scoonts.theminotaur-第21节

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　As　they　crossed　the　IP　inbound；　Toad　found　the　infrared　was　still　on　the　bull's…eye　tower。　With　the　help　of　the　inertial；　the　puter　had　kept　the　cursors　there　and　the　infrared　was　slaved　to　the　cursors。　He　turned　the　laser　on　early　and　stepped　the　puter　into　attack。
　Yes；　it　could　be　done；　and　with　practice；　done　well。　Moisture　in　the　air　would　degrade　the　1R；　of　course；　but　you　couldn't　have　everything。
　As　they　crossed　the　Columbia　climbing　northwest；　the　spotting　tower　gave　them　a　call。　〃We　didn't　spot　your　last　hit。　Maybe　the　smoke　charge　didn't　go　off。〃
　Toad　checked　the　puter　readouts。　Rita　had　been　eleven　mils　off　on　steering　at　the　moment　of　weapon　release。　Toad　couldn't　resist。　He　informed　her　of　that　fact。　She　said　nothing。　〃Still；〃　Toad　added　magnanimously；　〃an　okay　job。〃　He　was　feeling　rather　pleased　with　himself。
　〃For　a　woman。〃
　〃I　didn't　say　that；　Miss　Thin　Skin。　I　said　an　okay　job。〃
　〃Look　at　the　ordnance　panel；　ace。〃　Toad　did　so。　He　had　inadvertently　selected　Station　Three　instead　of　Station　Four　for　the　last　bomb　run。　The　practice　bombs　were　on　Station　Four；　and　the　last　bomb　was　undoubtedly　still　there。　Station　Three…the　belly　station…had　been　empty；　thank　God！　Oh　damn。　And　good　ol'　Rita　had　sat　there　and　watched　him　do　it　and　hadn't　squeaked　a　word！　〃Call　Center　and　get　our　clearance　back　to　Whidbey；〃　she　said　now；　her　voice　deadpan。
　Toad　reached　for　the　radio　panel。
　
　Terry　Franklin　was　watching　television　when　he　heard　the　telephone　ring。　He　listened　for　the　second　ring；　but　it　didn't　e。　He　sat　staring　at　the　TV　screen；　no　longer　hearing　the　words　or　seeing　the　picture…
　His　wife　had　taken　the　kids　to　the　mall。　She　had　left　only　a　half　hour　ago。　How　long　would　she　be？
　He　was　trying　to　decide　just　how　much　time　he　had　when　the　phone　rang　again。　He　felt　his　muscles　tense。　Only　one　ring。
　He　turned　off　the　TV　and　got　his　coat　from　the　closet。　He　felt　in　his　pocket　for　the　keys　to　the　old　Datsun。　They　were　there。　He　snapped　off　the　living…room　lights　and　peered　between　the　curtains　at　the　street。　No　one　out　there。
　Ring；　pause；　ring；　pause；　ring。。。
　Three　rings。　The　drop　on　G　Street。　He　would　have　to　hurry　to　beat　Lucy　and　the　kids　home。　He　remembered　to　lock　the　door　behind　him。
　
　Matilda　Jackson　was　sixty…seven　years　old　and　she　was　fed　up。　Five　years　ago　she　retired　from　the　law　firm　where　she　had　worked　as　a　clerk…typist　for　twenty…six　years。　Seventeen　months　ago　she　had　made　the　last　payment　on　her　mortgage。　The　house　wasn't　much…a　run…down　row　house　in　a　run…down　neighborhood…but　by　God　it　was　hers。　And　it　was　all　she　could　afford　on　her　social　security　ine　and　the　93。57　she　got　every　month　from　the　law　firm's　pension　plan。
　The　house　had　been　something　when　she　and　Charlie　bought　it　in　1958；　and　Charlie　had　been　a　good　worker　inside　and　outside；　keeping　everything　painted　and　nice　and　the　sidewalk　swept。　But　he　had　died　of　diabetes…had　it　really　been　sixteen　years　ago？…after　they　amputated　his　feet　and　his　liver　got　bad。
　Poor　Charlie；　thank　God　he　can't　see　this　neighborhood　now；　it'd　break　his　heart。　Everything　gone　to　rack　and　ruin；　trash　everywhere；　and　those　kids　selling　dope　in　the　house　right　across　the　street；　the　house　where　ol'　lady　Melvin；　the　preacher's　widow；　used　to　live。　Some　old　man　from　New　Orleans　was　in　there　now；　she　didn't　know　his　name。
　Mrs。　Jackson　heard　a　car　stop　outside　and　peered　through　the　window。　Four　young　men　dressed　fit　to　kill　stood　on　the　sidewalk　looking　around。　Mrs。　Jackson　reached　for　her　camera；　an　ancient　Brownie；　but　she　had　loaded　it　with　some　of　that　new　film　the　man　at　the　drugstore　said　would　take　pictures　without　a　flash。　When　she　got　the　camera　ready　and　pointed　through　the　gap　in　the　drapes。　She　could　see　only　two　men。　The　other　two　must　have　gone　inside。
　Damn　those　cops　anyway。
　She　had　told　those　detectives　that　Melvin's　was　a　crack　house　and　nothing　had　happened。　They　weren't　going　to　pay　much　attention　to　a　fat　old　black　lady；　no　way。　She　had　seen　that　in　their　hard　eyes　as　they　looked　up　and　down　the　street　at　the　boarded…up　windows　and　the　trash　and　that　worthless；　shiftless　Arnold　Spivey　sitting　on　Wilson's　stoop　drinking　from　a　bottle　in　a　paper　bag。
　She　was　going　to　get　pictures。　They　would　have　to　do　something　if　she　had　pictures。　And　if　they　didn't　do　anything；　she　would　send　the　photos　to　that　neighborhood　watch　group　or　maybe　even　the　newspapers。　Leaving　old　people　to　watch　their　neighborhood　rot　and　the　dope　peddlers　take　over…they　would　have　to　do　something　about　pictures。　She　snapped　the　camera　at　the　two　men　on　the　sidewalk；　slick　loose…jointed　dudes　with　sports　coats　and　pimp　hats　with　wide　brims　and　flashy　hatbands。　The　license　plate　of　that　big　car　would　be　in　both　photos。
　Here　es　someone。　A　white　man；　walking　bold　as　brass　after　dark　in　a　neighborhood　as　black　as　printer's　ink；　a　neighborhood　where　the　kids　would　rip　off　your　arm　to　get　your　Timex　watch。　She　squinted。　Late　fifties　or　early　sixties；　chunky；　wearing　a　full…length　raincoat　and　a　little　trilby　hat。　Oh　yes；　he　went　by　earlier　this　evening；　just　walking　and　looking。　She　hadn't　paid　much　attention　then；　but　here　he　is；　back　again。　She　pointed　the　camera　and　clicked　the　shutter。　The　two　dudes　on　the　opposite　sidewalk　by　the　big　car　were　watching　him；　but　he　was　ignoring　them。
　Now　what　did　he　just　do？　Stuffed　something　in　that　hollow　iron　fence　post　as　he　walked　by。
　Why　did　he　do　that？　My　God；　the　street　is　full　of　trash；　why　didn't　he　just　throw　it　down　like　everyone　else　does？
　The　two　men　who　had　gone　into　the　crack　house　came　out　and　they　and　their　patriots　piled　in　the　car　and　left；　laughing　and　peeling　rubber。　Mrs。　Jackson　got　more　photos　of　them；　then　busied　herself　in　the　kitchen　making　tea　since　the　street　seemed　quiet　now。
　She　was　sipping　tea　in　the　darkened　living　room　and　looking　through　the　curtain　gap　when　a　haggard　black　woman　in　dilapidated　blue　jeans　and　a　torn　sweatshirt　staggered　around　the　corner　and　along　the　sidewalk　to　the　crack　house。　She　struggled　up　the　steps　to　the　stoop。　The　door　opened　before　she　even　knocked。　Mrs。　Jackson　didn't　bother　taking　her　picture；　she　was　one　of　the　regulars；　a　crack　addict　who　Mrs。　Jackson　suspected　didn't　have　long　to　live。　Mrs。　Blue　next　door　had　said　her　name　was　Mandy　and　she　had　heard　she　was　doing　tricks　under　the　Southeast　Freeway。
　Nobody　gave　a　damn。　About　Mandy　or　Mrs。　Jackson　or　Mrs。　Blue　or　any　of　them。　Just　a　bunch　of　poor　niggers　down　in　the　sewer。
　Wonder　what　that　white　roan　stuffed　in　that　fence　post？　Something　to　do　with　that　crack　house；　no　doubt。　Maybe　he's　a　judge　or　police　on　the　take。　Not　getting　enough。　Maybe　it's　money；　a　payoff　for　someone。
　Well；　well　just　see。　We've　got　some　rights　too。
　She　pulled　her　sweater　around　her　shoulders　and　got　her　cane。　Her　arthritis　was　bothering　her　pretty　badly　but　there　was　no　help　for　it。　She　unbolted　the　door　and　lowered　herself　down　the　steps。　As　she　approached　the　hollow　iron　post　two　houses　down　she　glanced　around　guiltily。　Her　frustration　was　fast　evaporating　into　fear。　No　one　looking。　Quick！　She　reached　into　the　post。　Only　a　crushed　cigarette　pack。　Disappointed；　she　felt　around　in　the　hollow　cavity。　There　was　nothing　else。　With　the　cigarette　pack　in　her　pocket；　she　slowly　made　her　way　back　to　her　house；　steeling　herself　to　look　straight　ahead。　Oh　God；　why　had　she　done　this？
　She　locked　and　bolted　her　doors　and　sat　at　the　kitchen　table　examining　her　find。　Writing　on　the　back；　block　letters。　Numbers　and　such。　Code　of　some　sort。　Payoffs；　most　likely。　We'll　see　what　the　police　make　of　all　this。　Not　that　they'd　ever　tell　an　old　black　woman　what　it's　all　about。　No　matter；　if　they'd　just　close　that　crack　house；　that'd　be　something。
　But　should　she　go　to　the　police？　They've　been　told　about　that　crack　house　and　they've　done　nothing。　What　if　the　police　have　been　paid　off？　What　if　they　tell　the　dopers　about　her？
　Mrs。　Jackson　had　lived　too　long　in　the　ghetto　not　to　know　the　dangers　associated　with　interfering　in　someone　else's　illegal　enterprise。　As　she　stared　at　the　cigarette　pack　she　realized　she　had　crossed　that　invisible　line　between　officious　nuisance　and　enemy。　And　she　knew　exactly　what　happened　to　enemies　of　dope　dealers。　They　died。　Fast　and　bloody。　Those　four　punks　on　the　sidewalk　in　their　fancy　clothes　would　smile　as　they　cut　off　her　ears；　nose　and　tongue；　then　her　arms。
　She　turned　off　the　kitchen　light　and　sat　in　the　darkness；　trying　to　think。　What　should　she　do？　My　God；　what　had　she　done？
　
　Mrs。　Jackson　was　still　sitting　in　the　darkness　of　her　kitchen　thirty　minutes　later　when　Terry　Franklin　walked　past　the　front　of　her　house　toward　the　hollow　post。　He　had　parked　the　car　three　blocks　away。　Normally　he　was　very　circumspect　and　drove　around　for　at　least　an　hour　to　make　sure　that　he　had　lost　any　possible　tails；　but　tonight　he　was　in　a　hurry。　He　had　to　get　home　before　Lucy　and　the　kids　got　back　from　the　mall。　So　he　had　driven　straight　from　Annandale　to　G　Street。
　The　block　appeared　empty。　No；　there　was　someone　sitting　in　a　doorway；　across　the　street。　Some　black　guy　with　a　brown　bag。　A　wino。　No　sweat。　What　a　shitty　neighborhood！　He　had　never　understood　why　the　Russians　had　picked　a