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ng a Pall Mail and cleaning his yellowed fingernails with a pocket knife。
'That's that writer fella； ain't it？' Nolly asked。
'Yep。'
'Was that Susie Norton with him？'
'Yep。'
'Well； that's interesting；' Nolly said； and hitched his garrison belt。 His deputy star glittered importantly on his chest。 He had sent away to a detective magazine to get it； the town did not provide its deputy constables with badges。 Parkins had one； but he carried it in his wallet； something Nolly had never been able to understand。 Of course everybody in the Lot knew he was the constable； but there was such a thing as tradition。 There was such a thing as responsibility。 When you were an officer of the law； you had to think about both。 Nolly thought about them both often； although he could only afford to deputy part…time。
Parkins's knife slipped and slit the cuticle of his thumb。 'Shit；' he said mildly。
'You think he's a real writer； Park？'
'Sure he is。 He's got three books right in this library。'
'True or made up？'
'Made up。' Parkins put his knife away and sighed。
'Floyd Tibbets ain't going to like some guy makin' time with his woman。'
'They ain't married；' Parkins said。 'And she's over eighteen。'
'Floyd ain't going to like it。'
'Floyd can crap in his hat and wear it backward for all of me；' Parkins said。 He crushed his smoke on the step； took a Sucrets box out of his pocket； put the dead butt inside； and put the box back in his pocket。
'Where's that writer fella livin'？'
'Down to Eva's；' Parkins said。 He examined his wounded cuticle closely。 'He was up lookin' at the Marsten House the other day。 Funny expression on his face。'
'Funny？ What do you mean？'
'Funny； that's all。' Parkins took his cigarettes out。 The sun felt warm and good on his face。 'Then he went to see Larry Crockett。 Wanted to lease the place。'
'The Marsten place？'
'Yep。'
'What is he； crazy？'
'Could be。' Parkins brushed a fly from the left knee of his pants and watched it buzz away into the bright morning。 'Ole Larry Crockett's been a busy one lately。 I hear he's gone and sold the Village Washtub。 Sold it awhile back； as a matter of fact。'
'What； that old laundrymat？'
'Yep。'
'What would anyone want to put in there！'
'Dunno。'
'Well。' Nolly stood up and gave his belt another hitch。 'Think I'll take a turn around town。'
'You do that；' Parkins said； and lit another cigarette。
'Want to e？'
'No； I believe I'll sit right here for a while。'
'Okay。 See you。'
Nolly went down the steps； wondering （not for the first time） when Parkins would decide to retire so that he； Nolly； could have the job full…time。 How in God's name could you ferret out crime sitting on the Municipal Building steps？
Parkins watched him go with a mild feeling of relief。 Nolly was a good boy； but he was awfully eager。 He took out his pocket knife； opened it； and began paring his nails again。
4
Jerusalem's Lot was incorporated in 1765 （two hundred years later it had celebrated its bicentennial with fireworks and a pageant in the park； little Debbie Forester's Indian princess costume was set on fire by a thrown sparkler and Parkins Gillespie had to throw six fellows in the local cooler for public intoxication）； a full fifty…five years before Maine became a state as the result of the Missouri promise。
The town took its peculiar name from a fairly prosaic occurrence。 One of the area's earliest residents was a dour； gangling farmer named Charles Belknap Tanner。 He kept pigs； and one of the large sows was named Jerusalem。 Jerusalem broke out of her pen one day at feeding time； escaped into the nearby woods； and went wild and mean。 Tanner warned small children off his property for years afterward by leaning over his gate and croaking at them in ominous； gore…crow tones： 'Keep 'ee out o' Jerusalem's wood lot； if 'ee want to keep 'ee guts in 'ee belly！' The warning took hold； and so did the name。 It proves little； except that perhaps in America even a pig can aspire to immortality。
The main street； known originally as the Portland Post Road； had been named after Elias Jointner in 1896。 Jointner； a member of the House of Representatives for six years （up until his death； which was caused by syphilis； at the age of fifty…eight）； was the closest thing to a personage that the Lot could boast…with the exception of Jerusalem the pig and Pearl Ann Butts； who ran off to New York City in 1907 to bee a Ziegfeld girl。
Brock Street crossed Jointner Avenue dead center and at right angles； and the township itself was nearly circular （although a little flat on the east； where the boundary was the meandering Royal River）。 On a map； the two main roads gave the town an appearance very much like a telescopic sight。
The northwest quadrant of the sight was north Jerusalem； the most heavily wooded section of town。 It was the high ground； although it would not have appeared very high to anyone except perhaps a Midwesterner。 The tired old hills； which were honeybed with old togging roads； sloped down gently toward the town itself； and the Marsten House stood on the last of these。
Much of the northeast quadrant was open land…hay； timothy； and alfalfa。 The Royal River ran here； an old river that had cut its banks almost to the base level。 It flowed under the small wooden Brock Street Bridge and wandered north in flat； shining arcs until it entered the land near the northern limits of the town； where solid granite lay close under the thin soil。 Here it had cut fifty…foot stone cliffs over the course of a million years。 The kids called it Drunk's Leap； because a few years back Tommy Rathbun； Virge Rathbun's tosspot brother； staggered over the edge while looking for a place to take a leak。 The Royal fed the mill…polluted Androscoggin but had never been polluted itself； the only industry the Lot had ever boasted was a sawmill； long since closed。 In the summer months； fishermen casting from the Brock Street Bridge were a mon sight。 A day when you couldn't take your limit out of the Royal was a rare day。
The southeast quadrant was the prettiest。 The land rose again； but there was no ugly blight of fire or any of the topsoil ruin that is a fire's legacy。 The land on both sides of the Griffen Road was owned by Charles Griffen； who was the biggest dairy farmer south of Mechanic Falls； and from Schoolyard Hill you could see Griffen's huge barn with its aluminum roof glittering in the sun like a monstrous heliograph。 There were other farms in the area； and a good many houses that had been bought by the white…collar workers who muted to either Portland or Lewiston。 Sometimes； in autumn； you could stand on top of Schoolyard Hill and smell the fragrant odor of the field burnings and see the toylike 'salem's Lot Volunteer Fire Department truck； waiting to step in if anything got out of hand。 The lesson of 1951 had remained with these people。
It was in the southwest area that the trailers had begun to move in； and everything that goes with them； like an exurban asteroid belt： junked…out cars up on blocks； tire swings hanging on frayed rope； glittering beer cans lying