sk.thetalisman-第34节

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t　circled　and　circled；　like　a　wooden　horse　bolted　to　a　carousel。
　　Six。　I　was　six。　Jacky　Sawyer　was　six。
　　Over　and　over；　round　and　round　she　goes。
　　The　storeroom　shared　a　wall　in　mon　with　the　taproom　itself；　and　tonight　that　wall　was　actually　vibrating　with　noise；　it　throbbed　like　a　drumhead。　Until　twenty　minutes　before；　it　had　been　Friday　night；　and　both　Oatley　Textiles　and　Weaving　and　Dogtown　Custom　Rubber　paid　on　Friday。　Now　the　Oatley　Tap　was　full　to　the　overflow　point　。　。　。　and　past。　A　big　poster　to　the　left　of　the　bar　read　OCCUPANCY　BY　MORE　THAN　220　PERSONS　IS　IN　VIOLATION　OF　GENESEE　COUNTY　FIRE　CODE　331。　Apparently　fire　code　331　was　suspended　on　the　weekends；　because　Jack　guessed　there　were　more　than　three　hundred　people　out　there　now；　boogying　away　to　a　country…western　band　which　called　itself　The　Genny　Valley　Boys。　It　was　a　terrible　band；　but　they　had　a　pedal…steel　guitar。　'There's　guys　around　here　that'd　fuck　a　pedal…steel；　Jack；'　Smokey　had　said。
　　'Jack！'　Lori　yelled　over　the　wall　of　sound。
　　Lori　was　Smokey's　woman。　Jack　still　didn't　know　what　her　last　name　was。　He　could　barely　hear　her　over　the　juke；　which　was　playing　at　full　volume　while　the　band　was　on　break。　All　five　of　them　were　standing　at　the　far　end　of　the　bar；　Jack　knew；　tanking　up　on　half…price　Black　Russians。　She　stuck　her　head　through　the　storeroom　door。　Tired　blond　hair；　held　back　with　childish　white　plastic　barrettes；　glittered　in　the　overhead　fluorescent。
　　'Jack；　if　you　don't　run　that　keg　out　real　quick；　I　guess　he'll　give　your　arm　a　try。'
　　'Okay；'　Jack　said。　'Tell　him　I'll　be　right　there。'　
　　He　felt　gooseflesh　on　his　arms；　and　it　didn't　e　entirely　from　the　storeroom's　damp　chill。　Smokey　Updike　was　no　one　to　fool　with…Smokey　who　wore　a　succession　of　paper　fry…cook's　hats　on　his　narrow　head；　Smokey　with　his　large　plastic　mail…order　dentures；　grisly　and　somehow　funereal　in　their　perfect　evenness；　Smokey　with　his　violent　brown　eyes；　the　scleras　an　ancient；　dirty　yellow。　Smokey　Updike　who　in　some　way　still　unknown　to　Jack…and　who　was　all　the　more　frightening　for　that…had　somehow　managed　to　take　him　prisoner。
　　The　jukebox　fell　temporarily　silent；　but　the　steady　roar　of　the　crowd　actually　seemed　to　go　up　a　notch　to　make　up　for　it。　Some　Lake　Ontario　cowboy　raised　his　voice　in　a　big；　drunken　'Yeeeee…HAW！'　A　woman　screamed。　A　glass　broke。　Then　the　jukebox　took　off　again；　sounding　a　little　like　a　Saturn　rocket　achieving　escape　velocity。
　　Sort　of　place　where　they　eat　what　they　run　over　on　the　road。
　　Raw。
　　Jack　bent　over　one　of　the　aluminum　kegs　and　dragged　it　out　about　three　feet；　his　mouth　screwed　down　in　a　painful　wince；　sweat　standing　out　on　his　forehead　in　spite　of　the　air…conditioned　chill；　his　back　protesting。　The　keg　gritted　and　squealed　on　the　unadorned　cement。　He　stopped；　breathing　hard；　his　ears　ringing。
　　He　wheeled　the　hand…truck　over　to　the　keg　of　Busch；　stood　it　up；　then　went　around　to　the　keg　again。　He　managed　to　rock　it　up　on　its　rim　and　walk　it　forward；　toward　where　the　hand…truck　stood。　As　he　was　setting　it　down　he　lost　control　of　it…the　big　bar…keg　weighed　only　a　few　pounds　less　than　Jack　did　himself。　It　landed　hard　on　the　foot　of　the　hand…truck；　which　had　been　padded　with　a　remnant　of　carpet　so　as　to　soften　just　such　landings。　Jack　tried　to　both　steer　it　and　get　his　hands　out　of　the　way　in　time。　He　was　slow。　The　keg　mashed　his　fingers　against　the　back　of　the　hand…truck。　There　was　an　agonizing　thud；　and　he　somehow　managed　to　get　his　throbbing；　pulsing　fingers　out　of　there。　Jack　stuck　all　the　fingers　of　his　left　hand　in　his　mouth　and　sucked　on　them；　tears　standing　in　his　eyes。
　　Worse　than　jamming　his　fingers；　he　could　hear　the　slow　sigh　of　gases　escaping　through　the　breather…cap　on　top　of　the　keg。　If　Smokey　hooked　up　the　keg　and　it　came　out　foamy　。　。　。　or；　worse　yet；　if　he　popped　the　cap　and　the　beer　went　a　gusher　in　his　face　。　。　。
　　Best　not　to　think　of　those　things。
　　Last　night；　Thursday　night；　when　he'd　tried　to　'run　Smokey　out　a　keg；'　the　keg　had　gone　right　over　on　its　side。　The　breather…cap　had　shot　clear　across　the　room。　Beer　foamed　white…gold　across　the　storeroom　floor　and　ran　down　the　drain。　Jack　had　stood　there；　sick　and　frozen；　oblivious　to　Smokey's　shouts。　It　wasn't　Busch；　it　was　Kingsland。　Not　beer　but　ale…the　Queen's　Own。
　　That　was　when　Smokey　hit　him　for　the　first　time…a　quick　looping　blow　that　drove　Jack　into　one　of　the　storeroom's　splintery　walls。
　　'There　goes　your　pay　for　today；'　Smokey　had　said。　'And　you　never　want　to　do　that　again；　Jack。'
　　What　chilled　Jack　most　about　that　phrase　you　never　want　to　do　that　again　was　what　it　assumed：　that　there　would　be　lots　of　opportunities　for　him　to　do　that　again；　as　if　Smokey　Up…dike　expected　him　to　be　here　a　long；　long　time。
　　'Jack；　hurry　it　up！'
　　'ing。'　Jack　puffed。　He　pulled　the　hand…truck　across　the　room　to　the　door；　felt　behind　himself　for　the　knob；　turned　it；　and　pushed　the　door　open。　He　hit　something　large　and　soft　and　yielding。
　　'Christ；　watch　it！'
　　'Whoops；　sorry；'　Jack　said。
　　'I'll　whoops　you；　asshole；'　the　voice　replied。
　　Jack　waited　until　he　heard　heavy　steps　moving　on　down　the　hall　outside　the　storeroom　and　then　tried　the　door　again。
　　The　hall　was　narrow　and　painted　a　bilious　green。　It　stank　of　shit　and　piss　and　TidyBowl。　Holes　had　been　punched　through　both　plaster　and　lath　here　and　there；　graffiti　lurched　and　staggered　everywhere；　written　by　bored　drunks　waiting　to　use　either　POINTERS　or　SETTERS。　The　largest　of　them　all　had　been　slashed　across　the　green　paint　with　a　black　Magic　Marker；　and　it　seemed　to　scream　out　all　of　Oatley's　dull　and　objectless　fury。　SEND　ALL　AMERICAN　NIGGERS　AND　JEWS　TO　IRAN；　it　read。
　　The　noise　from　the　taproom　was　loud　in　the　storeroom；　out　here　it　was　a　great　wave　of　sound　which　never　seemed　to　break。　Jack　took　one　glance　back　into　the　storeroom　over　the　top　of　the　keg　tilted　on　the　hand…truck；　trying　to　make　sure　his　pack　wasn't　visible。
　　He　had　to　get　out。　Had　to。　The　dead　phone　that　had　finally　spoken；　seeming　to　encase　him　in　a　capsule　of　dark　ice　。　。　。　that　had　been　bad。　Randolph　Scott　was　worse。　The　guy　wasn't　really　Randolph　Scott；　he　only　looked　the　way　Scott　had　looked　in　his　fifties　films。　Smokey　Updike　was　perhaps　worse　still　。　。　。　although　Jack　was　no　longer　sure　of　that。　Not　since　he　had　seen　（or　thought　he　had　seen）　the　eyes　of　the　man　who　looked　like　Randolph　Scott　change　color。
　　But　that　Oatley　itself　was　worst　of　all　。　。　。　he　was　sure　of　that。
　　Oatley；　New　York；　deep　in　the　heart　of　Genny　County；　seemed　now　to　be　a　horrible　trap　that　had　been　laid　for　him　。　。　。　a　kind　of　municipal　pitcher　plant。　One　of　nature's　real　marvels；　the　pitcher　plant。　Easy　to　get　in。　Almost　impossible　to　get　out。
　　　
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　　A　tall　man　with　a　great　swinging　gut　porched　in　front　of　him　stood　waiting　to　use　the　men's　room。　He　was　rolling　a　plastic　toothpick　from　one　side　of　his　mouth　to　the　other　and　glaring　at　Jack。　Jack　supposed　that　it　was　the　big　man's　gut　that　he　had　hit　with　the　door。
　　'Asshole；'　the　fat　man　repeated；　and　then　the　men's…room　door　jerked　open。　A　man　strode　out。　For　a　heart…stopping　moment　his　eyes　and　Jack's　eyes　met。　It　was　the　man　who　looked　like　Randolph　Scott。　But　this　was　no　movie…star；　this　was　just　an　Oatley　millhand　drinking　up　his　week's　pay。　Later　on　he　would　leave　in　a　half…paid…for　doorsucker　Mustang　or　maybe　on　a　three…quarters…paid…for　motorcycle…a　big　old　Harley　with　a　BUY　AMERICAN　sticker　plastered　on　the　nacelle；　probably。
　　His　eyes　turned　yellow。
　　No；　your　imagination；　Jack；　just　your　imagination。　He's　just…
　　…just　a　millhand　who　was　giving　him　the　eye　because　he　was　new。　He　had　probably　gone　to　high　school　here　in　town；　played　football；　knocked　up　a　Catholic　cheerleader　and　married　her；　and　the　cheerleader　had　gotten　fat　on　chocolates　and　Stouffer's　frozen　dinners；　just　another　Oatley　oaf；　just…
　　But　his　eyes　turned　yellow。　
　　Stop　it！　They　did　not！
　　Yet　there　was　something　about　him　that　made　Jack　think　of　what　had　happened　when　he　was　ing　into　town　。　。　。　what　had　happened　in　the　dark。
　　The　fat　man　who　had　called　Jack　an　asshole　shrank　back　from　the　rangy　man　in　the　Levi's　and　the　clean　white　T…shirt。　Randolph　Scott　started　toward　Jack。　His　big；　veined　hands　swung　at　his　sides。
　　His　eyes　sparkled　an　icy　blue　。　。　。　and　then　began　to　change；　to　moil　and　lighten。
　　'Kid；'　he　said；　and　Jack　fled　with　clumsy　haste；　butting　the　swinging　door　open　with　his　fanny；　not　caring　who　he　hit。
　　Noise　pounced　on　him。　Kenny　Rogers　was　bellowing　an　enthusiastic　redneck　paean　to　someone　named　Reuben　James。　'You　allus　turned　your　other　CHEEK；'　Kenny　testified　to　this　room　of　shuffling；　sullen…faced　drunks；　'and　said　there's　a　better　world　waitin　for　the　MEEK！'　Jack　saw　no　one　here　who　looked　particularly　meek。　The　Genny　Valley　Boys　were　trooping　back　onto　the　bandstand　and　picking　up　their　instruments。　All　of　them　but　the　pedal　steel　player　looked　drunk　and　confused　。　。　。　perhaps　not　really　sure　of　where　they　were。　The　pedal　steel　player　only　looked　bored。
　　To　Jack's　left；　a　woman　was　talking　earnestly　on　the　Tap's　pay　phone…a　phone　Jack　would　never　touch　again　if　he　had　his　way　abo