Read Online Finders Keepers by Stephen King - Free Book Online Page B

motion, and yelled, “Bert! Bertie! It’s Morrie Bellamy!”
    From the living room came a triple grunt that might have been how ya doin .
    â€œCome in, Morrie! Come in! I’ll put on coffee! And guess what?” She gave her unnaturally black eyebrows a horrifyingly flirtatious wiggle. “There’s Sara Lee poundcake!”
    â€œSounds delicious, but I just got back from Boston. Drove straight through. I’m pretty beat. Just didn’t want you to see lights next door and call the police.”
    She gave a monkey-shriek of laughter. “You’re so thoughtful ! But you always were. How’s your mom, Morrie?”
    â€œFine.”
    He had no idea. Since his stint in reform school at seventeen and his failure to make a go of City College at twenty-one, relations between Morris and Anita Bellamy amounted to the occasional telephone call. These were frosty but civil. After one final argument the night of his arrest for breaking and entering and assorted other goodies, they had basically given up on each other.
    â€œYou’ve really put on some muscle,” Mrs. Muller said. “The girls must love that . You used to be such a scrawny thing.”
    â€œBeen building houses—”
    â€œBuilding houses ! You! Holy gosh! Bertie! Morris has been building houses! ”
    This produced a few more grunts from the living room.
    â€œBut then the work dried up, so I came back here. Mom said I was welcome to use the place unless she managed to rent it, but I probably won’t stay long.”
    How right that turned out to be.
    â€œCome in the living room, Morrie, and say hello to Bert.”
    â€œI better take a rain check.” To forestall further importuning, he called, “ Yo, Bert! ”
    Another grunt, unintelligible over the laugh track accompanying Welcome Back, Kotter .
    â€œTomorrow, then,” Mrs. Muller said, her eyebrows once more waggling. She looked like she was doing a Groucho imitation. “I’ll save the poundcake. I might even whip some cream .”
    â€œGreat,” Morris said. It wasn’t likely Mrs. Muller would die of a heart attack before tomorrow, but it was possible; as another great poet said, hope springs eternal in the human breast.
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    The keys to house and garage were where they’d always been, hanging under the eave to the right of the stoop. Morris garaged the Biscayne and set the trunk from the antiques barn on the concrete. He itched to get at that fourth Jimmy Gold novel right away, but the notebooks were all jumbled up, and besides, his eyes would cross before he read a single page of Rothstein’s tiny handwriting; he really was bushed.
    Tomorrow, he promised himself. After I talk to Andy, get some idea of how he wants to handle this, I’ll put them in order and start reading.
    He pushed the trunk under his father’s old worktable and covered it with a swatch of plastic he found in the corner. Then he went inside and toured the old homestead. It looked pretty much the same, which was lousy. There was nothing in the fridge except a jar of pickles and a box of baking soda, but there were a few Hungry Man dinners in the freezer. He stuck one in the oven, turned the dial to 350, then climbed the stairs to his old bedroom.
    I did it, he thought. I made it. I’m sitting on eighteen years’ worth of unpublished John Rothstein manuscripts.
    He was too tired to feel exultation, or even much pleasure. He almost fell asleep in the shower, and again over some really crappy meatloaf and instant potatoes. He shoveled it in, though, then trudged back up the stairs. He was asleep forty seconds after his head hit the pillow, and didn’t wake up until nine twenty the following morning.
    â€¢â€¢â€¢
    Well rested and with a bar of sunlight pouring across his childhood bed, Morris did feel exultation, and he couldn’t wait to share it. Which meant Andy Halliday.
    He found khakis and a