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town cops back around the time Nixon got elected President。 Now he's Chief of Police。'
Smokey picked up his Cheroot； puffed at it； and looked at Jack。
'Digger and me go back；' Smokey said。 'And if you was to just walk out of here now； Jack； I couldn't guarantee that you wouldn't have some trouble with Digger。 Might end up getting sent home。 Might end up picking the apples on the town's land…Oatley Township's got 。 。 。 oh； I guess forty acres of good trees。 Might end up getting beat up。 Or 。 。 。 I've heard that ole Digger's got a taste for kids on the road。 Boys； mostly。'
Jack thought of that clublike penis。 He felt both sick and cold。
'In here； you're under my wing； so to speak；' Smokey said。 'Once you hit the street； who can say？ Digger's apt to be cruising anyplace。 You might get over the town line with no sweat。 On the other hand； you might just see him pulling up beside you in that big Plymouth he drives。 Digger ain't totally bright； but he does have a nose； sometimes； Or 。 。 。 someone might give him a call。'
Behind the bar； Lori was doing dishes。 She dried her hands； turned on the radio； and began to sing along with an old Steppenwolf song。
'Tell you what；' Smokey said。 'Hang in there； Jack。 Work the weekend。 Then I'll pack you into my pick…up and drive you over the town line myself。 How would that be？ You'll go out of here Sunday noon with damn near thirty bucks in your poke that you didn't have ing in。 You'll go out thinking that Oatley's not such a bad place after all。 So what do you say？'
Jack looked into those brown eyes； noted the yellow scleras and the small flecks of red； he noted Smokey's big； sincere smile lined with false teeth； he even saw with a weird and terrifying sense of déjà vu that the fly was back on the paper fry…cook's hat； preening and washing its hair…thin forelegs。
He suspected Smokey knew that he knew that everything Updike had said was a lie； and didn't even care。 After working into the early hours of Saturday morning and then Sunday morning； Jack would sleep until maybe two Sunday afternoon。 Smokey would tell him he couldn't give him that ride because Jack had woken up too late； now he； Smokey； was too busy watching the Colts and the Patriots。 And Jack would not only be too tired to walk； he would be too afraid that Smokey might lose interest in the Colts and Patriots just long enough to call his good friend Digger Atwell and say； 'He's walking down Mill Road right now； Digger old boy； why don't you pick him up？ Then get over here for the second half。 Free beer； but don't you go puking in my urinal until I get the kid back here。'
That was one scenario。 There were others that he could think of； each a little different； each really the same at bottom。
Smokey Updike's smile widened a little。
CHAPTER 10
Elroy
1
When I was six 。 。 。
The Tap； which had begun to wind down by this time on his previous two nights； was roaring along as if the patrons expected to greet the dawn。 He saw two tables had vanished…victims of the fistfight that had broken out just before his last expedition into the john。 Now people were dancing where the tables had been。
'About time；' Smokey said as Jack staggered the length of the bar on the inside and put the case down by the refrigerator partments。 'You get those in there and go back for the fucking Bud。 You should have brought that first； anyway。'
'Lori didn't say…'
Hot； incredible pain exploded in his foot as Smokey drove one heavy shoe down on Jack's sneaker。 Jack uttered a muffled scream and felt tears sting his eyes。
'Shut up；' Smokey said。 'Lori don't know shit from Shinola； and you are smart enough to know it。 Get back in there and run me out a case of Bud。'
He went back to the storeroom； limping on the foot Smokey had stomped； wondering if the bones in some of his toes might be broken。 It seemed all too possible。 His head roared with smoke and noise and the jagged ripsaw rhythm of The Genny Valley Boys； two of them now noticeably weaving on the bandstand。 One thought stood out clearly： it might not be possible to wait until closing。 He really might not be able to last that long。 If Oatley was a prison and the Oatley Tap was his cell； then surely exhaustion was as much his warder as Smokey Updike…maybe even more so。
In spite of his worries about what the Territories might be like at this place； the magic juice seemed more and more to promise him his only sure way out。 He could drink some and flip over 。 。 。 and if he could manage to walk a mile west over there； two at the most； he could drink a bit more and flip back into the U。S。A。 well over the town line of this horrible little place； perhaps as far west as Bushville or even Pembroke。
When I was six； when Jack…O was six； when…
He got the Bud and stumble…staggered out through the door again 。 。 。 and the tall； rangy cowboy with the big hands； the one who looked like Randolph Scott； was standing there； looking at him。
'Hello； Jack；' he said； and Jack saw with rising terror that the irises of the man's eyes were as yellow as chicken…claws。 'Didn't somebody tell you to get gone？ You don't listen very good； do you？'
Jack stood with the case of Bud dragging at the ends of his arms； staring into those yellow eyes； and suddenly a horrid idea hammered into his mind： that this had been the lurker in the tunnel…this man…thing with its dead yellow eyes。
'Leave me alone；' he said…the words came out in a win…tery little whisper。
He crowded closer。 'You were supposed to get gone。'
Jack tried to back up 。 。 。 but now he was against the wall； and as the cowboy who looked like Randolph Scott leaned toward him； Jack could smell dead meat on its breath。
2
Between the time Jack started work on Thursday at noon and four o'clock； when the Tap's usual after…work crowd started to e in； the pay phone with the PLEASE LIMIT YOUR CALLS TO THREE MINUTES sign over it rang twice。
The first time it rang； Jack felt no fear at all…and it turned out to be only a solicitor for the United Fund。
Two hours later； as Jack was bagging up the last of the previous night's bottles； the telephone began to shrill again。 This time his head snapped up like an animal which scents fire in a dry forest 。 。 。 except it wasn't fire he sensed； but ice。 He turned toward the telephone； which was only four feet from where he was working； hearing the tendons in his neck creak。 He thought he must see the pay phone caked with ice； ice that was sweating through the phone's black plastic case； extruding from the holes in the earpiece and the mouthpiece in lines of blue ice as thin as pencil…leads； hanging from the rotary dial and the coin return in icicle beards。
But it was just the phone； and all the coldness and death was on the inside。
He stared at it； hypnotized。
'Jack！' Smokey yelled。 'Answer the goddam phone！ What the fuck am I paying you for？'
Jack looked toward Smokey； as desperate as a cornered animal 。 。 。 but Smokey was staring back with the thin…lipped； out…of…patience expression that he got on his face just before he popped Lori one。 He started toward the phone； barely aware that his feet were moving； he stepped deeper and deeper into that capsule of coldness； feeling the gooseflesh run up his arms； feeling the moisture crackle in his nose。
He reached out and grasped the phone。 His hand went numb。
He put it to his ear。 His ear went numb。
'Oatley Tap；' he said into that deadly blackness； and his mouth went numb。
The voice that came out of the phone was the cracked； rasping croak of something long dead； some creature which could never be seen by the living： the sight of it would drive a living person insane； or strike him dead with frost…etchings on his lips and staring eyes blinded by cataracts of ice。 'Jack；' this scabrous； rattling voice whispered up out of the earpiece； and his face went numb； the way it did when you needed to spend a heavy day in the dentist's chair and the guy needled you up with a little too much Novocain。 'You get your ass back home； Jack。'
From far away； a distance of light…years； it seemed； he could hear his voice repeating： 'Oatley Tap； is anyone there？ Hello？ 。 。 。 Hello？ 。 。 。 ' Cold； so cold。
His throat was numb。 He drew breath and his lungs seemed to freeze。 Soon the chambers of his heart would ice up and he would simply drop dead。
That chilly voice whispered； 'Bad things can happen to a boy alone on the road； Jack。 Ask anybody。'
He hung the phone up with a quick； clumsy reaching gesture。 He pulled his hand back and then stood looking at the phone。
'Was it the asshole； Jack？' Lori asked； and her voice was distant 。 。 。 but a little closer than his own voice had seemed a few moments ago。 The world was ing back。 On the handset of the pay phone he could see the shape of his hand； outlined in a glittering rime of frost。 As he looked； the frost began to melt and run down the black plastic。
3
That was the night…Thursday night…that Jack first saw Genny County's answer to Randolph Scott。 The crowd was a little smaller than it had been Wednesday night…very much a day…before…