sk.everythingseventual-第49节

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


　　'You　think　so？'
　　'Know　so。'　Not　a　shred　of　doubt　in　his　voice。
　　'I　like　your　tie；'　I　said。　I　said　it　just　to　be　saying　something；　but　it　was　true；　too。　The　tie　wasn't　what　I'd　call　eventual；　but　it　was　good。　You　know　those　ties　that　are　printed　all　over　with　skulls　or　dinosaurs　or　little　golf…clubs；　stuff　like　that？　Mr。　Sharpton's　was　printed　all　over　with　swords；　a　firm　hand　holding　each　one　up。
　　He　laughed　and　ran　a　hand　down　it；　kind　of　stroking　it。　'It's　my　lucky　tie；'　he　said。　'When　I　put　it　on；　I　feel　like　King　Arthur。'　The　smile　died　off　his　face；　little　by　little；　and　I　realized　he　wasn't　joking。　'King　Arthur；　out　gathering　the　best　men　there　ever　were。　Knights　to　sit　with　him　at　the　Round　Table　and　remake　the　world。'
　　That　gave　me　a　chill；　but　I　tried　not　to　show　it。　'What　do　you　want　with　me；　Art？　Help　you　hunt　for　the　Holy　Grail；　or　whatever　they　call　it？'
　　'A　tie　doesn't　make　a　man　a　king；'　he　said。　'I　know　that；　in　case　you　were　wondering。'
　　I　shifted；　feeling　a　little　unfortable。　'Hey；　I　wasn't　trying　to　put　you　down…'
　　'It　doesn't　matter；　Dink。　Really。　The　answer　to　your　question　is　I'm　two　parts　headhunter；　two　parts　talent　scout；　and　four　parts　walking；　talking　destiny。　Cigarette？'
　　'I　don't　smoke。'
　　'That's　good；　you'll　live　longer。　Cigarettes　are　killers。　Why　else　would　people　call　them　coffin…nails？'
　　'You　got　me；'　I　said。
　　'I　hope　so；'　Mr。　Sharpton　said；　lighting　up。　'I　most　sincerely　hope　so。　You're　top…shelf　goods；　Dink。　I　doubt　if　you　believe　that；　but　it's　true。'
　　'What's　this　offer　you　were　talking　about？'
　　'Tell　me　what　happened　to　Skipper　Brannigan。'
　　Kabam；　my　worst　fear　e　true。　He　couldn't　know；　nobody　could；　but　somehow　he　did。　I　only　sat　there　feeling　numb；　my　head　pounding；　my　tongue　stuck　to　the　roof　of　my　mouth　like　it　was　glued　there。
　　'e　on；　tell　me。'　His　voice　seemed　to　be　ing　in　from　far　away；　like　on　a　shortwave　radio　late　at　night。
　　I　got　my　tongue　back　where　it　belonged。　It　took　an　effort；　but　I　managed。　'I　didn't　do　anything。'　My　own　voice　seemed　to　be　ing　through　on　that　same　shitty　shortwave　band。　'Skipper　had　an　accident；　that's　all。　He　was　driving　home　and　he　went　off　the　road。　His　car　rolled　over　and　went　into　Lockerby　Stream。　They　found　water　in　his　lungs；　so　I　guess　he　drowned；　at　least　technically；　but　it　was　in　the　paper　that　he　probably　would　have　died；　anyway。　Most　of　his　head　got　torn　off　in　the　rollover；　or　that's　what　people　say。　And　some　people　say　it　wasn't　an　accident；　that　he　killed　himself；　but　I　don't　buy　that。　Skipper　was　。　。　。　he　was　getting　too　much　fun　out　of　life　to　kill　himself。'
　　'Yes。　You　were　part　of　his　fun；　weren't　you？'
　　I　didn't　say　anything；　but　my　lips　were　trembling　and　there　were　tears　in　my　eyes。
　　Mr。　Sharpton　reached　over　and　put　his　hand　on　my　arm。　It　was　the　kind　of　thing　you'd　expect　to　get　from　an　old　guy　like　him；　sitting　with　him　in　his　big　German　car　in　a　deserted　parking　lot；　but　I　knew　when　he　touched　me　that　it　wasn't　like　that；　he　wasn't　hitting　on　me。　It　was　good　to　be　touched　the　way　he　touched　me。　Until　then；　I　didn't　know　how　sad　I　was。　Sometimes　you　don't；　because　it's　just；　I　don't　know；　all　around。　I　put　my　head　down。　I　didn't　start　bawling　or　anything；　but　the　tears　went　running　down　my　cheeks。　The　swords　on　his　tie　doubled；　then　tripled…three　for　one；　such　a　deal。
　　'If　you're　worried　that　I'm　a　cop；　you　can　quit。　And　I　gave　you　money…that　screws　up　any　sort　of　prosecution　that　might　e　out　of　this。　But　even　if　that　wasn't　the　case；　no　one　would　believe　what　really　happened　to　young　Mr。　Brannigan；　anyway。　Not　even　if　you　confessed　on　nationwide　TV。　Would　they？'
　　'No；'　I　whispered。　Then；　louder：　'I　put　up　with　a　lot。　Finally　I　couldn't　put　up　with　any　more。　He　made　me；　he　brought　it　on　himself。'
　　'Tell　me　what　happened；'　Mr。　Sharpton　said。
　　'I　wrote　him　a　letter；'　I　said。　'A　special　letter。'
　　'Yes；　very　special　indeed。　And　what　did　you　put　in　it　so　it　could　only　work　on　him？'
　　I　knew　what　he　meant；　but　there　was　more　to　it　than　that。　When　you　personalized　the　letters；　you　increased　their　power。　You　made　them　lethal；　not　just　dangerous。
　　'His　sister's　name；'　I　said。　I　think　that　was　when　I　gave　up　pletely。　'His　sister；　Debbie。'
　　
　　IX
　　
　　I've　always　had　something；　some　kind　of　deal；　and　I　sort　of　knew　it；　but　not　how　to　use　it　or　what　its　name　was　or　what　it　meant。　And　I　sort　of　knew　I　had　to　keep　quiet　about　it；　because　other　people　didn't　have　it。　I　thought　they　might　put　me　in　the　circus　if　they　found　out。　Or　in　jail。
　　I　remember　once…vaguely；　I　might　have　been　three　or　four；　it's　one　of　my　first　memories…standing　by　this　dirty　window　and　looking　out　at　the　yard。　There　was　a　wood…chopping　block　and　a　mailbox　with　a　red　flag；　so　it　must　have　been　while　we　were　at　Aunt　Mabel's；　out　in　the　country。　That　was　where　we　lived　after　my　father　ran　off。　Ma　got　a　job　in　the　Harkerville　Fancy　Bakery　and　we　moved　back　to　town　later　on；　when　I　was　five　or　so。　We　were　living　in　town　when　I　started　school；　I　know　that。　Because　of　Mrs。　Bukowski's　dog；　having　to　walk　past　that　fucking　canine　cannibal　five　days　a　week。　I'll　never　forget　that　dog。　It　was　a　boxer　with　a　white　ear。　Talk　about　Memory　Lane。
　　Anyway；　I　was　looking　out　and　there　were　these　flies　buzzing　around　at　the　top　of　the　window；　you　know　how　they　do。　I　didn't　like　the　sound；　but　I　couldn't　reach　high　enough；　even　with　a　rolled…up　magazine；　to　swat　them　or　make　them　go　away。　So　instead　of　that；　I　made　these　two　triangles　on　the　windowpane；　drawing　in　the　dirt　with　the　tip　of　my　finger；　and　I　made　this　other　shape；　a　special　circle…shape；　to　hold　the　triangles　together。　And　as　soon　as　I　did　that；　as　soon　as　I　closed　the　circle；　the　flies…there　were　four　or　five　of　them…dropped　dead　on　the　windowsill。　Big　as　jellybeans；　they　were…the　black　jellybeans　that　taste　like　licorice。　I　picked　one　up　and　looked　at　it；　but　it　wasn't　very　interesting；　so　I　dropped　it　on　the　floor　and　went　on　looking　out　the　window。
　　Stuff　like　that　would　happen　from　time　to　time；　but　never　on　purpose；　never　because　I　made　it　happen。　The　first　time　I　remember　doing　something　absolutely　on　purpose…before　Skipper；　I　mean…was　when　I　used　my　whatever…it…was　on　Mrs。　Bukowski's　dog。　Mrs。　Bukowski　lived　on　the　corner　of　our　street；　when　we　rented　on　Dug…way　Avenue。　Her　dog　was　mean　and　dangerous；　every　kid　on　the　West　Side　was　afraid　of　that　white…eared　fuck。　She　kept　it　tied　in　her　side　yard…hell；　staked　out　in　her　side　yard　is　more　like　it…and　it　barked　at　everyone　who　went　by。　Not　harmless　yapping；　like　some　dogs　do；　but　the　kind　that　says　If　I　could　get　you　in　here　with　me　or　get　out　there　with　you；　I'd　tear　your　balls　off；　Brewster。　Once　the　dog　did　get　loose；　and　it　bit　the　paperboy。　Anyone　else's　dog　probably　would　have　sniffed　gas　for　that；　but　Mrs。　Bukowski's　son　was　the　police　chief；　and　he　fixed　it　up；　somehow。
　　I　hated　that　dog　the　way　I　hated　Skipper。　In　a　way；　I　suppose；　it　was　Skipper。　I　had　to　go　by　Mrs。　Bukowski's　on　my　way　to　school　unless　I　wanted　to　detour　all　the　way　around　the　block　and　get　called　a　sissy…boy；　and　I　was　terrified　of　the　way　that　mutt　would　run　to　the　end　of　its　rope；　barking　so　hard　that　foam　would　fly　off　its　teeth　and　muzzle。　Sometimes　it　hit　the　end　of　the　rope　so　hard　it'd　go　right　off　its　feet；　boi…yoi…yoinng；　which　might　have　looked　funny　to　some　people　but　never　looked　funny　to　me；　I　was　just　scared　the　rope　（not　a　chain；　but　a　plain　old　piece　of　rope）　would　break　one　day；　and　the　dog　would　jump　over　the　low　picket　fence　between　Mrs。　Bukowski's　yard　and　Dugway　Avenue；　and　it　would　rip　my　throat　out。
　　Then　one　day　I　woke　up　with　an　idea。　I　mean　it　was　right　there。　I　woke　up　with　it　the　way　some　days　I'd　wake　up　with　a　great　big　throbbing　boner。　It　was　a　Saturday；　bright　and　early；　and　I　didn't　have　to　go　anywhere　near　Mrs。　Bukowski's　if　I　didn't　want　to；　but　that　day　I　did　want　to。　I　got　out　of　bed　and　threw　on　my　clothes　just　as　fast　as　I　could。　I　did　everything　fast　because　I　didn't　want　to　lose　that　idea。　I　would；　too…I'd　lose　it　the　way　you　eventually　lose　the　dreams　you　wake　up　with　（or　the　boners　you　wake　up　with；　if　you　want　to　be　crude）…but　right　then　I　had　the　whole　thing　in　my　mind　just　as　clear　as　a　bell：　words　with　triangles　around　them　and　curlicues　over　them；　special　circles　to　hold　the　whole　shebang　together　。　。　。　two　or　three　of　those；　overlapping　for　extra　strength。
　　I　just　about　flew　through　the　living　room　（Ma　was　still　sleeping；　I　could　hear　her　snoring；　and　her　pink　bakery　uniform　was　hung　over　the　shower　rod　in　the　bathroom）　and　went　into　the　kitchen。　Ma　had　a　little　blackboard　by　the　phone　for　numbers　and　reminders　to　herself…MA'S　DAYBOARD　instead　of　DINKY'S　DAYBOARD；　I　guess　you'd　say…and　I　stopped　just　long　enough　to　gleep　the　piece　of　pink　chalk　hanging　on　a　string　beside　it。　I　put　it　in　my　pocket　and　went　out　the　door。　I　remember　what　a　beautiful　morning　that　was；　cool　but　not　cold；　the　sky　so　blue　it　looked　like　someone　had　run　it　through　the　Happy　Wheels　Carwash；　no　one　moving　around　much　yet；　most　folks　sleeping　in　a　little；　like　everyone　likes　to　do　on　Sat…urdays；　if　they　can。
　　Mrs。　Bukowski's　dog　wasn't　sl