sk.thetalisman-第36节

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I　guess　I　thought　it　was　。　。　。　you　know；　a　bar　and　grill。　Something　like　that。　I'll　just　be　going。'
　　'e　here。'　The　man's　brown　eyes　were　looking　at　him　steadily　now。
　　'No；　hey；　that's　all　right；'　Jack　said　nervously。　'I'll　just…'
　　'e　here。　Sit　down。'　The　man　popped　a　wooden　match　alight　with　his　thumbnail　and　lit　the　cigar。　A　fly　which　had　been　preening　on　his　paper　hat　buzzed　away　into　the　darkness。　His　eyes　remained　on　Jack。　'I　ain't　gonna　bite　you。'　
　　Jack　came　slowly　over　to　the　booth；　and　after　a　moment　he　slipped　in　on　the　other　side　and　folded　his　hands　in　front　of　him　neatly。　Some　sixty　hours　later；　swamping　out　the　men's　toilet　at　twelve…thirty　in　the　morning　with　his　sweaty　hair　hanging　in　his　eyes；　Jack　thought…no；　he　knew…that　it　was　his　own　stupid　confidence　that　had　allowed　the　trap　to　spring　shut　（and　it　had　shut　the　moment　he　sat　down　opposite　Smokey　Updike；　although　he　had　not　known　it　then）。　The　Venus　flytrap　is　able　to　close　on　its　hapless；　insectile　victims；　the　pitcher　plant；　with　its　delicious　smell　and　its　deadly；　glassy…smooth　sides；　only　waits　for　some　flying　asshole　of　a　bug　to　buzz　on　down　and　inside　。　。　。　where　it　finally　drowns　in　the　rainwater　the　pitcher　collects。　In　Oatley　the　pitcher　was　full　of　beer　instead　of　rainwater…that　was　the　only　difference。
　　If　he　had　run…
　　But　he　hadn't　run。　And　maybe；　Jack　thought；　doing　his　best　to　meet　that　cold　brown　stare；　there　would　be　a　job　here　after　all。　Minette　Banberry；　the　woman　who　owned　and　operated　the　Golden　Spoon　in　Auburn；　had　been　pleasant　enough　to　Jack；　had　even　given　him　a　little　hug　and　a　peck　of　a　kiss　as　well　as　three　thick　sandwiches　when　he　left；　but　he　had　not　been　fooled。　Pleasantness　and　even　a　remote　sort　of　kindness　did　not　preclude　a　cold　interest　in　profits；　or　even　something　very　close　to　outright　greed。
　　The　minimum　wage　in　New　York　was　three　dollars　and　forty　cents　an　hour…that　information　had　been　posted　in　the　Golden　Spoon's　kitchen　by　law；　on　a　bright　pink　piece　of　paper　almost　the　size　of　a　movie　poster。　But　the　short…order　cook　was　a　Haitian　who　spoke　little　English　and　was　almost　surely　in　the　country　illegally；　Jack　thought。　The　guy　cooked　like　a　whiz；　though；　never　allowing　the　spuds　or　the　fried　clams　to　spend　a　moment　too　long　in　the　Fryolaters。　The　girl　who　helped　Mrs。　Banberry　with　the　waitressing　was　pretty　but　vacant　and　on　a　work…release　program　for　the　retarded　in　Rome。　In　such　cases；　the　minimum　wage　did　not　apply；　and　the　lisping；　retarded　girl　told　Jack　with　unfeigned　awe　that　she　was　getting　a　dollar　and　twenty…five　cents　each　hour；　and　all　for　her。
　　Jack　himself　was　getting　a　dollar…fifty。　He　had　bargained　for　that；　and　he　knew　that　if　Mrs。　Banberry　hadn't　been　strapped…her　old　dishwasher　had　quit　just　that　morning；　had　gone　on　his　coffee…break　and　just　never　e　back…she　would　not　have　bargained　at　all；　would　have　simply　told　him　take　the　buck　and　a　quarter；　kid；　or　see　what's　down　the　road。　It's　a　free　country。
　　Now；　he　thought；　with　the　unknowing　cynicism　that　was　also　a　part　of　his　new　self…confidence；　here　was　another　Mrs。　Banberry。　Male　instead　of　female；　rope…skinny　instead　of　fat　and　grandmotherly；　sour　instead　of　smiling；　but　almost　surely　a　Mrs。　Banberry　for　a'　that　and　a'　that。
　　'Looking　for　a　job；　huh？'　The　man　in　the　white　pants　and　the　paper　hat　put　his　cigar　down　in　an　old　tin　ashtray　with　the　word　CAMELS　embossed　on　the　bottom。　The　fly　stopped　washing　its　legs　and　took　off。
　　'Yes；　sir；　but　like　you　say；　this　is　a　bar　and　all…'
　　The　unease　stirred　in　him　again。　Those　brown　eyes　and　yellowed　scleras　troubled　him…they　were　the　eyes　of　some　old　hunting　cat　that　had　seen　plenty　of　errant　mice　like　him　before。
　　'Yeah；　it's　my　place；'　the　man　said。　'Smokey　Updike。'　He　held　his　hand　out。　Surprised；　Jack　shook　it。　It　squeezed　Jack's　hand　once；　hard；　almost　to　the　point　of　pain。　Then　it　relaxed　。　。　。　but　Smokey　didn't　let　go。　'Well？'　he　said。
　　'Huh？'　Jack　said；　aware　he　sounded　stupid　and　a　little　afraid…he　felt　stupid　and　a　little　afraid。　And　he　wanted　Up…dike　to　let　go　of　his　hand。
　　'Didn't　your　folks　ever　teach　you　to　innerduce　yourself？'　
　　This　was　so　unexpected　that　Jack　came　close　to　gabbling　out　his　real　name　instead　of　the　one　he　had　used　at　the　Golden　Spoon；　the　name　he　also　used　if　the　people　who　picked　him　up　asked　for　his　handle。　That　name…what　he　was　ing　to　think　of　as　his　'road…name'…was　Lewis　Farren。
　　'Jack　Saw…ah…Sawtelle；'　he　said。
　　Updike　held　his　hand　yet　a　moment　longer；　those　brown　eyes　never　moving。　Then　he　let　it　go。　'Jack　Saw…ah…Sawtelle；'　he　said。　'Must　be　the　longest　fucking　name　in　the　phonebook；　huh；　kid？'　
　　Jack　flushed　but　said　nothing。
　　'You　ain't　very　big；'　Updike　said。　'You　think　you　could　manage　to　rock　a　ninety…pound　keg　of　beer　up　on　its　side　and　walk　it　onto　a　hand…dolly？'
　　'I　think　so；'　Jack　said；　not　knowing　if　he　could　or　not。　It　didn't　look　as　if　it　would　be　much　of　a　problem；　anyway…in　a　place　as　dead　as　this；　the　guy　probably　only　had　to　change　kegs　when　the　one　hooked　up　to　the　taps　went　flat。
　　As　if　reading　his　mind；　Updike　said；　'Yeah；　nobody　here　now。　But　we　get　pretty　busy　by　four；　five　o'clock。　And　on　weekends　the　place　really　fills　up。　That's　when　you'd　earn　your　keep；　Jack。'
　　'Well；　I　don't　know；'　Jack　said。　'How　much　would　the　job　pay？'
　　'Dollar　an　hour；'　Updike　said。　'Wish　I　could　pay　you　more；　but…'　He　shrugged　and　tapped　the　stack　of　bills。　He　even　smiled　a　little；　as　if　to　say　You　see　how　it　is；　kid；　everything　in　Oatley　is　running　down　like　a　cheap　pocket…watch　someone　forgot　to　wind…ever　since　about　1971　it's　been　running　down。　But　his　eyes　did　not　smile。　His　eyes　were　watching　Jack's　face　with　still；　catlike　concentration。
　　'Gee；　that's　not　very　much；'　Jack　said。　He　spoke　slowly　but　he　was　thinking　as　fast　as　he　could。
　　The　Oatley　Tap　was　a　tomb…there　wasn't　even　a　single　bombed…out　old　alky　at　the　bar　nursing　a　beer　and　watching　General　Hospital　on　the　tube。　In　Oatley　you　apparently　drank　in　your　car　and　called　it　a　club。　A　dollar…fifty　an　hour　was　a　hard　wage　when　you　were　busting　your　buns；　in　a　place　like　this；　a　buck　an　hour　might　be　an　easy　one。
　　'Nope；'　Updike　agreed；　going　back　to　his　calculator；　'it　ain't。'　His　voice　said　Jack　could　take　it　or　leave　it；　there　would　be　no　negotiations。
　　'Might　be　all　right；'　Jack　said。
　　'Well；　that's　good；'　Updike　said。　'We　ought　to　get　one　other　thing　straight；　though。　Who　you　running　from　and　who's　looking　for　you？'　The　brown　eyes　were　on　him　again；　and　they　drilled　hard。　'If　you　got　someone　on　your　backtrail；　I　don't　want　him　fucking　up　my　life。'　
　　This　did　not　shake　Jack's　confidence　much。　He　wasn't　the　world's　brightest　kid；　maybe；　but　bright　enough　to　know　he　wouldn't　last　long　on　the　road　without　a　second　cover　story　for　prospective　employers。　This　was　a　Story　#2…The　Wicked　Stepfather。
　　'I'm　from　a　little　town　in　Vermont；'　he　said。　'Fenderville。　My　mom　and　dad　got　divorced　two　years　ago。　My　dad　tried　to　get　custody　of　me；　but　the　judge　gave　me　to　my　mom。　That's　what　they　do　most　of　the　time。'
　　'Fucking…A　they　do。'　He　had　gone　back　to　his　bills　and　was　bent　so　far　over　the　pocket　calculator　that　his　nose　was　almost　touching　the　keys。　But　Jack　thought　he　was　listening　all　the　same。
　　'Well；　my　dad　went　out　to　Chicago　and　he　got　a　job　in　a　plant　out　there；'　Jack　said。　'He　writes　to　me　just　about　every　week；　I　guess；　but　he　quit　ing　back　last　year；　when　Aubrey　beat　him　up。　Aubrey's…'
　　'Your　stepfather；'　Updike　said；　and　for　just　a　moment　Jack's　eyes　narrowed　and　his　original　distrust　came　back。　There　was　no　sympathy　in　Updike's　voice。　Instead；　Updike　seemed　almost　to　be　laughing　at　him；　as　if　he　knew　the　whole　tale　was　nothing　but　a　great　big　swatch　of　whole　cloth。
　　'Yeah；'　he　said。　'My　mom　married　him　a　year　and　a　half　ago。　He　beats　on　me　a　lot。'
　　'Sad；　Jack。　Very　sad。'　Now　Updike　did　look　up；　his　eyes　sardonic　and　unbelieving。　'So　now　you're　off　to　Shytown；　where　you　and　Dads　will　live　happily　ever　after。'
　　'Well；　I　hope　so；'　Jack　said；　and　he　had　a　sudden　inspiration。　'All　I　know　is　that　my　real　dad　never　hung　me　up　by　the　neck　in　my　closet。'　He　pulled　down　the　neck　of　his　T…shirt；　baring　the　mark　there。　It　was　fading　now；　during　his　stint　at　the　Golden　Spoon　it　had　still　been　a　vivid；　ugly　red…purple…like　a　brand。　But　at　the　Golden　Spoon　he'd　never　had　occasion　to　uncover　it。　It　was；　of　course；　the　mark　left　by　the　root　that　had　nearly　choked　the　life　from　him　in　that　other　world。
　　He　was　gratified　to　see　Smokey　Updike's　eyes　widen　in　surprise　and　what　might　almost　have　been　shock。　He　leaned　forward；　scattering　some　of　his　pink　and　yellow　pages。　'Holy　Jesus；　kid；'　he　said。　'Your　stepfather　did　that？'
　　'That's　when　I　decided　I　had　to　split。'
　　'Is　he　going　to　show　up　here；　looking　for　his　car　or　his　motorcycle　or　his　wallet　or　his　fucking　dope…stash？'　Jack　shook　his　head。
　　Smokey　looked　at　Jack　for　a　moment　longer；　and　then　pushed　the　OFF　button　on　the　calculator。　'e　on　back　to　the　storeroom　with　me；　kid；'　he　said。
　　'Why？'
　　'I　want　to　see　if　you　can　really　rock　one　of　those　kegs　up　on　its　side。　If　you　can　run　me　out　a　keg　when　I　need　one；　you　ca