It

Richie nodded. ‘Yeah. I hate to believe it, if you know what I mean, but I guess I do. You remember what he said about the bird’s tongue?
Bill and Ben nodded. Orange fluffs on it.
‘That’s the kicker,’ Richie said. ‘It’s like some comic –book villain. Lex Luthor or the Joker or someone like that. It always leaves a trademark.’
Bill nodded thoughtfully. It was like some comic –book villain. Because they saw it that way? Thought of it that way? Yes, perhaps so. It was kid’s stuff, but it seemed that was what this thing thrived on — kid’s stuff.
They crossed the street to the library side.
‘I a-a-asked Stuh-Stuh-Stan i-if he e-ever h-h-heard of a buh-bird l-like that,’ Bill said. ‘Nuh-nuh –not n-necessarily a b-b-big wuh-wuh-one, but j– just a-a-a — ‘
‘A real one?’ Richie suggested.
Bill nodded. ‘H-He suh-said there m-m-might be a buh-bird like that in Suh-houth America or A-A-A-Africa, but nuh-nuh –not a-around h-h-here.’
‘He didn’t believe it, then?’ Ben asked.
‘H-H-He buh-believed i-i-it,’ Bill said. And then he told them something else Stan had suggested when Bill walked with him back to where Stan had left his bike. Stan’s idea was that nobody else could have seen that bird before Mike told them that story. Something else, maybe, but not that bird, because the bird was Mike Hanlon’s personal monster. But now . . . why, now that bird was the property of the whole Losers’ Club, wasn’t it? Any of them might see it. It might not look exactly the same; Bill might see it as a crow, Richie as a hawk, Beverly as a golden eagle, for all Stan knew — but It could be a bird to all of them now. Bill told Stan that if that was true, then any of them might see the leper, the mummy, or possibly the dead boys.
‘Which means we ought to do something pretty soon if we’re going to do anything at all,’ Stan had replied. ‘It knows . . . ‘
‘Wuh-What?’ Bill had asked sharply. ‘Eh-Everything we nuh-know?’
‘Man, if It knows that, we’re sunk,’ Stan had answered. ‘But you can bet It knows we know about It, I think It’ll try to get us. Are you still thinking about what we talked about yesterday?’
‘Yes.’
‘I wish I could go with you.’
‘Buh-Buh-Ben and Rih-Richie w-w-will. Ben’s really s-s-smart, and Rih-Rih –Richie is, too, when he ih –isn’ t fucking o-off.’
Now, standing outside the library, Richie asked Bill exactly what it was he had in mind. Bill told them, speaking slowly so he wouldn’t stutter too badly. The idea had been circling in his mind for the last two weeks, but it had taken Mike’s story of the bird to crystallize it.
What did you do if you wanted to get rid of a bird?
Well, shooting it was pretty goddam final.
What did you do if you wanted to get rid of a monster? Well, the movies suggested that shooting it with a silver bullet was pretty goddam final.
Ben and Richie listened to this respectfully enough. Then Richie asked, ‘How do you get a silver bullet, Big Bill? Send away for it?’
‘Very fuh-fuh –funny. We’ll have to m-m-make it.’
‘How?’
‘I guess that’s what we’re at the library to find out,’ Ben said. Richie nodded and pushed his glasses up on his nose. Behind them, his eyes were sharp and thoughtful . . . but doubtful, Bill thought. He felt doubtful himself. At least there was no foolishness in Richie’s eyes, and that was a step in the right direction.
‘You thinking about your dad’s Walther?’ Richie asked. The one we took to Neibolt Street?’
‘Yes,’ Bill said.
‘Even if we could really make silver bullets,’ Richie said, ‘where would we ge t the silver?’
‘Let me worry about that,’ Ben said quietly.
‘Well . . . okay,’ Richie said. ‘We’ll let Haystack worry about that. Then what? Neibolt Street again?’
Bill nodded. ‘Nee-Nee-Neibolt Street a-a-again. And then we buh-blow its fuckin g h– h-head o-off.’
The three of them stood there a moment longer, looking at each other solemnly, and then they went into the library.
5
‘Sure an begorrah, it’s that black feller again!’ Richie cried in his Irish Cop Voice.
A week had passed; it was nearly mid July and the underground clubhouse was almost finished.
‘Top o the mornin to ye, Mr O’Hanlon, sor! And a foine, foine day it promises to be, foine as pertaters a-growin, as me old mither used to — ‘
‘So far as I know, noon is the top of the morning, Richie,’ Ben said, popping up in the hole, ‘and noon was two hours ago.’ He and Richie had been putting in shoring around the sides of the hole. Ben had taken off his sweatshirt because the day was hot and the work was hard. His tee — shirt was gray with sweat and stuck to his chest and pouch of a stomach. He seemed remarkably unselfconscious