sk.thetalisman-第35节

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　　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　about　it；　not　for　a　thousand　dollars。　As　she　talked；　her　drunken　panion　probed　and　felt　inside　her　half…open　cowboy　shirt。　On　the　big　dancefloor；　perhaps　seventy　couples　groped　and　shuffled；　oblivious　of　the　current　song's　bright　up…tempo；　simply　squeezing　and　grinding；　hands　gripping　buttocks；　lips　spit…sealed　together；　sweat　running　down　cheeks　and　making　large　circles　under　the　armpits。
　　'Well　thank　Gawd；'　Lori　said；　and　flipped　up　the　hinged　partition　at　the　side　of　the　bar　for　him。　Smokey　was　halfway　down　the　bar；　filling　up　Gloria's　tray　with　gin…and…tonics；　vodka　sours；　and　what　seemed　to　be　beer's　only　petition　for　the　Oatley　Town　Drink：　Black　Russians。
　　Jack　saw　Randolph　Scott　e　out　through　the　swinging　door。　He　glanced　toward　Jack；　his　blue　eyes　catching　Jack's　again　at　once。　He　nodded　slightly；　as　if　to　say：　We'll　talk。　Yessirree。　Maybe　we'll　talk　about　what　might　or　might　not　be　in　the　Oatley　tunnel。　Or　about　bullwhips。　Or　sick　mothers。　Maybe　we'll　talk　about　how　you're　gonna　be　in　Genny　County　for　a　long；　long　time　。　。　。　maybe　until　you're　an　old　man　crying　over　a　shopping　cart。　What　do　you　think；　Jacky？
　　Jack　shuddered。
　　Randolph　Scott　smiled；　as　if　he　had　seen　the　shudder　。　。　。　or　felt　it。　Then　he　moved　off　into　the　crowd　and　the　thick　air。
　　A　moment　later　Smokey's　thin；　powerful　fingers　bit　into　Jack's　shoulder…hunting　for　the　most　painful　place　and；　as　always；　finding　it。　They　were　educated；　nerve…seeking　fingers。
　　'Jack；　you　just　got　to　move　faster；'　Smokey　said。　His　voice　sounded　almost　sympathetic；　but　his　fingers　dug　and　moved　and　probed。　His　breath　smelled　of　the　pink　Canada　Mints　he　sucked　almost　constantly。　His　mail…order　false　teeth　clicked　and　clacked。　Sometimes　there　was　an　obscene　slurping　as　they　slipped　a　little　and　he　sucked　them　back　into　place。　'You　got　to　move　faster　or　I'm　going　to　have　to　light　a　fire　under　your　ass。　You　understand　what　I'm　saying？'
　　'Y…yeah；'　Jack　said。　Trying　not　to　moan。
　　'All　right。　That's　good　then。'　For　an　excruciating　second　Smokey's　fingers　dug　even　deeper；　grinding　with　a　bitter　enthusiasm　at　the　neat　little　nest　of　nerves　there。　Jack　did　moan。　That　was　good　enough　for　Smokey。　He　let　up。
　　'Help　me　hook　this　keg　up；　Jack。　And　let's　make　it　fast。　Friday　night；　people　got　to　drink。'
　　'Saturday　morning；'　Jack　said　stupidly。
　　'Then；　too。　e　on。'
　　Jack　somehow　managed　to　help　Smokey　lift　the　keg　into　the　square　partment　under　the　bar。　Smokey's　thin；　ropey　muscles　bulged　and　writhed　under　his　Oatley　Tap　T…shirt。　The　paper　fry…cook's　hat　on　his　narrow　weasel's　head　stayed　in　place；　its　leading　edge　almost　touching　his　left　eyebrow；　in　apparent　defiance　of　gravity。　Jack　watched；　holding　his　breath；　as　Smokey　flicked　off　the　red　plastic　breather…cap　on　the　keg。　The　keg　breathed　more　gustily　than　it　should　have　done　。　。　。　but　it　didn't　foam。　Jack　let　his　breath　out　in　a　silent　gust。
　　Smokey　spun　the　empty　toward　him。　'Get　that　back　in　the　storeroom。　And　then　swamp　out　the　bathroom。　Remember　what　I　told　you　this　afternoon。'　
　　Jack　remembered。　At　three　o'clock　a　whistle　like　an　air…raid　siren　had　gone　off；　almost　making　him　jump　out　of　his　skin。　Lori　had　laughed；　had　said：　Check　out　Jack；　Smokey…I　think　he　just　went　wee…wee　in　his　Tuffskins。　Smokey　had　given　her　a　narrow；　unsmiling　look　and　motioned　Jack　over。　Told　Jack　that　was　the　payday　whistle　at　the　Oatley　T　&　W。　Told　Jack　that　a　whistle　very　much　like　it　was　going　off　at　Dog…town　Rubber；　a　pany　that　made　beach…toys；　inflatable　rubber　dolls；　and　condoms　with　names　like　Ribs　of　Delight。　Soon；　he　said；　the　Oatley　Tap　would　begin　filling　up。
　　'And　you　and　me　and　Lori　and　Gloria　are　going　to　move　just　as　fast　as　lightning；'　Smokey　said；　'because　when　the　eagle　screams　on　Friday；　we　got　to　make　up　for　what　this　place　don't　make　every　Sunday；　Monday；　Tuesday；　Wednesday；　and　Thursday。　When　I　tell　you　to　run　me　out　a　keg；　you　want　to　have　it　out　to　me　before　I　finish　yelling。　And　you're　in　the　men's　room　every　half　an　hour　with　your　mop。　On　Friday　nights；　a　guy　blows　his　groceries　every　fifteen　minutes　or　so。'
　　'I　got　the　women's；'　Lori　said；　ing　over。　Her　hair　was　thin；　wavy　gold；　her　plexion　as　white　as　a　ic…book　vampire's。　She　either　had　a　cold　or　a　bad　coke　habit；　she　kept　sniffing。　Jack　guessed　it　was　a　cold。　He　doubted　if　anyone　in　Oatley　could　afford　a　bad　coke　habit。　'Women　ain't　as　bad　as　men；　though。　Almost；　but　not　quite。'
　　'Shut　up；　Lori。'
　　'Up　yours；'　she　said；　and　Smokey's　hand　flickered　out　like　lightning。　There　was　a　crack　and　suddenly　the　imprint　of　Smokey's　palm　was　printed　red　on　one　of　Lori's　pallid　cheeks　like　a　child's　Tattoodle。　She　began　to　snivel　。　。　。　but　Jack　was　sickened　and　bewildered　to　see　an　expression　in　her　eyes　that　was　almost　happy。　It　was　the　look　of　a　woman　who　believed　such　treatment　was　a　sign　of　caring。
　　'You　just　keep　hustling　and　we'll　have　no　problem；'　Smokey　said。　'Remember　to　move　fast　when　I　yell　for　you　to　run　me　out　a　keg。　And　remember　to　get　in　the　men's　can　with　your　mop　every　half　an　hour　and　clean　up　the　puke。'　
　　And　then　he　had　told　Smokey　again　that　he　wanted　to　leave　and　Smokey　had　reiterated　his　false　promise　about　Sunday　afternoon　。　。　。　but　what　good　did　it　do　to　think　of　that？
　　There　were　louder　screams　now；　and　harsh　caws　of　laughter。　The　crunch　of　a　breaking　chair　and　a　wavering　yell　of　pain。　A　fistfight…the　third　of　the　night…had　broken　out　on　the　dance　floor。　Smokey　uttered　a　curse　and　shoved　past　Jack。　'Get　rid　of　that　keg；'　he　said。
　　Jack　got　the　empty　onto　the　dolly　and　trundled　it　back　toward　the　swinging　door；　looking　around　uneasily　for　Randolph　Scott　as　he　went。　He　saw　the　man　standing　in　the　crowd　that　was　watching　the　fight；　and　relaxed　a　little。
　　In　the　storeroom　he　put　the　empty　keg　with　the　others　by　the　loading…bay…Updike's　Oatley　Tap　had　already　gone　through　six　kegs　tonight。　That　done；　he　checked　his　pack　again。　For　one　panicky　moment　he　thought　it　was　gone；　and　his　heart　began　to　hammer　in　his　chest…the　magic　juice　was　in　there；　and　so　was　the　Territories　coin　that　had　bee　a　silver　dollar　in　this　world。　He　moved　to　the　right；　sweat　now　standing　out　on　his　forehead；　and　felt　between　two　more　kegs。　There　it　was…he　could　trace　the　curve　of　Speedy's　bottle　through　the　green　nylon　of　the　pack。　His　heartbeat　began　to　slow　down；　but　he　felt　shaky　and　rubber…legged…the　way　you　feel　after　a　narrow　escape。
　　The　men's　toilet　was　a　horror。　Earlier　in　the　evening　Jack　might　have　vomited　in　sympathy；　but　now　he　actually　seemed　to　be　getting　used　to　the　stench　。　。　。　and　that　was　somehow　the　worst　thing　of　all。　He　drew　hot　water；　dumped　in　et；　and　began　to　run　his　soapy　mop　back　and　forth　through　the　unspeakable　mess　on　the　floor。　His　mind　began　to　go　back　over　the　last　couple　of　days；　worrying　at　them　the　way　an　animal　in　a　trap　will　worry　at　a　limb　that　has　been　caught。
　　　
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　　The　Oatley　Tap　had　been　dark；　and　dingy；　and　apparently　dead　empty　when　Jack　first　walked　into　it。　The　plugs　on　the　juke；　the　pinball　machine；　and　the　Space　Invaders　game　were　all　pulled。　The　only　light　in　the　place　came　from　the　Busch　display　over　the　bar…a　digital　clock　caught　between　the　peaks　of　two　mountains；　looking　like　the　weirdest　UFO　ever　imagined。
　　Smiling　a　little；　Jack　walked　toward　the　bar。　He　was　almost　there　when　a　flat　voice　said　from　behind　him；　'This　is　a　bar。　No　minors。　What　are　you；　stupid？　Get　out。'　
　　Jack　almost　jumped　out　of　his　skin。　He　had　been　touching　the　money　in　his　pocket；　thinking　it　would　go　just　as　it　had　at　the　Golden　Spoon：　he　would　sit　on　a　stool；　order　something；　and　then　ask　for　the　job。　It　was　of　course　illegal　to　hire　a　kid　like　him…at　least　without　a　work　permit　signed　by　his　parents　or　a　guardian…and　that　meant　they　could　get　him　for　under　the　minimum　wage。　Way　under。　So　the　negotiations　would　start；　usually　beginning　with　Story　#2…Jack　and　the　Evil　Stepfather。
　　He　whirled　around　and　saw　a　man　sitting　alone　in　one　of　the　booths；　looking　at　him　with　chilly；　contemptuous　alertness。　The　man　was　thin；　but　ropes　of　muscles　moved　under　his　white　undershirt　and　along　the　sides　of　his　neck。　He　wore　baggy　white　cook's　pants。　A　paper　cap　was　cocked　forward　over　his　left　eyebrow。　His　head　was　narrow；　weasellike。　His　hair　was　cut　short；　graying　at　the　edges。　Between　his　big　hands　were　a　stack　of　invoices　and　a　Texas　Instruments　calculator。
　　'I　saw　your　Help　Wanted　sign；'　Jack　said；　but　now　without　much　hope。　This　man　was　not　going　to　hire　him；　and　Jack　was　not　sure　he　would　want　to　work　for　him　anyway。　This　guy　looked　mean。
　　'You　did；　huh？'　the　man　in　the　booth　said。　'You　must　have　learned　to　read　on　one　of　the　days　you　weren't　playing　hooky。'　There　was　a　package　of　Phillies　Cheroots　on　the　table。　He　shook　one　out。
　　'Well；　I　didn't　know　it　was　a　bar；'　Jack　said；　taking　a　step　back　toward　the　door。　The　sunlight　seemed　to　e　through　the　dirty　glass　and　then　just　fall　dead　on　the　floor；　as　if　the　Oatley　Tap　were　located　in　a　slightly　different　dimension。　'I　guess　I　thought　it　was　。　。　。　you　know；　a　bar　and　grill。　Something　l