ericlustbader.the ninja-第51节
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He began to walk west。 Traffic from Sixth Avenue sounded like surf breaking against a far…off shore。 He thought of Uraga where the ships of Admiral Perry had docked in 1853； ending two hundred and fifty years of Japanese isolationism。 The mysterious surf rolling in towards the Floating Kingdom。 Better if we had not given in to that Pacific Overture。 Far better。 The ageless barrier holding Japan in magical thrall had been breached。 It was a mythic tale； as all of Japanese history tended to be； throwing bigger…than…life shadows on the screen of memory。
Down the block； almost at the corner of Sixth； a cab started up； pulling slowly out from the kerb； ing towards him。 Just before it pulled abreast； its hack light went on。 It caught his eye； a spinning jewel in the night。 He was still in Japan。
He waved at it drunkenly and it pulled over to the kerb。 A Checker； big and roomy。 And air…conditioned。
It was a custom job； not fleet…owned。 Inside； there was no plastic partition and the front seats were beige leather buckets。 Vincent gave the driver his address and settled back。 The cab started up。
Even in the crowded modern streets of Tokyo； Vincent was thinking； amid the urban clutter； the European business suits； one would abruptly e up an ancient Shinto shrine tucked away somewhere between two buildings。 One could hear the ghostly tinkling of the bronze bells； sewn in a vertical strip； green with the patina of time； one could smell the incense gently swirling the air。 For those moments the exhaust fumes； the pollution； were eliminated and the soul of ageless Japan reigned unsullied by Western encroachment； summoning the ancient gods。 It was dark in the cab。 He gazed out at the glowing lights of the city； realized that they were moving quite slowly。 He leaned forward。 'Hey；' he said； Td like to get home within the hour。〃
He saw the back of the driver's head move and； raising his gaze； saw his eyes in the strip of the rear…view mirror。 He saw that the man was Japanese； looked for his name on the I。D。 card on the extreme right of the dashboard。 The light was out and he could not make it out。 He spoke to the driver in Japanese； apologizing for his rudeness。
That's all right；' the man said。 'It's been a hard night for everyone。'
They had e round onto Forty…fifth； heading west。 The taxi swung right at the corner onto Eighth Avenue。 Here the street was lined on both sides by a bination of junk food restaurants and sleazy porn theatres。 The sidewalks were filled with hookers looking to feed their habits； black con men； low…grade pushers and Puerto Rican strong…arm boys： the vast white underbelly of the city in all its gritty； sorrowful splendour。
The driver went through one intersection on the change； hit a red light on the next。
'It's a night like home；' Vincent said in Japanese。
'No one wanted it；' the man said。 'It should never have e。'
Vincent thought again of Perry's four warships； riding in the harbour at Uraga。 Perhaps he's right； he thought。 We never should have …
The driver had turned round。 His face was blue and green in the dancing garish lights from a movie theatre。 His mouth opened in a smile。 A black oblong that might have belonged to a No mask。 The eyes were like stones； radiated no possibility of warmth or friendship。 This contrast between smile and animosity made him appear to leer frighteningly。 Vincent was reminded of the first No play he had seen with its terrifying demon's mask； at least that was how it had seemed to him at the age of six。
There was something odd about this face but in the low light he couldn't tell。 He leaned forward。 It seemed as if the skin on the man's face was blotchy as if …
He drew back； his mind stunned at what it had perceived。 But his reflexes had been dulled by the alcohol and； even as he retreated； he saw the man's face ballooning out towards him like the wedge of a viper。 The cheeks billowed and the lips curled into an O。 A fine mist shot from the aperture； caught him in mid…gasp。 He had already inhaled some of the spray before he stopped breathing。
Croaker sat in the tatami room； cross…legged； his head propped on one fist； after Vincent had left。 He called for more sake and thought savagely about going home。 He gulped at the liquor。 It was cold and he waited patiently for the fresh bottle。 He liked the stuff。 It had hardly any taste but generated a hell of a high。
He didn't want to go home。 No； no； he thought。 That's not it。 I don't want to go home to Alison。 This both surprised and annoyed him。 Surprised because even though he had known this might be ing for a while； it had now surfaced so strongly； so blatantly。 Annoyed with himself because he had allowed things to slip this far。 It wasn't even that he was angry with Alison； he thought。 He just didn't want to have anything ' to do with her any more。 He wondered for a time that two people could feel so much together for a time and then； later； not '。 feel anything at all。 Part of the human condition； he concluded philosophically； but a hell of a part。
The sake came and he allowed the waiter to pour the first cup。 He downed it； immediately poured himself another。 He itched to call Matty the Mouth but he suspected that if he did he might break this Didion thing to smithereens。 It seemed to him now that the entire case was balanced on one shining ' point： getting the name and address of this broad。
He didn't have to close his eyes to be able to picture again Angela Didion's apartment； but he did so anyway。 He went over it all again。
The first thing he noticed when he walked in was the smell。 Sickly…sweet； it was ether bined with what？ The darkened living…room had given up nothing but in the bedroom he saw the American Indian bone pipe and； sniffing it； smelled the opium。 Tasted it on the tip of his tongue。 Very high grade indeed。 Hardly street stuff。 But then this was Angela Didion's'； bedroom and a woman who was purportedly the world's highest…paid model could hardly be expected to have anything but the； best … of everything。 He didn't touch the pipe； he didn't touch anything。
Slipping on his surgeon's gloves； he crossed to the closet； opposite the enormous bed。 The bedroom was all done in midnight blue； from the silk walls to the satin lampshades。 There was only one lamp on when he came in； next to the bed。 He left the room that way。
Carefully he opened up the sliding door。 Inside he found silk dresses； six fur coats； ranging from 。a full…length dyed Russian sable to a spectacular three…quarter silver lynx。 Below； shoes from Botticelli and Charles Jourdan。
On the deep…pile rug between the bed and the closet was a black silk negligee。 He skirted that on the way to the bed。 It was a custom…made affair； moon…shaped。 The sheets were midnight…blue percale but the rumpled quilt was covered in silk。 It lay around Angela Didion's ankles like dark surf； ready to claim her。
She lay half on the bed； half off。 Her head hung over the edge； the long honey…blonde hair falling on to the floor。 She was made up。 Her eyes were mascaraed； her cheeks blushed； her lips painted。 She was naked save for a thin gold chain； which she wore around her waist。 There was no other jewellery。 She lay on the left side of the bed。 The right side was empty but the pillow on that side was indented as if someone had lain there。 There were stains on the sheets； still damp。 There was no blood。 A pillow was wedged beneath the small of Angela Didion's back。
Someone had done quite a job on her。 Bruises； just beginning to darken； lay like boils along the sides of her neck； her chest and rib cage； her stomach。 Her back was arched as if in ecstasy。 There was no expression on her face whatsoever。 No sign of pain or fear … or of passion。
It should have been grotesque； would have been with any other victim … Croaker had seen too many like it。 But this wasn't anyone； it was Angela Didion。 She must have been an extraordinary woman； Croaker thought as he stood staring down at the corpse； because her beauty transcended even this degradation； even death。 Croaker knew dial he was looking at a magnificent piece of humanity and it saddened him that it should have been destroyed so recklessly。 He felt that about most of the bodies he found； if they weren't the punks who got blown away by their own cupidity； the city breathed easier without them。
He tore his gaze away from the bed and； going around it； knelt beside the black silk garment on the carpet。 In this twilight of the room； it was almost invisible： black against the deep blue that was almost black itself。
Dipping one forefinger down； he lifted it up slightly。 Bending； he touched his nose to it； breathed in； caught the faint whiff of a perfume。 He got up； crossed to Angela Didion's dressing table。 He passed over the ivory brush and b set； the oval tortoise…shell hand mirror； the odds and ends of mascara； eyeliner； blush； powder； creams； taking them all in as he did so。 There were two perfume bottles on a silver tray against the wall。 Joy and Bal a Versailles。 He sniffed at both of them； one at a time； slowly。 Then； to make certain； he returned to the silk negligee； confirming for himself that it exuded another perfume； that it bore the imprint of another woman。
It
