Needful Things by Stephen King Read Free Book Online

was the croak of a very old invalid. “I don’t dare.”
    â€œWell, I do,” Mr. Gaunt said. He took the envelope from Brian, reached inside with the carefully manicured nail of one finger, and slid the card out. He put it in Brian’s hand.
    He could see tiny dents in the surface—they had been made by the point of the pen Sandy Koufax had used to sign his name . . . their names. Koufax’s signature was almost the same as the printed one, except the printed signature said Sanford Koufax and the autograph said Sandy Koufax. Also, it was a thousand times better because it was real. Sandy Koufax had held this card in his hand and had imposed his mark upon it, the mark of his living hand and magic name.
    But there was another name on it, as well—Brian’s own. Some boy with his name had been standing by the Ebbets Field bullpen before the game and Sandy Koufax, the real Sandy Koufax, young and strong, his glory years just ahead of him, had taken the offered card, probably still smelling of sweet pink bubblegum, and had set his mark upon it . . . and mine, too, Brian thought.
    Suddenly it came again, the feeling which had swept over him when he held the splinter of petrified wood. Only this time it was much, much stronger.
    Smell of grass, sweet and fresh-cut.
    Heavy smack of ash on horsehide.
    Yells and laughter from the batting cage.
    â€œHello, Mr. Koufax, could you sign your card for me?”
    A narrow face. Brown eyes. Darkish hair. The capcomes off briefly, he scratches his head just above the hairline, then puts the cap back on.
    â€œSure, kid.” He takes the card. “What’s your name?”
    â€œBrian, sir—Brian Seguin.”
    Scratch, scratch, scratch on the card. The magic: the inscribed fire.
    â€œYou want to be a ballplayer when you grow up, Brian?” The question has the feel of rote recital, and he speaks without raising his face from the card he holds in his large right hand so he can write on it with his soon-to-be-magic left hand.
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œPractice your fundamentals.” And hands the card back.
    â€œYes, sir!”
    But he’s already walking away, then he’s breaking into a lazy run on the fresh-cut grass as he jogs toward the bullpen with his shadow jogging along beside him—
    â€œBrian? Brian?”
    Long fingers were snapping under his nose—Mr. Gaunt’s fingers. Brian came out of his daze and saw Mr. Gaunt looking at him, amused.
    â€œAre you there, Brian?”
    â€œSorry,” Brian said, and blushed. He knew he should hand the card back, hand it back and get out of here, but he couldn’t seem to let it go. Mr. Gaunt was staring into his eyes—right into his head, it seemed—again, and once more he found it impossible to look away.
    â€œSo,” Mr. Gaunt said softly. “Let us say, Brian, that you are the buyer. Let us say that. How much would you pay for that card?”
    Brian felt despair like a rockslide weight his heart.
    â€œAll I’ve got is—”
    Mr. Gaunt’s left hand flew up. “Shhh!” he said sternly. “Bite your tongue! The buyer must never tell the seller how much he has! You might as well hand the vendor your wallet, and turn the contents of your pockets out on the floor in the bargain! If you can’t tell a lie, then be still! It’s the first rule of fair trade, Brian my boy.”
    His eyes—so large and dark. Brian felt that he was swimming in them.
    â€œThere are two prices for this card, Brian. Half . . .
    and half. One half is cash. The other is a deed. Do you understand?”
    â€œYes,” Brian said. He felt far again—far away from Castle Rock, far away from Needful Things, even far away from himself. The only things which were real in this far place were Mr. Gaunt’s wide, dark eyes.
    â€œThe cash price for that 1956 autographed Sandy Koufax card is eighty-five