

Stephen King - Popsy

Sheridan was cruising slowly down the long blank length of the shopping mall when he

saw the little kid push out through the main doors under the lighted sign which read

COUSINTOWN. It was a boy-child, perhaps a big three and surely no more than five. On

his face was an expression to which Sheridan had become exquisitely attuned. He was

trying not to cry but soon would.

Sheridan paused for a moment, feeling the familiar soft wave of self-disgust...

though every time he took a child, that feeling grew a little less urgent. The first

time he hadn't slept for a week. He kept thinking about that big greasy Turk who

called himself Mr. Wizard, kept wondering what he did with the children.

"They go on a boat-ride, Mr. Sheridan," the Turk told him, only it came out Dey goo

on a bot-rahd, Messtair Shurdunn. The Turk smiled. And if you know what's good for

you, you won't ask any more about it, that smile said, and it said it loud and

clear, without an accent.

Sheridan hadn't asked any more, but that didn't mean he hadn't kept wondering.

Especially afterward. Tossing and turning, wishing he had the whole thing to do over

again so he could turn it around, so he could walk away from temptation. The second

time had been almost as bad... the third time a little less... and by the fourth

time he had almost stopped wondering about the botrahd, and what might be at the end

of it for the little kids.

Sheridan pulled his van into one of the handicap parking spaces right in front of

the mall. He had one of the special license plates the state gave to crips on the

back of his van. That plate was worth its weight in gold, because it kept any mall

security cop from getting suspicious, and those spaces were so convenient and almost

always empty.

You always pretend you 're not going out looking, but you always lift a crip plate a

day or two before.

Never mind all that bullshit; he was in a jam and that kid over there could solve

some very big problems.

He got out and walked toward the kid, who was looking around with increasing panic.

Yes, Sheridan thought, he was five all right, maybe even six -- just very frail. In

the harsh fluorescent glare thrown through the glass doors the boy looked

parchment-white, not just scared but perhaps physically ill. Sheridan reckoned it

was just big fear, however. Sheridan usually recognized that look when he saw it,

because he'd seen a lot of big fear in his own mirror over the last year and a half

or so.

The kid looked up hopefully at the people passing around him, people going into the

mall eager to buy, coming out laden with packages, their faces dazed, almost

drugged, with something they probably thought was satisfaction.

The kid, dressed in Tuffskin jeans and a Pittsburgh Penguins tee-shirt, looked for

help, looked for somebody to look at him and see something was wrong, looked for

someone to ask the right question -- You get separated from your dad, son? would do

-- looking for a friend.

Here I am, Sheridan thought, approaching. Here I am, sonny -- I'll be your friend.

He had almost reached the kid when he saw a mall rent-a-cop ambling slowly up the

concourse toward the doors. He was reaching in his pocket, probably for a pack of

cigarettes. He would come out, see the boy, and there would go Sheridan's sure

thing.

Shit, he thought, but at least he wouldn't be seen talking to the kid when the cop

came out. That would have been worse.

Sheridan drew back a little and made a business of feeling in his own pockets, as if

to make sure he still had his keys. His glance flicked from the boy to the security

cop and back to the boy. The boy had started to cry. Not all-out bawling, not yet,

but great big tears that looked pinkish in the reflected glow of the red COUSINTOWN

sign as they tracked down his smooth cheeks.

The girl in the information booth flagged down the cop and said something to him.

She was pretty, dark-haired, about twenty-five; he was sandy-blonde with a

moustache. As the cop leaned on his elbows, smiling at her, Sheridan thought they

looked like the cigarette ads you saw on the backs of magazines. Salem Spirit. Light

My Lucky. He was dying out here and they were in there making chit-chat -- whatcha

doin after work, ya wanna go and get a drink at that new place, and blah-blah-blah.

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Stephen King - Popsy

Now she was also batting her eyes at him. How cute.

Sheridan abruptly decided to take the chance. The kid's chest was hitching, and as

soon as he started to bawl out loud, someone would notice him. Sheridan didn't like

moving in with a cop less than sixty feet away, but if he didn't cover his markers

at Mr. Reggie's within the next twenty-four hours, he thought a couple of very large

men would pay him a visit and perform impromptu surgery on his arms, adding several

elbow-bends to each.

He walked up to the kid, a big man dressed in an ordinary Van Heusen shirt and khaki

pants, a man with a broad, ordinary face that looked kind at first glance. He bent

over the little boy, hands on his legs just above the knees, and the boy turned his

pale, scared face up to Sheridan's. His eyes were as green as emeralds, their color

accentuated by the light-reflecting tears that washed) them.

"You get separated from your dad, son?" Sheridan asked.

"My Popsy," the kid said, wiping his eyes. "I... I can't find my P-P-Popsy!"

Now the kid did begin to sob, and a woman headed in glanced around with some vague

concern.

"It's all right," Sheridan said to her, and she went on. Sheridan put a comforting

arm around the boy's shoulders and drew him a little to the right... in the

direction of the van. Then he looked back inside.

The rent-a-cop had his face right down next to the information girl's now. Looked

like maybe more than that little girl's Lucky was going to get lit tonight. Sheridan

relaxed. At this point there could be a stick-up going on at the bank just up the

concourse and the cop wouldn't notice a thing. This was starting to look like a

cinch.

"I want my Popsy!" the boy wept.

"Sure you do, of course you do," Sheridan said. "And we're going to find him. Don't

you worry."

He drew him a little more to the right.

The boy looked up at him, suddenly hopeful.

"Can you? Can you, mister?"

"Sure!" Sheridan said, and grinned heartily. "Finding lost

Popsys... well, you might say it's kind of a specialty of mine."

"It is?" The kid actually smiled a little, although his eyes were still leaking.

"It sure is," Sheridan said, glancing inside again to make sure the cop, whom he

could now barely see (and who would barely be able to see Sheridan and the boy,

should he happen to look up), was still enthralled. He was. " What was your Popsy

wearing, son?"

"He was wearing his suit," the boy said. "He almost always wears his suit. I only

saw him once in jeans." He spoke as if Sheridan should know all these things about

his Popsy.

"I bet it was a black suit," Sheridan said.

The boy's eyes lit up. "You saw him! Where?"

He started eagerly back toward the doors, tears forgotten, and Sheridan had to

restrain himself from grabbing the pale-faced little brat right then and there. That

type of thing was no good. Couldn't cause a scene. Couldn't do anything people would

remember later. Had to get him in the van. The van had sun-filter glass everywhere

except in the windshield; it was almost impossible to see inside unless you had your

face smashed right up against it.

Had to get him in the van first.

He touched the boy on the arm. "I didn't see him inside, son. I saw him right over

there."

He pointed across the huge parking lot with its endless platoons of cars. There was

an access road at the far end of it, and beyond that were the double yellow arches

of McDonald's.

"Why would Popsy go over there?" the boy asked, as if either Sheridan or Popsy -- or

maybe both of them -- had gone utterly mad.

"I don't know," Sheridan said. His mind was working fast, clicking along like an

express train as it always did when it got right down to the point where you had to

stop shitting and either do it up right or fuck it up righteously. Popsy. Not Dad or

Daddy but Popsy. The kid had corrected him on it. Maybe Popsy meant Granddad,

Sheridan decided. "But I'm pretty sure that was him. Older guy in a black suit.

White hair... green tie..."

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Stephen King - Popsy

"Popsy had his blue tie on," the boy said. "He knows I like it the best."

"Yeah, it could have been blue," Sheridan said. "Under these lights, who can tell?

Come on, hop in the van, I'll run you over there to him."

"Are you sure it was Popsy? Because I don't know why he'd go to a place where they

-- "

Sheridan shrugged. "Look, kid, if you're sure that wasn't him, maybe you better look

for him on your own. You might even find him.'' And he started brusquely away,

heading back toward the van.

The kid wasn't biting. He thought about going back, trying again, but it had already

gone on too long -- you either kept observable contact to a minimum or you were

asking for twenty years in Hammerton Bay. He'd better go on to another mall.

Scoterville, maybe. Or --

"Wait, mister!" It was the kid, with panic in his voice. There was the light thud of

running sneakers. "Wait up! I told him I was thirsty, he must have thought he had to

go way over there to get me a drink. Wait!"

Sheridan turned around, smiling. "I wasn't really going to leave you anyway, son."

He led the boy to the van, which was four years old and painted a nondescript blue.

He opened the door and smiled at the kid, who looked up at him doubtfully, his green

eyes swimming in that pallid little face, as huge as the eyes of a waif in a velvet

painting, the kind they advertised in the cheap weekly tabloids like The National

Enquirer and Inside View.

"Step into my parlor, little buddy," Sheridan said, and produced a grin which looked

almost entirely natural. It was really sort of creepy, how good he'd gotten at this.

The kid did, and although he didn't know it, his ass belonged to Briggs Sheridan the

minute the passenger door swung shut.

There was only one problem in his life. It wasn't broads, although he liked to hear

the swish of a skirt or feel the smooth smoke of silken hose as well as any man, and

it wasn't booze, although he had been known to take a drink or three of an evening.

Sheridan's problem -- his fatal flaw, you might even say -- was cards. Any kind of

cards, as long as it was the kind of game where wagers were allowed. He had lost

jobs, credit cards, the home his mother had left him. He had never, at least so far,

been in jail, but the first time he got in trouble with Mr. Reggie, he'd thought

jail would be a rest-cure by comparison.

He had gone a little crazy that night. It was better, he had found, when you lost

right away. When you lost right away you got discouraged, went home, watched

Letterman on the tube, and then went to sleep. When you won a little bit at first,

you chased. Sheridan had chased that night and had ended up owing seventeen thousand

dollars. He could hardly believe it; he went home dazed, almost elated, by the

enormity of it. He kept telling himself in the car on the way home that he owed Mr.

Reggie not seven hundred, not seven thousand, but seventeen thousand iron men. Every

time he tried to think about it he giggled and turned up the volume on the radio.

But he wasn't giggling the next night when the two gorillas -- the ones who would

make sure his arms bent in all sorts of new and interesting ways if he didn't pay up

-- brought him into Mr. Reggie's office.

"I'll pay," Sheridan began babbling at once. "I'll pay, listen, it's no problem,

couple of days, a week at the most, two weeks at the outside -- "

"You bore me, Sheridan," Mr. Reggie said.

"I -- "

"Shut up. If I give you a week, don't you think I know what you'll do? You'll tap a

friend for a couple of hundred if you've got a friend left to tap. If you can't find

a friend, you'll hit a liquor store... if you've got the guts. I doubt if you do,

but anything is possible." Mr. Reggie leaned forward, propped his chin on his hands,

and smiled. He smelled of Ted Lapidus cologne. " And if you do come up with two

hundred dollars, what will you do with it?''

"Give it to you," Sheridan had babbled. By then he was very close to tears. "I'll

give it to you, right away!"

"No you won't," Mr. Reggie said. "You'll take it to the track and try to make it

grow. What you'll give me is a bunch of shitty excuses. You're in over your head

this time, my friend. Way over your head."

Sheridan could hold back the tears no longer; he began to blubber.

"These guys could put you in the hospital for a long time," Mr. Reggie said

reflectively. "You would have a tube in each arm and another one coming out of your

nose."

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Stephen King - Popsy

Sheridan began to blubber louder.

"I'll give you this much," Mr. Reggie said, and pushed a folded sheet of paper

across his desk to Sheridan. "You might get along with this guy. He calls himself

Mr. Wizard, but he's a shitbag just like you. Now get out of here. I'm gonna have

you back in here in a week, though, and I'll have your markers on this desk. You

either buy them back or Pm going to have my friends tool up on you. And like Booker

T. says, once they start, they do it until they're satisfied."

The Turk's real name was written on the folded sheet of paper. Sheridan went to see

him, and heard about the kids and the botrahds. Mr. Wizard also named a figure,

which was a fairish bit larger than the markers Mr. Reggie was holding. That was

when Sheridan started cruising the malls.

He pulled out of the Cousintown Mall's main parking lot, looked for traffic, then

drove across the access road and into the McDonald's in-lane. The kid was sitting

all the way forward on the passenger seat, hands on the knees of his Tuffskins, eyes

agonizingly alert. Sheridan drove toward the building, swung wide to avoid the

drive-thru lane, and kept on going.

"Why are you going around the back?" the kid asked.

"You have to go around to the other doors," Sheridan said. "Keep your shirt on, kid.

I think I saw him in there."

"You did? You really did?"

"I'm pretty sure, yeah."

Sublime relief washed over the kid's face, and for a moment Sheridan felt sorry for

him -- hell, he wasn't a monster or a maniac, for Christ's sake. But his markers had

gotten a little deeper each time, and that bastard Mr. Reggie had no compunctions at

all about letting him hang himself. It wasn't seventeen thousand this time, or

twenty thousand, or even twenty-five thousand. This time it was thirty-five grand, a

whole damn marching battalion of iron men, if he didn't want a few new sets of

elbows by next Saturday.

He stopped in the back by the trash-compactor. Nobody was parked back here. Good.

There was an elasticized pouch on the side of the door for maps and things. Sheridan

reached into it with his left hand and brought out a pair of blued-steel Kreig

handcuffs. The loop-jaws were open.

"Why are we stopping here, mister?" the kid asked. The fear was back in his voice,

but the quality of it had changed; he had suddenly realized that maybe getting

separated from good old Popsy in the busy mall wasn't the worst thing that could

happen to him, after all.

"We're not, not really," Sheridan said easily. He had learned the second time he'd

done this that you didn't want to underestimate even a six-year-old once he had his

wind up. The second kid had kicked him in the balls and had damn near gotten away.

"I just remembered I forgot to put my glasses on when I started driving. I could

lose my license. They're in that glasses-case on the floor there. They slid over to

your side. Hand em to me, would you?"

The kid bent over to get the glasses-case, which was empty. Sheridan leaned over and

snapped one of the cuffs on the kid's reaching hand as neat as you please. And then

the trouble started. Hadn't he just been thinking it was a bad mistake to

underestimate even a six-year-old? The brat fought like a timberwolf pup, twisting

with a powerful muscularity Sheridan would not have credited had he not been

experiencing it. He bucked and fought and lunged for the door, panting and uttering

weird birdlike cries. He got the handle. The door swung open, but no domelight came

on -- Sheridan had broken it after that second outing.

Sheridan got the kid by the round collar of his Penguins tee-shirt and hauled him

back in. He tried to clamp the other cuff on the special strut beside the passenger

seat and missed. The kid bit his hand twice, bringing blood. God, his teeth were

like razors. The pain went deep and sent a steely ache all the way up his arm. He

punched the kid in the mouth. The kid fell back into the seat, dazed, Sheridan's

blood on his lips and chin and dripping onto the ribbed neck of the tee-shirt.

Sheridan locked the other cuff onto the strut and then fell back into his own seat,

sucking the back of his right hand.

The pain was really bad. He pulled his hand away from his mouth and looked at it in

the weak glow of the dashlights. Two shallow, ragged tears, each maybe two inches

long, ran up toward his wrist from just above the knuckles. Blood pulsed in weak

little rills. Still, he felt no urge to pop the kid again, and that had nothing to

do with damaging the Turk's merchandise, in spite of the almost fussy way the Turk

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Stephen King - Popsy

had warned him against that -- demmege the goots end you demmege the velue, the Turk

had said in his greasy accent.

No, he didn't blame the kid for fighting -- he would have done the same. He would

have to disinfect the wound as soon as he could, though, might even have to have a

shot; he had read somewhere that human bites were the worst kind. Still, he couldn't

help but admire the kid's guts.

He dropped the transmission into drive and pulled around the hamburger stand, past

the drive-thru window, and back onto the access road. He turned left. The Turk had a

big ranch-style house in Taluda Heights, on the edge of the city. Sheridan would go

there by secondary roads, just to be safe. Thirty miles. Maybe forty-five minutes,

maybe an hour.

He passed a sign which read THANK YOU FOR SHOPPING THE BEAUTIFUL COUSINTOWN MALL,

turned left, and let the van creep up to a perfectly legal forty miles an hour. He

fished a handkerchief out of his back pocket, folded it over the back of his right

hand, and concentrated on following his headlights to the forty grand the Turk had

promised for a boy-child.

"You'll be sorry," the kid said.

Sheridan looked impatiently around at him, pulled from a dream in which he had just

won twenty straight hands and had Mr. Reggie groveling at his feet for a change,

sweating bullets and begging him to stop, what did he want to do, break him?

The kid was crying again, and his tears still had that odd pinkish cast, even though

they were now well away from the bright lights of the mall. Sheridan wondered for

the first time if the kid might have some sort of communicable disease. He supposed

it was a little late to start worrying about such things, so he put it out of his

mind.

"When my Popsy finds you you'll be sorry," the kid elaborated.

"Yeah," Sheridan said, and lit a cigarette. He turned off State Road 28 and onto an

unmarked stretch of two-lane blacktop. There was a long marshy area on the left,

unbroken woods on the right.

The kid pulled at the handcuffs and made a sobbing noise.

"Quit it. Won't do you any good."

Nevertheless, the kid pulled again. And this time there was a groaning, protesting

sound Sheridan didn't like at all. He looked around and was amazed to see that the

metal strut on the side of the seat -- a strut he had welded in place himself -- was

twisted out of shape. Shit! he thought. He's got teeth like razors and now I find

out he's also strong as a fucking ox. If this is what he's like when he's sick, God

forbid I should have grabbed him on a day "when he was feeling well.

He pulled over onto the soft shoulder and said, "Stop it!"

"I won't!"

The kid yanked at the handcuff again and Sheridan saw the metal strut bend a little

more. Christ, how could any kid do that?

It's panic, he answered himself. That's how he can do it.

But none of the others had been able to do it, and many of them had been a lot more

terrified than this kid by this stage of the game.

He opened the glove compartment in the center of the dash. He brought out a

hypodermic needle. The Turk had given it to him, and cautioned him not to use it

unless he absolutely had to. Drugs, the Turk said (pronouncing it drocks) could

demmege the merchandise.

"See this?"

The kid gave the hypo a glimmering sideways glance and nodded.

"You want me to use it?"

The kid shook his head at once. Strong or not, he had any kid's instant terror of

the needle, Sheridan was happy to see.

"That's very smart. It would put out your lights." He paused. He didn't want to say

it -- hell, he was a nice guy, really, when he didn't have his ass in a sling -- but

he had to. "Might even kill you."

The kid stared at him, lips trembling, cheeks papery with fear.

"You stop yanking the cuff, I put away the needle. Deal?"

"Deal," the kid whispered.

"You promise?"

" Yes.'' The kid lifted his lip, showing white teeth. One of them was spotted with

Sheridan's blood.

"You promise on your mother's name?"

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