pzb.lostsouls-第26节

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e　main　street　were　colorful　in　the　lethargic　heat　of　the　day。　A　boarded…up　storefront　cast　a　baleful　blind　eye　every　few　blocks；　but　such　things　did　not　bother　Christian。　He　was　looking　for　dark　windows；　for　neon　beer　signs　lit　deep　within　shadowy　interiors。　There　must　be　a　bar。　Somewhere　in　this　town　must　be　a　place　where　the　townspeople　could　drink；　fight；　pass　all　the　long　hot　nights；　spend　their　paydays　away。　Any　redneck　bar　would　do。
　　Christian　was　beginning　to　wonder　whether　he　might　not　be　in　one　of　the　dreaded　dry　counties　of　the　South　when　a　blue　beer　light　caught　his　eye　at　last。　The　door　of　the　place　was　a　thick　slab　of　pine　carved　with　twisted　letters：　THE　SACRED　YEW。　He　eased　the　Bel　Air　over　to　the　curb。　There　was　always　work　for　a　good　bartender。
　　
　　Kinsey　Hummingbird　was　an　excellent　bartender。
　　He　was　also　the　confidant　of　troubled　youth　from　Missing　Mile　and　surrounding　counties。　Bad　kids；　depressed　and　terrified　kids；　kids　who　found　themselves　adrift　in　the　Bible　Belt…all　came　to　Kinsey　as　if　he　were　some　sort　of　benevolent　Pied　Piper。　Before　he　opened　the　Sacred　Yew；　he　had　been　a　mechanic　at　the　garage　where　his　father　had　worked　before　him。　It　was　not　unusual　to　see　Kinsey's　long　thin　legs　sticking　out　from　under　a　car　while　some　forlorn　teenager　sat　nearby　talking　to　Kinsey's　sneakers。　The　metalheads；　the　hippies　born　decades　too　late；　the　sad　ones　swathed　in　black…all　came。　Kinsey　Hummingbird　was　their　guru；　Kinsey　Hummingbird　was　their　oracle。
　　When　his　mother　died　in　the　terrible　fire　out　at　the　mill；　Kinsey　received　a　substantial　settlement　and　was　able　to　open　the　Sacred　Yew；　or　as　the　kids　referred　to　it；　〃the　Yew。〃　Sometimes　he　looked　at　his　club　and　felt　a　twinge　of　guilt　that　his　mother's　gruesome　death　had　paid　for　it…she　had　fallen　from　a　blazing　catwalk　and　been　impaled　screaming　on　a　row　of　spindles…but　the　truth　was　that　Mrs。　Hummingbird　had　always　disliked　her　only　son　and　had　never　troubled　to　hide　it。　Kinsey　spent　most　of　his　own　childhood　trying　to　figure　out　what　he　had　done　to　make　her　feel　so　mean。　The　Bible　she　spent　all　her　free　time　reading　said　to　love　your　neighbor。　Seemed　like　it　would　say　something　about　loving　your　own　son　too。
　　Kinsey　was　a　whittled　beanpole　of　a　man；　well　over　six　feet　with　that　apologetic　stoop　so　many　tall　thin　men　have。　He　always　wore　a　cap　with　a　feather　in　it　pushed　back　over　his　stringy　hair。　The　club　was　his　private　dream。　Frequently　he　stared　around　at　it　in　awe；　expecting　it　to　disappear　before　his　eyes；　hardly　able　to　believe　he　had　made　it　happen。　The　insurance　money　had　paid　for　it；　but　he　had　built　the　stage；　he　had　begun　booking　the　bands；　he　had　concocted　the　little　menu　of　finger　sandwiches　and　homemade　soups　so　that　the　club　would　qualify　as　a　〃restaurant〃　and　kids　under　eighteen　would　be　able　to　e　in　without　getting　carded；　though　they　had　to　show　their　IDs　to　buy　beer。
　　The　Sacred　Yew　was　a　place　for　Kinsey's　children。　After　the　first　precarious　year　he　made　money；　but　that　was　not　why　he　did　it。　He　wanted　the　kids　to　have　someplace　to　go。　He　wanted　them　to　have　someplace　where　they　could　be　happy　for　a　while。
　　But　sometimes　it　was　a　backbreaking　job。　Long　ago　he　had　learned　that　to　make　it　go　smoothly；　he　had　to　attend　to　every　detail　himself　the　booking；　the　ordering；　even　the　decor。　When　there　was　no　one　else　to　do　it；　he　also　had　to　make　the　soup　and　sandwiches　and　tote　all　the　kegs　and　cases　of　beer。　A　week　ago　he　had　fired　his　latest　assistant　bartender　for　serving　beer　to　a　fourteen…year…old；　trying　to　put　the　make　on　her。　The　boy　was　astonished　when　mild…mannered　Kinsey　Hummingbird　blessed　him　out；　came　within　an　inch　of　slugging　him；　then　gave　him　his　walking　papers。　But　the　Yew　could　lose　its　license　for　a　thing　like　that。　Nobody　fucked　with　Kinsey　where　the　Sacred　Yew　was　concerned。
　　So　he　had　been　tending　bar　solo　for　a　week。　Steve　and　Ghost　from　Lost　Souls？　helped　him　out　sometimes…Ghost；　whose　grandmother　had　left　him　her　house　and　all　the　money　he　would　ever　require　to　live　on；　would　do　it　gratis。　But　just　now　they　were　busy　practicing　a　bunch　of　new　songs。　They　played　at　the　club　once　a　week　or　more；　and　they　were　his　biggest　draw。　People　came　from　as　far　away　as　Raleigh　and　Chapel　Hill　to　see　them。　They　were　getting　good；　and　he　wanted　them　to　practice。
　　But　Kinsey　was　tired。　So　when　the　guy　walked　in　and　said　he'd　tended　bar　in　New　Orleans　for　twenty　years；　Kinsey　hired　him　on　the　spot。　He　wasn't　fazed　by　the　funereal　clothes　and　the　cold　pale　face；　or　by　the　fact　that　the　guy　was　even　taller　than　him　and　maybe　skinnier。　When　you　ran　a　club；　you　met　plenty　of　weirdos。　This　particular　weirdo　struck　him　as　a　good　bartender。
　　〃Christian；　hm？　Were　your　folks　Holy　Rollers？〃　That　could　drive　anybody　to　a　life　of　bartending。
　　The　guy　shook　his　head。　〃It's　a　family　name。〃　
　　〃Whatever；〃　said　Kinsey　amiably。
　　
　　That　same　night；　Christian　fell　back　into　the　routine　of　popping　bottle　tops；　tapping　kegs　and　drawing　foamy　draft　beer　into　plastic　cups；　replying　to　small　talk　without　really　hearing　it。　The　bar　seemed　primitive：　Kinsey　served　no　liquor　or　even　wine；　only　beer；　and　not　many　varieties　of　that。　Without　shots　to　set　up；　without　Sazeracs　and　Hurricanes　to　mix；　Christian　felt　he　was　hardly　working。
　　Gradually　and　gratefully　he　came　to　realize　that　this　was　no　redneck　bar。　He　saw　children　in　black；　which　he　had　not　expected　in　a　small　southern　town；　and　he　watched　them　and　began　to　know　their　faces。　But　he　would　wait。　Some　of　these　children　might　be　drifters　or　flotsam　from　the　state　university　in　Raleigh；　but　he　could　not　afford　to　be　greedy　too　soon。　He　had　waited　before。　Soon　someone　would　e　to　town；　alone　and　a　stranger；　someone　he　could　take　safely。
　　His　wages　from　the　bar　would　not　be　quite　enough　to　pay　for　the　trailer　he　rented…it　was　on　Violin　Road；　but　it　was　cheap…and　the　gasoline　to　drive　to　work　each　night。　On　his　way　north　he　had　seen　wooden　stands　by　the　side　of　the　road。　They　sold　flowers；　fruit；　trinkets。　Behind　his　trailer　was　a　scrap　heap　and　a　great　thicket　of　roses　rioting　wild。　Christian　cut　the　huge　blossoms　and　wrapped　their　stems　in　newspaper。　In　an　overgrown　patch　of　garden　he　found　a　few　stunted　pumpkins；　a　few　gourds　gone　dry　on　the　vine。　He　got　some　sixpenny　nails　and　a　hammer　from　the　hardware　shop　in　town；　dragged　several　boards　out　of　the　scrap　heap；　put　together　a　stand　and　painted　a　sign。
　　When　the　sun　was　not　too　bright；　he　drove　around　the　outskirts　of　Missing　Mile　and　set　up　his　stand　on　different　corners。　Sometimes　people　stopped　to　buy　from　him；　he　answered　their　chatter　with　the　practiced　glibness　that　came　from　a　few　centuries　of　bartending。　From　behind　his　dark　glasses　he　watched　their　faces　and　their　throats；　wondering　how　long　it　would　be　until　his　mouth　began　to　water　at　the　smell　of　their　blood。
　　Christian　would　stay　in　Missing　Mile　as　long　as　he　could；　and　when　he　had　saved　some　money；　he　would　fill　the　tank　of　his　Bel　Air　and　start　driving　north　again。　North　was　where　Molochai；　Twig；　and　Zillah　might　be；　and　he　still　thought　of　finding　them。　Sometimes　at　night　he　would　take　out　the　three　bottles　of　Chartreuse　he　had　brought　from　New　Orleans。　He　read　the　legend　on　the　green…and…gold　foil　label　again　and　again；　thinking　of　Wallace　Creech　and　the　children　of　the　French　Quarter　and　the　dirty　slow　river；　but　he　never　cracked　the　seals　on　any　of　the　bottles。　He　still　remembered　how　the　green　fire　had　blazed　through　him　on　his　last　night　in　New　Orleans。
　　
　　　Chapter　15
　　
　　By　ten　o'clock　the　next　morning；　Nothing　was　so　hungry　and　lonely　that　he　almost　cried　from　sheer　relief　when　the　biker　stopped　and　picked　him　up。
　　Sleeping　in　a　barn　hadn't　been　any　fun。　He'd　gotten　out　of　the　rain　for　a　few　hours；　but　he　woke　up　sore；　hunger　nibbling　at　his　stomach　and　the　taste　of　dust　and　rotten　blood　in　his　mouth。　When　he　stumbled　out　of　the　barn；　morning　sunlight　blinded　him　for　a　moment。　Nothing　squeezed　his　eyes　shut；　then　opened　them　a　crack；　cautiously。　The　countryside　glistened　in　green　splendor　around　him。　Tendrils　of　vine　crept　up　the　side　of　the　barn；　poked　inquisitively　through　a　hole　in　the　roof。　He　dosed　his　eyes　again　and　breathed　the　smell　of　sunlight　drying　up　last　night's　rain。
　　Back　on　the　highway；　not　many　cars　went　by。　None　stopped。　He　saw　some　men　eating　biscuits　and　drinking　coffee　in　a　pickup　truck；　and　saliva　rushed　into　his　mouth。　He　spat　on　the　side　of　the　road；　to　swallow　hunger…spit　would　only　make　him　hungrier。　Experimentally；　he　put　his　hand　on　his　stomach。　Through　the　damp　cloth　of　his　T…shirt；　it　already　felt　more　hollow。　Surely　his　hipbones　were　sharper　than　they　had　been　two　days　ago。　He　lit　a　Lucky　and　sucked　up　the　smoke　as　if　it　were　orange　juice。
　　The　next　haft　hour　crawled　by。　Nothing　walked　slowly　along　the　shoulder　of　the　road　sticking　out　his　thumb　whenever　a　car　went　by。　Everyone　in　the　cars　stared　at　him；　but　no　one　stopped。　Then　he　heard　the　growl　of　a　motor　around　the　bend　he'd　just　passed。　Something　was　ing　down　the　highway　fast…no　car；　no　decrepit　pickup。　A　motorcycle。　A　big　one。　He　stared　pleadingly　as　it　approached；　and　when　the　driver　saw　him；　the　bike　slowed　an