Stephen King
Thinner
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter One
  246
  
  'Thinner,' the old Gypsy man with the rotting nose whispers to William Halleck as 
Halleck and his wife, Heidi, come out of the courthouse. Just that one word, sent on the 
wafting, cloying sweetness of his breath. 'Thinner.' And before Halleck can jerk away, 
the old Gypsy reaches out and caresses his cheek with one twisted finger. His lips spread 
open like a wound, showing a few tombstone stumps poking out of his gums. They are black 
and green. His tongue squirms between them and then slides out to slick his grinning, 
bitter lips.
  Thinner.
  This memory came back to Billy Halleck, fittingly enough, as he stood on the scales at 
seven in the morning with a towel wrapped around his middle. The good smells of bacon and 
eggs came up from downstairs. He had to crane forward slightly to read the numbers on the 
scale. Well ... actually, he had to crane forward more than slightly. Actually he had to 
crane forward quite a lot. He was a big man. Too big, as Dr Houston delighted in telling 
him. In case no one ever told you, let me pass you the information, Houston had told him 
after his last checkup. A man your age, income, and habits enters heart-attack country a 
roughly age thirty-eight, Billy. You ought to take off some weight.
  But this morning there was good news. He was down three pounds, from 249 to 246.
  Well ... the scale had actually read 251 the last time he'd had the courage to stand on 
it and take a good look but he'd had his pants on, and there had been some change in his 
pockets, not to mention his keyring and his Swiss army knife. And the upstairs bathroom 
scale weighed heavy. He was morally sure of it.
  As a kid growing up in New York he'd heard Gypsies had the gift of prophecy. Maybe this 
was the proof. He tried to laugh and could only raise a small and not very successful 
smile; it was still too early to laugh about Gypsies. Time would pass and things would 
come into perspective; he was old enough to know that. But for now he still felt sick to 
his too-large stomach at the thought of Gypsies, and hoped heartily he would never see 
another in his life. From now on he would pass on the palm-reading at parties and stick 
to the Ouija board. If that.
  'Billy?' From downstairs.
  'Coming!'
  He dressed, noting with an almost subliminal distress that in spite of the three-pound 
drop the waist of his pants was getting tight again. His waist size was forty-two now. He 
had quit smoking at exactly 12:01 on New Year's Day, but he had paid. Oh, boy, had he 
paid. He went downstairs with his collar open and his tie lying around his neck. Linda, 
his fourteen-year-old daughter, was just going out the door in a flirt of skirt and a 
flip of her pony-tail, tied this morning with a sexy velvet ribbon. Her books were under 
one arm. Two gaudy cheerleader's pom-poms, purple and white, rustled busily in her other 
hand.
  "Bye, Dad!'
  'Have a good day, Lin.'
  He sat down at the table, grabbed The Wall Street Journal.
  'Lover,' Heidi said.
  'My dear,' he said grandly, and turned the Journal facedown beside the lazy Susan.
  She put breakfast in front of him: a steaming mound of scrambled eggs, an English 
muffin with raisins, five strips of crisp country-style bacon. Good eats. She slipped 
into the seat opposite him in the breakfast nook and lit a Vantage 100. January and 
February had been tense - too many 'discussions' that were only disguised arguments, too 
many nights they had finished sleeping back to back.
  But they had reached a modus vivendi: she had stopped dunning him about his weight and 
he had stopped yapping at her about her pack-and-a-half-a-day butt habit. It had made for 
a decent-enough spring. And beyond their own private balance, other good things had 
happened. Halleck had been promoted, for one. Greely, Penschley, and Kinder was now 
Greely, Penschley, Kinder and Halleck. Heidi's mother had finally made good on her 
long-standing threat to move back to Virginia. Linda had at last made J.V. cheerleaders 
and to Billy this was a great blessing; there had been times when he had been sure Lin's 
histrionics would drive him into a nervous breakdown. Everything had been going just 
great.
  Then the Gypsies had come to town.
  'Thinner,' the old gypsy man had said, and what the hell was it with his nose? 
Syphilis? Cancer? Or something even more terrible, like leprosy? And by the way, why 
can't you just quit it? Why can't you just let it alone?
  'You can't get it off your mind, can you?' Heidi said suddenly - so suddenly that 
Halleck started in his seat. 'Billy, it was not your fault. The judge said so.'
  'I wasn't thinking about that.'
  'Then what were you thinking about?'
  'The Journal,' he said. 'It says housing starts are down again this quarter.'
  Not his fault, right; the judge had said so. Judge Rossington. Cary, to his friends.
  Friends like me, Halleck thought. Played many a round of golf with old Cary Rossington, 
Heidi, as you well know. At our New Year's Eve party two years ago, the year I thought 
about giving up smoking and didn't do it, who grabbed your oh-so-grabbable tit during the 
traditional happy-new-year kiss? Guess who? Why, my stars! It was good old Cary 
Rossington, as I live and breathe!
  Yes. Good old Cary Rossington, before whom Billy had argued more than a dozen municipal 
cases. Good old Cary Rossington with whom Billy sometimes played poker down at the club. 
Good old Cary Rossington who hadn't disqualified himself when his good old 
golfing-and-poker buddy Billy Halleck (Cary would sometimes clap him on the back and 
yell, 'How they hangin', Big Bill?') came before him in court, not to argue some point of 
municipal law, but on a charge of vehicular-manslaughter.
  And when Cary Rossington did not disqualify himself, who said boo, children? Who in 
this whole fair town of Fairview was the boo-sayer? Why, nobody, that's who! Nobody said 
boo! After all, what were they? Nothing but a bunch of filthy Gypsies. The sooner they 
were out of Fairview and headed up the road in their old station wagons with the NRA 
stickers on the back bumpers, the sooner we saw the rear ends of their home-carpentered 
trailers and camper caps, the better. The sooner the -
  - thinner.
  Heidi snuffed her cigarette and said, 'Shit on your housing starts. I know you better.'
  Billy supposed so. And he supposed she had been thinking about it, too. Her face was 
too pale. She looked her age - thirty-five - and that was rare. They had married very, 
very young, and he still remembered the traveling salesman who had come to the door 
selling vacuum cleaners one day after they had been married three years. He had looked at