Christine by Steven King Read Free Book Online

looked at it for too long you’d go blind.
    It was where the 1958 Plymouth had been standing on yesterday.
    The ground was still there but the Plymouth was gone.
    â€œArnie,” I said as I swung my car in to the curb, “take it easy. Don’t go off half-cocked, for Christ’s sake.”
    He paid not a bit of attention. I doubt if he had even heard me. His face had gone pale. The blemishes covering it stood out in purplish, glaring relief. He had the passenger door of my Duster open and was lunging out of the car even before it had stopped moving.
    â€œArnie—”
    â€œIt’s my father,” he said in anger and dismay. “I smell that bastard all over this.”
    And he was gone, running across the lawn to LeBay’s door.
    I got out and hurried after him, thinking that this crazy shit was never going to end. I could hardly believe I had just heard Arnie Cunningham call Michael a bastard.
    Arnie was raising his fist to hammer on the door when it opened. There stood Roland D. LeBay himself. Today he was wearing a shirt over his back brace. He looked at Arnie’s furious face with a benignly avaricious smile.
    â€œHello, son,” he said.
    â€œWhere is she?” Arnie raged. “We had a deal! Dammit, we had a deal! I’ve got a receipt!”
    â€œSimmer down,” LeBay said. He saw me, standing on the bottom step with my hands shoved down in my pockets. “What’s wrong with your friend, son?”
    â€œThe car’s gone,” I said. “That’s what’s wrong with him.”
    â€œWho bought it?” Arnie shouted. I’d never seen him so mad. If he had had a gun right then, I believe he would have put it to LeBay’s temple. I was fascinated in spite of myself. It was as if a rabbit had suddenly turned carnivore. God help me, I even wondered fleetingly if he might not have a brain tumor.
    â€œWho bought it?” LeBay repeated mildly. “Why nobody has yet, son. But you got a lien on her. I backed her into the garage, that’s all. I put on the spare and changed the oil.” He preened and then offered us both an absurdly magnanimous smile.
    â€œYou’re a real sport,” I said.
    Arnie stared at him uncertainly, then turned his head creakily to look at the closed door of the modest one-car garage that was attached to the house by a breezeway. The breezeway, like everything else around LeBay’s place, had seen better days.
    â€œBesides, I didn’t want to leave her out once you’d laid some money down on her,” he said. “I’ve had some trouble with one or two of the folks on this street. One night some kid threw a rock at my car. Oh yeah, I got some neighbors straight out of the old A.B.”
    â€œWhat’s that?” I asked.
    â€œThe Asshole Brigade, son.”
    He swept the far side of the street with a baleful sniper’s glance, taking in the neat, gas-thrifty commuters’ cars now home from work, the children playing tag and jumprope, the people sitting out on their porches and having drinks in the first of the evening cool.
    â€œI’d like to know who it was threw that rock,” he said softly. “Yessir, I’d surely like to know who it was.”
    Arnie cleared his throat. “I’m sorry I gave you a hard time.”
    â€œDon’t worry,” LeBay said briskly. “Like to see a fellow stand up for what’s his . . . or what’s almost his. You bring the money, kid?”
    â€œYes, I have it.”
    â€œWell, come on in the house. You and your friend both. I’ll sign her over to you, and we’ll have a glass of beer to celebrate.”
    â€œNo thanks,” I said. “I’ll stay out here, if that’s okay.”
    â€œSuit yourself, son,” LeBay said . . . and winked. To this day I have no idea exactly what that wink was supposed to mean. They went in, and the door banged shut behind them. The