very beginning, even when Eddie Dean had been nothing but a wetnose junkie shivering his way through
heroin withdrawal. Jack Andolini was seeing a gunslinger.
"You bet I do," Eddie said. "And here's the message I want you to carry: Tower's off-limits."
Jack was shaking his head. "You don't understand. Tower has something somebody wants. My boss agreed to
get it. He promised. And my boss always—"
"Always keeps his promises, I know," Eddie said. "Only this time he won't be able to, and that's not going to
be his fault. Because Mr. Tower has decided not to sell his vacant lot up the street to The Sombra
Corporation. He's going to sell it to the… mmm… to the Tet Corporation, instead. Got that?"
"Mister, I don't know you, but I know my boss. He won't stop."
"He will. Because Tower won't have anything to sell. The lot will no longer be his. And now listen even more
closely, Jack. Listen ka-me, not ka-mai." Wisely, not foolishly.
Eddie leaned down. Jack stared up at him, fascinated by the bulging eyes—hazel irises, bloodshot whites—
and the savagely grinning mouth which was now the distance of a kiss from his own.
"Mr. Calvin Tower has come under the protection of people more powerful and more ruthless than you could
ever imagine, Jack. People who make Il Roche look like a hippie flower-child at Woodstock. You have to
convince him that he has nothing to gain by continuing to harass Calvin Tower, and everything to lose."
"I can't—"
"As for you, know that the mark of Gilead is on this man. If you ever touch him again—if you ever even step
foot in this shop again—I'll come to Brooklyn and kill your wife and children. Then I'll find your mother and
father, and I'll kill them. Then I'll kill your mother's sisters and your father's brothers. Then I'll kill your
grandparents, if they're still alive. You I'll save for last. Do you believe me?"
Jack Andolini went on staring into the face above him—the bloodshot eyes, the grinning, snarling mouth—
but now with mounting horror. The fact was, he did believe. And whoever he was, he knew a great deal about
Balazar and about this current deal. About the current deal, he might know more than Andolini knew himself.
"There's more of us," Eddie said, "and we're all about the same thing: protecting…" He almost said
protecting the rose. "… protecting Calvin Tower. We'll be watching this place, we'll be watching Tower, we'll
be watching Tower's friends—guys like Deepneau." Eddie saw Andolini's eyes flicker with surprise at that,
and was satisfied. "Anybody who comes here and even raises his voice to Tower, we'll kill their whole
families and them last. That goes for George, for 'Cimi Dretto, Tricks Postino… for your brother Claudio,
too."
Andolini's eyes widened at each name, then winced momentarily shut at the name of his brother. Eddie
thought that maybe he'd made his point. Whether or not Andolini could convince Balazar was another
question. But in a way it doesn't even matter, he thought coldly. Once Tower's sold us the lot, it doesn't really
matter what they do to him, does it?
"How do you know so much>" Andolini asked.
"That doesn't matter. Just pass on the message. Tell Balazar to tell his friends at Sombra that the lot is no
longer for sale. Not to them, it isn't. And tell him that Tower is now under the protection of folk from Gilead
who carry hard calibers."
"Hard—?"
"I mean folk more dangerous than any Balazar has ever dealt with before," Eddie said, "including the people
from the Sombra Corporation. Tell him that if he persists, there'll be enough corpses in Brooklyn to fill Grand
Army Plaza. And many of them will be women and children. Convince him."
"I… man, I'll try."
Eddie stood up, then backed up. Curled in the puddles of gasoline and the strews of broken glass, George
Biondi was beginning to stir and mutter deep in his throat. Eddie gestured to Jack with the barrel of Roland's
pistol, telling him to get up.
"You better try hard," he said.
NINE
Tower poured them each a cup of black coffee, then couldn't drink his. His hands were shaking too badly.
After watching him try a couple of times (and thinking about a bomb-disposal character in UXB who lost his
nerve), Eddie took pity on him and poured half of Tower's coffee into his own cup.
"Try now," he said, and pushed the half-cup back to the bookshop owner. Tower had his glasses on again, but
one of the bows had been twisted and they sat crookedly on his face. Also, there was the crack running across
the left lens like a lightning bolt. The two men were at the marble counter, Tower behind it, Eddie perched on
one of the stools. Tower had carried the book Andolini had threatened to burn first out here with him, and put
it down beside the coffee-maker. It was as if he couldn't bear to let it out of his sight.
Tower picked up the cup with his shaking hand (no rings on it, Eddie noticed—no rings on either hand) and
drained it. Eddie couldn't understand why the man would choose to drink such so-so brew black. As far as
Eddie himself was concerned, the really good taste was the Half and Half. After the months he had spent in
Roland's world (or perhaps whole years had been sneaking by), it tasted as rich as heavy cream.
"Better?" Eddie asked.
"Yes." Tower looked out the window, as if expecting the return of the gray Town Car that had jerked and
swayed away just ten minutes before. Then he looked back at Eddie. He was still frightened of the young
man, but the last of his outright terror had departed when Eddie stowed the huge pistol back inside what he
called "my friend's swag-bag." The bag was made of a scuffed, no-color leather, and closed along the top
with lacings rather than a zipper. To Calvin Tower, it seemed that the young man had stowed the more
frightening aspects of his personality in the "swag-bag" along with the oversized revolver. That was good,
because it allowed Tower to believe that the kid had been bluffing about killing whole hoodlum families as
well as the hoodlums themselves.
"Where's your pal Deepneau today?" Eddie asked.
"Oncologist. Two years ago, Aaron started seeing blood in the toilet bowl when he moved his bowels. A
younger man, he thinks 'Goddam hemorrhoids' and buys a tube of Preparation H. Once you're in your
seventies, you assume the worst. In his case it was bad but not terrible. Cancer moves slower when you get to
be his age; even the Big C gets old. Funny to think of, isn't it? Anyway, they baked it with radiation and they
say it's gone, but Aaron says you don't turn your back on cancer. He goes back every three months, and that's
where he is. I'm glad. He's an old cockuh but still a hothead."
I should introduce Aaron Deepneau to Jamie Jaffords, Eddie thought. They could play Castles instead of
chess, and yarn away the days of the Goat Moon.
Tower, meanwhile, was smiling sadly. He adjusted his glasses on his face. For a moment they stayed straight,
and then they tilted again. The tilt was somehow worse than the crack; made Tower look slightly crazy as
well as vulnerable. "He's a hothead and I'm a coward. Perhaps that's why we're friends—we fit around each
other's wrong places, make something that's almost whole."
"Say maybe you're a little hard on yourself," Eddie said.
"I don't think so. My analyst says that anyone who wants to know how the children of an A-male father and a
B-female mother turn out would only have to study my case-history. He also says—"
"Cry your pardon, Calvin, but I don't give much of a shit about your analyst. You held onto the lot up the
street, and that's good enough for me."
"I don't take any credit for that," Calvin Tower said morosely. "It's like this"—he picked up the book that he'd
put down beside the coffee-maker—"and the other ones he threatened to burn. I just have a problem letting
things go. When my first wife said she wanted a divorce and I asked why, she said, 'Because when I married
you, I didn't understand. I thought you were a man. It turns out you're a packrat.'"
"The lot is different from the books," Eddie said.
"Is it? Do you really think so?" Tower was looking at him, fascinated. When he raised his coffee cup, Eddie
was pleased to see that the worst of his shakes had subsided.
"Don't you?"
"Sometimes I dream about it," Tower said. "I haven't actually been in there since Tommy Graham's deli went
bust and I paid to have it knocked down. And to have the fence put up, of course, which was almost as
expensive as the men with the wrecking ball. I dream there's a field of flowers in there. A field of roses. And
instead of just to First Avenue, it goes on forever. Funny dream, huh?"
Eddie was sure that Calvin Tower did indeed have such dreams, but he thought he saw something else in the
eyes hiding behind the cracked and tilted glasses. He thought Tower was letting this dream stand for all the
dreams he would not tell.
"Funny," Eddie agreed. "I think you better pour me another slug of that mud, beg ya I do. We'll have us a
little palaver."
Tower smiled and once more raised the book Andolini had meant to charbroil. "Palaver. It's the kind of thing
they're always saying in here."
"Do you say so?"
"Uh-huh."
Eddie held out his hand. "Let me see."
At first Tower hesitated, and Eddie saw the bookshop owner's face briefly harden with a misery mix of
emotions.
"Come on, Cal, I'm not gonna wipe my ass with it."
"No. Of course not. I'm sorry." And at that moment Tower looked sorry, the way an alcoholic might look after
a particularly destructive bout of drunkenness. "I just… certain books are very important to me. And this one
is a true rarity."
He passed it to Eddie, who looked at the plastic-protected cover and felt his heart stop.
"What?" Tower asked. He set his coffee cup down with a bang. "What's wrong?"
Eddie didn't reply. The cover illustration showed a small rounded building like a Quonset hut, only made of
wood and thatched with pine boughs. Standing off to one side was an Indian brave wearing buckskin pants.
He was shirtless, holding a tomahawk to his chest. In the background, an old-fashioned steam locomotive
was charging across the prairie, boiling gray smoke into a blue sky.
The title of this book was The Dogan. The author was Benjamin Slightman Jr.
From some great distance, Tower was asking him if he was going to faint. From only slightly closer by, Eddie
said that he wasn't. Benjamin Slightman Jr. Ben Slightman the Younger, in other words. And—
He pushed Tower's pudgy hand away when it tried to take the book back. Then Eddie used his own finger to
count the letters in the author's name. There were, of course, nineteen.
TEN
He swallowed another cup of Tower's coffee, this time without the Half and Half. Then he took the plastic-
wrapped volume in hand once more.
"What makes it special?" he asked. "I mean, it's special to me because I met someone recently whose name is
the same as the name of the guy who wrote this. But—"
An idea struck Eddie, and he turned to the back flap, hoping for a picture of the author. What he found
instead was a curt two-line author bio: "BENJAMIN SLIGHTMAN, JR. is a rancher in Montana. This is his
second novel." Below this was a drawing of an eagle, and a slogan: buy war bonds!
"But why's it special to you? What makes it worth seventy-five hundred bucks?"
Tower's face kindled. Fifteen minutes before he had been in mortal terror for his life, but you'd never know it
looking at him now, Eddie thought. Now he was in the grip of his obsession. Roland had his Dark Tower; this
man had his rare books.
He held it so Eddie could see the cover. "The Dogan, right?"
"Right."
Tower flipped the book open and pointed to the inner flap, also under plastic, where the story was
summarized. "And here?"
" 'TheDogan,' " Eddie read. " 'A thrilling tale of the old west and one Indian brave's heroic effort to survive.'
So?"
"Now look at this!" Tower said triumphantly, and turned to the title page. Here Eddie read:
The Hogan
Benjamin Slightman Jr.
"I don't get it," Eddie said. "What's the big deal?"
Tower rolled his eyes. "Look again."
"Why don't you just tell me what—"
"No, look again. I insist. The joy is in the discovery, Mr. Dean. Any collector will tell you the same. Stamps,
coins, or books, the joy is in the discovery."
He flipped back to the cover again, and this time Eddie saw it. "The title on the front's misprinted, isn't it?
Dogan instead of Hogan"
Tower nodded happily. "A hogan is an Indian home of the type illustrated on the front. A dogan is… well,
nothing. The misprinted cover makes the book somewhat valuable, but now… look at this…"
He turned to the copyright page and handed the book to Eddie. The copyright date was 1943, which of course
explained the eagle and the slogan on the author-bio flap. The title of the book was given as The Hogan, so
that seemed all right. Eddie was about to ask when he got it for himself.
"They left the 'Jr.' off the author's name, didn't they?"
"Yes! Yes!" Tower was almost hugging himself. "As if the book had actually been written by the author's
