pzb.lostsouls-第43节

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t　out。　Pale　steam　plumed　from　his　mouth　and　his　nostrils。　For　a　minute　he　stood　on　the　sidewalk　in　front　of　the　club；　his　hands　deep　in　the　pockets　of　his　army　jacket　fumbling　with　the　objects　he　found　there。　Rose　petals。　An　old　ace　of　spades　he　had　found　in　the　dead　grass　at　the　end　of　their　driveway；　water…marked　and　crusted　with　dirt。　A　guitar　pick；　the　lucky　one　Steve　had　given　him。　Then；　his　hands　still　in　his　pockets；　he　crossed　the　street　and　stood　in　the　middle　of　the　empty　block。
　　Missing　Mile　was　not　a　large　town；　but　it　was　big　enough　to　have　a　couple　of　run…down　areas。　The　Sacred　Yew　was　right　in　the　middle　of　one。　The　kids　didn't　care；　and　Kinsey　liked　the　cheap　rent。　Some　of　the　shop　windows　were　boarded　up　or　broken。　Ghost　stood　in　front　of　a　building　that　had　last　been　a　dress　shop。　Magic　Marker　signs　in　the　display　window　still　announced　GOING　OUT　OF　BUSINESS！　and　ALL　STOCK　75％　OFF！　and；　optimistically；　BEAT　XMAS　RUSH！
　　But　between　the　signs　the　window　was　soaped　in　great　cakey　swashes。　Looking　through　one　of　the　gaps；　Ghost　saw　a　pink　torso　splashed　with　moonlight　and　shadow。　Above　it；　a　smooth；　featureless　oval　of　a　head　gazed　back　into　the　dark　recesses　of　the　building。　A　mannequin；　left　behind　to　preside　over　ruin。
　　He　did　not　turn　when　Ann　came　silently　out　of　the　club；　her　hair　flying　like　a　banner　behind　her；　cold　tears　dripping　off　her　chin。　He　stood　looking　through　the　window　of　the　abandoned　dress　shop　for　a　long　time。　The　only　voice　in　his　head　was　his　own；　and　his　thoughts　drifted　like　the　clouds　up　by　the　moon。　Then；　sometime　later；　he　sensed　a　presence　behind　him。
　　When　he　turned；　Zillah　and　Nothing　were　across　the　street；　standing　by　the　club　door。　Zillah　was　still　for　a　moment　seeming　to　scent　the　cold　night　air。　Then　he　started　down　the　street；　walking　fast；　not　looking　back　at　Nothing。　Nothing　hurried　to　catch　up。
　　After　a　moment；　Ghost　followed　too。
　　
　　Christian　turned　away　from　the　rangy　guitarist　without　asking　him　to　pay　for　his　beer。　He　had　learned　to　know　when　a　customer　needed　a　drink　on　the　house。　The　boy　nodded　his　thanks　and　walked　away；　already　raising　the　beer　to　his　lips。
　　As　Christian　pulled　the　Michelob　tap　forward　and　began　drawing　another　beer；　he　glanced　up　at　the　bar　clock…and　his　breath　caught　in　his　throat。　The　glass　clockface　was　reflecting　three　lights　at　once：　the　purple　glow　of　the　ancient　TV　set　that　flickered　all　night　up　in　the　corner；　the　green　luminescence　of　a　beer　sign　across　the　room；　and　the　yellow　of　someone's　striking　a　match。　That　was　all；　but　for　a　second　those　three　colors　flared　together；　and　in　that　circle　of　glass　Christian　saw　the　tawdry　splendor　of　a　hundred　Mardi　Gras　nights…the　fire；　the　liquor；　the　beads；　the　burning　glow　of　Chartreuse…all　up　there　in　the　dusty　clockface。
　　A　wave　of　homesickness　such　as　he　had　never　known　shuddered　through　him。　It　did　not　matter　that　his　bar　had　been　way　down　Chartres；　far　from　the　heart　of　the　Quarter。　In　that　moment　he　saw　only　Bourbon　Street；　the　neon　carnival　going　on　all　night；　the　glitter　that　lit　up　the　dawn。　And　he　thought　suddenly　that　New　Orleans　was　his　home　as　no　place　had　ever　been…not　in　all　his　years。　He　must　go　back。　Better　to　face　the　dry　danger　of　Wallace　Creech　than　to　stay　in　this　dark　little　town　serving　endless　cups　of　bad　draft　beer　through　every　endless　night。
　　Then；　with　an　effort；　he　stifled　his　thoughts。　Of　course　he　could　not　go　back。　He　had　abandoned　his　bar。　When　no　rent　check　was　sent　to　the　owner；　the　bar　and　supplies　would　be　seized；　would　no　longer　belong　to　him。　And　did　he　wish　to　die　at　the　hands　of　one　such　as　Wallace；　to　die　for　the　dogged　obsessions　of　a　sick　old　man；　or　to　have　to　kill　him　and　his　endless　string　of　true　believers？
　　No。　He　would　stay　here；　where　fate　and　the　highways　had　brought　him。　He　would　serve　beer　and　sell　roses　as　long　as　they　grew。　He　would　put　away　money。　Someday；　when　he　knew　Wallace　had　to　he　dead；　he　could　return　to　New　Orleans。　But　for　the　present；　as　soon　as　he　had　enough　money；　he　would　go　north　to　look　for　the　others。
　　He　drew　another　beer。　Above　the　noise　in　the　bar　a　loud　voice　said；　〃Hey；　Count　Dracula；　can　we　get　a　drink？〃
　　Christian　turned；　his　shoulders　stiff；　his　eyes　frigid。　But　the　two　faces　before　him　were　familiar　and　as　ically　surprised　as　he　must　look。　The　ridiculous　smudges　of　kohl　around　the　eyes。　The　masses　of　ratted　hair　framing　pallid　cheeks。　One　of　them　held　a　sticky　red　lollipop　in　his　hand。　They　had　let　their　hair　grow　longer　and　wilder；　and　their　style　of　dress　was　now　tinged　with　punk。　One　wore　a　studded　leather　collar　around　his　neck；　the　other's　black　denim　jacket　seemed　to　he　held　together　chiefly　by　hundreds　of　safety　pins。　Otherwise　Molochai　and　Twig　had　changed　not　at　all　since　Christian　last　saw　them；　waving　goodbye　from　the　windows　of　their　van　on　that　Ash　Wednesday　night　fifteen　years　ago。
　　His　first　clear　thought　was　What　happened　to　Zillah？　beautiful　green…eyed　Zillah？　he　must　be　safe。　He　blocked　that　thought；　and　his　second　one　was　They　are　here；　they　are　really　here；　the　time　passed　as　if　I　were　asleep　and　they　have　found　me　again。
　　Then　Christian　did　something　he　had　never　done　before；　not　once　during　a　long；　long　bartending　career。　He　dropped　the　cup　of　beer　he　was　holding。　It　foamed　around　his　boots　and　made　a　huge　puddle　on　the　floor。　Kinsey　came　out　from　the　back　and　saw　it　and　glared　at　him；　and　Christian　could　not　have　cared　less。
　　
　　Nothing　gazed　around　at　the　kids　in　the　club。　They　were　all　so　beautiful。　He　loved　their　choppy　hairstyles；　their　costume　jewelry；　their　ragged　black　or　multicolored　clothes。　He　loved　the　way　they　all　somehow　looked　like　him；　and　he　wished　he　could　make　friends　with　every　one　of　them。　Most　of　them　smiled　at　him；　and　a　few　said　〃hey〃…they　all　seemed　to　say　that　instead　of　〃hi〃　or　〃hello〃…but　he　didn't　dare　talk　to　any　of　them。　He　couldn't　make　friends　now。　Not　when　they　might　end　up　like　Laine；　alone　in　a　culvert　with　rainwater　washing　through　their　hair。
　　Not　yet。
　　He　was　content　just　to　be　among　them；　watching　them　talk；　smoke；　dance。　Zillah　was　beside　him；　and　the　others；　so　he　wasn't　alone。　And　he　had　the　show　to　remember。　The　songs。　Ghost　swaying　at　the　microphone；　bathed　in　golden　light。　Steve　bounding　across　the　stage；　playing　guitar　like　the　devil　was　chasing　him。　Ghost's　hands　like　pale　birds　shaping　the　music。　Nothing　stood　still；　trying　to　absorb　every　detail　of　the　club…the　smells　of　clove…smoke　and　sweaty　perfume；　the　mural　sprawling　across　the　wails；　some　of　it　faded　or　rubbed　away；　some　bright　as　the　fresh　blood　on　the　walls　of　the　van。
　　Then　Molochai　and　Twig　stumbled　off　to　the　bar　in　search　of　some　drink　called　a　Suffering　Bastard。　Zillah　disappeared　with　them；　but　a　few　minutes　later　he　was　back。　He　gripped　Nothing's　arm　and　nodded　meaningfully　toward　the　exit。
　　Outside；　Zillah　turned　without　a　word　and　stalked　away　from　the　club。　Nothing　stared　after　him　for　a　moment；　then　ran　along　the　sidewalk　to　catch　up。
　　All　day　it　had　been　like　this。　Ever　since　slinking　away　from　Steve　and　Ghost's　house　that　was　how　Nothing　thought　of　it。　In　broad　daylight　they　had　slunk　away。　Now　Zillah's　face　was　pletely　healed；　and　Zillah　had　managed　to　be　nice　to　him　all　night。　But　now　Zillah　was　acting　as　if　he　had　been　disgusted　with　the　show。　Had　the　music　bored　him？　Was　the　club　too　small；　too　unglamorous？　Or　did　Zillah　just　harbor　an　unshakable　hatred　for　Steve　and　Ghost？
　　If　that　was　the　case；　Nothing　wanted　to　retrieve　Molochai　and　Twig　and　get　out　of　town。　He'd　seen　Missing　Mile；　he'd　seen　his　show。　There　was　no　place　for　him　here；　not　with　his　new　family。　Nothing　caught　up　with　Zillah　and　walked　alongside　him。　On　their　right　was　a　block　of　abandoned　stores。　On　their　left　was　a　line　of　parked　cars；　windshields　reflecting　the　moonlight　back　at　Nothing。　Up　ahead　he　could　make　out　a　figure　hunched　on　the　hood　of　one　of　the　cars。　As　they　walked　closer；　he　saw　that　it　was　a　girl。　Her　long　hair　spilled　down　over　the　back　of　her　sweatshirt。　Closer　still；　and　he　saw　that　she　was　crying。
　　Zillah　pulled　him　toward　the　girl。　Surely　he　couldn't　he　hungry　again；　not　after　last　night…but　Nothing　put　that　out　of　his　mind。　He　couldn't　do　that　again；　not　yet。　And　Molochai　and　Twig　weren't　here。　When　Zillah　touched　the　girl's　shoulder　and　asked；　〃Can　we　help　you；　my　dear？〃　Nothing　thought　he　understood。　He　had　crossed　Zillah；　and　his　punishment　wasn't　over。
　　But　Nothing　didn't　care。　Zillah　could　have　this　girl　if　he　wanted　her。　Or　any　girl；　anyone。　Because　now　Nothing　knew　something　he　hadn't　known　before：　Zillah　wasn't　just　angry　because　Nothing　had　gone　against　him；　or　even　because　Nothing　had　hurt　him。　Zillah　was　jealous　too；　jealous　of　Steve　and　Ghost；　of　Nothing's　love　for　them　and　their　music。　The　new　knowledge　coursed　through　him；　making　him　feel　weirdly　powerful；　like　the　time　he　had　shot　heroin　with　Spooky。　He　could　make　someone　jealous；　even　someone　as　beautiful　and　charismatic　as　Zillah。　It　was　a　heady　feeling。
　　He　could　get　used　to　feeling　like　that。
　　
　　Ann's　head　jerked　up　when　the　man　touched　her　shoulder。　She　hadn't　heard　him　approaching；　probably　wouldn't　have　heard　the　m