sk.cujo-第13章

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ed　the　ticket　in　yet；　but　neither　had　she　let　it　out　of　her　sight　or　her　reach　since　she　found　out。
'We　do　have　that　kind　of　money；'　she　said。　Brett　goggled　at　her。
At　quarter　past　ten；　Vic　slipped　out　of　his　Ad　Worx　office　and　went　around　to　Bentley's　for　his　morning　coffee；　unable　to　face　the　bitch's　brew　that　was　available　at　the　office。　He　had　spent　the　morning　writing　ads　for　Decoster　Egg　Farms。　It　was　hard　going。　He　had　hated　eggs　since　his　boyhood；　when　his　mother　grimly　forced　one　down　his　throat　four　days　a　week。　The　best　he　had　been　able　to　e　up　with　so　far　was　EGGS　SAY　LOVE　。。。　SEAMLESSLY。　Not　very　good。　Seamlessly　had　given　him　the　idea　of　a　trick　photo　which　would　show　an　egg　with　a　zipper　running　around　it's　middle。　It　was　a　good　image；　but　where　did　it　lead？　Noplace　that　he　had　been　able　to　discover。　Ought　to　ask　the　Tadder；　he　thought；　as　the　waitress　brought　him　coffee　and　a　blueberry　muffin。　Tad　liked　eggs。
It　wasn't　really　the　egg　ad　that　was　bringing　him　down；　of　course。　It　has　having　to　take　off　for　twelve　days。　Well；　it　had　to　be。　Roger　had　convinced　him　of　that。　They　would　have　to　get　in　there　and　pitch　like　hell。
Good　old　garrulous　Roger；　whom　Vic　loved　almost　like　a　brother。　Roger　would　have　been　more　than　glad　to　cruise　down　here　to　Bentley's　with　him；　to　have　a　coffee　with　him；　and　to　talk　his　ear　off。　But　this　one　time；　Vic　needed　to　be　alone。　To　think。　The　two　of　them　would　be　spending　most　of　two　weeks　together　starting　Monday；　sweating　it　out；　and　that　was　quite　enough；　even　for　soul　brothers。
His　mind　turned　toward　the　Red　Razberry　Zingers　fiasco　again；　and　he　let　it；　knowing　that　sometimes　a　no…pressure；　almost　idle　review　of　a　bad　situation　could~　for　him；　at　least　…result　in　some　new　insight；　a　fresh　angle。
What　had　happened　was　bad　enough；　and　Zingers　had　been　withdrawn　from　the　market。　Bad　enough；　but　not　terrible。　It　wasn't　like　that　canned　mushroom　thing；　no　one　had　gotten　sick　or　died；　and　even　consumers　realized　that　a　pany　could　take　a　pratfall　now　and　then。　Look　at　that　…McDonald's　glass　giveaway　a　couple…three　years　ago。　The　paint　on　the　glasses　had　been　found　to　contain　an　unacceptably　high　lead　content。　The　glasses　had　been　withdrawn　quickly；　consigned　to　that　promotional　limbo　inhabited　by　creatures　such　as　Speedy　AlkaSeltzer　and　Vic's　own　personal　favorite；　Big　Dick　Chewing　Gum。
The　glasses　had　been　bad　for　the　McDonald's　Corporation；　but　no　one　had　accused　Ronald　McDonald　of　trying　to　poison　his　pre…teen　constituency。　And　no　one　had　actually　accused　the　Sharp　Cereal　Professor　either；　although　edians　from　Bob　Hope　to　Steve　Martin　had　taken　potshots　at　him；　and　johnny　Carson　had　run　off　an　entire　monologue　…　couched　in　careful　double　entendre　…　about　the　Red　Razberry　Zingers　affair　one　evening　during　his　opening　spot　on　The　Tonight　Show。　Needless　to　say；　the　Sharp
Cereal　Professor　ads　had　been　jerked　from　the　tube。　Also　needless　to　say；　the　character　actor　who　played　the　Professor　was　wild　at　the　way　events　had　turned　on　him。
I　could　imagine　a　worse　situation；　Roger　had　said　after　the　first　shock　waves　had　subsided　a　bit　and　the　thrice…daily　long…distance　calls　between　Portland　and　Cleveland　were　no　longer　flying。
What？　Vic　had　asked。
Well；　Roger　had　answered；　straight…faced；　we　could　be　working　on　the　Bon　Vivant　Vichysoisse　account。
'More　coffee；　sir？'
Vic　glanced　up　at　the　waitress。　He　started　to　say　no；　then　nodded。　'Half　a　cup；　please；'　he　said。
She　poured　it　and　left。　Vic　stirred　it　randomly；　not　drinking　it。
There　had　been　a　mercifully　brief　health　scare　before　a　number　of　doctors　spoke　up　on　TV　and　in　the　papers；　all　of　them　saying　the　coloration　was　harmless。　There　had　been　something　like　it　once　before；　the　stews　on　a　mercial　airline　had　been　struck　down　with　weird　orange　skin　discolorations　which　finally　proved　to　he　nothing　more　serious　than　a　rub…off　of　the　orange　dye　on　the　life　jackets　they　demonstrated　for　their　passengers　before　takeoff。　Years　before　that；　the　food　dye　in　a　certain　brand　of　frankfurters　had　produced　an　internal　effect　similar　to　that　of　Red　Razberry　Zingers。
Old　man　Sharp's　lawyers　had　lodged　a　multimilliondollar　damage　suit　against　the　dye　manufacturer；　a　case　that　would　probably　drag　on　for　three　years　and　then　be　settled　out　of　court。　No　matter；　the　suit　provided　a　forum　from　which　to　make　the　public　aware　that　the　fault　…　the　totally　temporary　fault；　the　pletely　harmless　fault　…　had　not　been　that　of　the　Sharp　pany。
Nonetheless；　Sharp　stock　had　tumbled　sharply　on　the　Big　Board。　It　had　since　made　up　less　than　half　the　original　drop。　The　cereals　themselves　had　shown　a　sudden　dip　in　sales　but　had　since　made　up　most　of　the　ground　that　had　been　lost　after　Zingers　showed　its　treacherous　red　face。　Sharp's
All…Grain　Blend；　in　fact；　was　doing　better　than　ever　before。
So　there　was　nothing　wrong　here；　right？
Wrong。　So　wrong。
The　Sharp　Cereal　Professor　was　what　was　wrong。　The　poor　guy　would　never　be　able　to　make　a　eback。　After　the　scare　e　the　laughs；　and　the　Professor；　with　his　sober　mien　and　his　schoolroom　surroundings；　had　been　literally　laughed　to　death。
George　Carlin；　in　his　nightclub　routine：　'Yeah；　it's　a　crazy　world。　Crazy　world。'　Carlin　bends　his　head　over　his　mike　for　a　moment；　meditating；　and　then　looks　up　again。　'The　Reagan　guys　are　doing　their　campaign　shit　on　TV；　right？　Russians　are　getting　ahead　of　us　in　the　arms　race。　The　Russians　are　turning　out　missiles　by　the　thousands；　right？　So　Jimmy　gets　on　TV　to　do　one　of　his　spots；　and　he　says；　〃My　fellow　Americans；　the　day　the　Russians　get　ahead　of　us　in　the　arms　race　will　be　the　day　the　youth　of　America　shits　red。‘
Big　laugh　from　the　audience。
'So　Ronnie　gets　on　the　phone　to　Jimmy；　and　he　says；　〃Mr。　President；　what　did　Amy　have　for　breakfast？〃'
A　gigantic　laugh　from　the　audience。　Carlin　pauses。　The　real　punchline　is　then　delivered　in　a　low；　insinuating　tone：
'Nooope　。。。　nothing　wrong　here。'
The　audience　roars　its　approval；　applauds　wildly。　Carlin　shakes　his　head　sadly。　'Red　shit；　man。　Wow。　Dig　on　it　awhile。'
That　was　the　problem。　George　Carlin　was　the　problem。　Bob　Hope　was　the　problem。　johnny　Carson　was　the　problem。　Steve　Martin　was　the　problem。　Every　barbershop　wit　in　America　was　the　problem。
And　then；　consider　this：　Sharp　stock　had　gone　down　nine　and　had　only　rebounded　four　and　a　quarter。　The　shareholders　were　going　to　be　hollering　for　somebody's　head。　Let's　see　。。。　whose　do　we　give　them？　Who　had　the　bright　idea　of　the　Sharp　Cereal　Professor　in　the　first　place？　How　about　those　guys　as　the　most　eligible？　Never　mind　the　fact　that　the　Professor　had　been　on　for　four　years　before　the　Zingers。　debacle。　Never　mind　the　fact　that　when　the　Sharp
Cereal　Professor　（and　his　cohorts　the　Cookie　Sharpshooter　and　George　and　Gracie）　had　e　on　the　scene；　Sharp　stock　had　been　three　and　a　quarter　points　lower　than　it　was　now。
Never　mind　all　that。　Mind　this　instead：　just　the　fact；　just　the　public　announcement　in　the　trades　that　Ad　Worx　had　lost　the　Sharp　account　…　just　that　would　probably　cause　shares　to　bob　up　another　point　and　a　half　to　two　points。　And　when　a　new　ad　campaign　actually　began；　investors　would　take　it　as　a　sign　that　the　old　woes　were　finally　behind　the　pany；　and　the　stock　might　creep　up　another　point。
Of　course；　Vic　thought；　stirring　Sweet　'n　Low　into　his　coffee；　that　was　only　theory。　And　even　if　the　theory　turned　out　to　be　true；　both　he　and　Roger　believed　that　a　short…run　gain　for　Sharp　would　be　more　than　offset　if　a　new　ad　campaign；　hastily　thrown　together　by　people　who　didn't　know　the　Sharp　pany　as　he　and　Roger　did；　or　the　petitive　cereal　market　in　general；　didn't　do　the　job。
And　suddenly　that　new　slant；　that　fresh　angle；　popped　into　his　mind。　It　came　unbidden　and　unexpected。　His　coffee　cup　paused　halfway　to　his　mouth　and　his　eyes　widened。　In　his　mind　he　saw　two　men　…　perhaps　him　and　Roger；　perhaps　old　man　Sharp　and　his　ageing　kid　…　filling　in　a　grave。　Their　spades　were　flying。　A　lantern　flickered　fitfully　in　the　windy　night。　Rain　was　drizzling　down。　These　corporate　sextons　threw　an　occasional　furtive　glance　behind　them。　It　was　a　burial　by　night；　a　covert　act　performed　in　the　darkness。　They　were　burying　the　Sharp　Cereal　Professor　in　secret；　and　that　was　wrong。
'Wrong；'　he　muttered　aloud。
Sure　it　was。　Because　if　they　buried　him　in　the　dead　of　night；　he　could　never　say　what　he　had　to　say：　that　he　was　sorry。
He　took　his　Pentel　pen　from　his　inner　coat　pocket；　took　a　napkin　from　the　holder；　and　wrote　swiftly　across　it：
The　Sharp　Cereal　Professor　needs　to　apologize。
He　looked　at　it。　The　letters　were　getting　larger；　fuzzing　as　the　ink　sank　into　the　napkin。　Below　that　first　sentence　he　added：
Decent　burial。
And　below　that：
DAYLIGHT　burial。
He　still　wasn't　sure　what　it　meant；　it　was　more　metaphor　than　sense；　but　that　was　how　his　best　ideas　came　to　him。　And　there　was　something　there。　He　felt　sure　of　it。
Cujo　lay　on　the　floor　of　the　garage；　in　semi…gloom。　It　was　hot　in　here　but　it　was　even　worse　outside　。　。　。　and　the　daylight　outside　was　too　bright。　It　never　had　been　before；　in　fact；　he　had　never　even　really　noticed　the　quality　of　the　light　before。　But　he　was　noticing　now。　Cujo's　head　hurt。　His　muscles　hurt。　The　bright　light　made　his　eyes　hurt。　He　was　hot。　And　his　muzzle　still　ached　where　he　had　been　scratched。
Ached　and　festered。
THE　MAN　was　gone　somewhere。　Not　long　after　he　left；　THE　Boy　and　THE　WOMAN　had　gone　somewhere；　leaving　him　alone。　THE　Boy　had　put　a　big　dish　of　food　out　for　Cujo；　and　Cujo　had　eaten　a　little　bit。　The　food　made　him　feel　worse　instead　of　better；　and　he　left　the　rest　of　it　alone。
Now　there　was　the　growl　of　a　truck　turning　into　the　driveway。　Cujo　got　up　and　went　to　the　barn　door；　knowing　already　it　was　a　stranger。　He　knew　the　sound　of　both　THE　MAN's　truck　and　the　family　car。　He　stood　in　the　doorway；　head　poking　out　into　the　bright　glare　that　hurt　his　eyes。　The　truck　backed　up　the　driveway　and　then　stopped。　Two　men　got　down　from　the　cab　and　came　around　to　the　back。　One　of　them　ran　up　the　truck's　sliding　back　door。　The　rattling；　banging　noise　hurt　Cujo's　ears。　He　whined　and　retreated　back　into　the　forting　gloom。
The　truck　was　from　Portland　Machine。　Three　hours　ago；　Charity　Camber　and　her　still…dazzled　son　had　gone　into　Portland　Machine's　main　office　on　Brighton　Avenue　and　she　had　written　a　personal　check　for　a　new　Jorgen　chainfall　wholesale　had　turned　out　to　be　exactly　1；241。71；　tax　included。　Before　going　to　Portland　Machine　she　had　gone　into　the　State　Liquor　Store　on　Congress　Street　to　fill　out　a　lottery　claim　form。　Brett；　forbidden　absolutely　to　e　inside　with　her；　stood　on　the　sidewalk　with　his　hands　in　his　pockets。
The　clerk　told　Charity　she　would　get　a　Lottery　mission　cheek　in　the　mail。　How　long？　Two　weeks　at　the　very　outside。　It　would　e　minus　a　deduction　of　roughly　eight　hundred　dollars　for　taxes。　This　sum　was　based　on　her　declaration　of　Joe's　yearly　ine。
The　deduction　for　taxes　before　the　fact　did　not　anger　Charity　at　all。　Up　until　the　moment　when　the　clerk　had　checked　her　number　against　his　sheet；　she　had　been　holding　her　breath；　still　unable　to　believe　this　had　really　happened　to　her。　Then　the　clerk　had　nodded；　congratulated　her。　None　of　that　mattered。　What　mattered　was　that　now　she　could　breathe　again；　and　the　ticket　was　no　longer　her　responsibility。　It　h