sk.thetalisman-第32部分

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ng。　And　you're　in　the　men's　room　every　half　an　hour　with　your　mop。　On　Friday　nights；　a　guy　blows　his　groceries　every　fifteen　minutes　or　so。'
　　'I　got　the　women's；'　Lori　said；　ing　over。　Her　hair　was　thin；　wavy　gold；　her　plexion　as　white　as　a　ic…book　vampire's。　She　either　had　a　cold　or　a　bad　coke　habit；　she　kept　sniffing。　Jack　guessed　it　was　a　cold。　He　doubted　if　anyone　in　Oatley　could　afford　a　bad　coke　habit。　'Women　ain't　as　bad　as　men；　though。　Almost；　but　not　quite。'
　　'Shut　up；　Lori。'
　　'Up　yours；'　she　said；　and　Smokey's　hand　flickered　out　like　lightning。　There　was　a　crack　and　suddenly　the　imprint　of　Smokey's　palm　was　printed　red　on　one　of　Lori's　pallid　cheeks　like　a　child's　Tattoodle。　She　began　to　snivel　。　。　。　but　Jack　was　sickened　and　bewildered　to　see　an　expression　in　her　eyes　that　was　almost　happy。　It　was　the　look　of　a　woman　who　believed　such　treatment　was　a　sign　of　caring。
　　'You　just　keep　hustling　and　we'll　have　no　problem；'　Smokey　said。　'Remember　to　move　fast　when　I　yell　for　you　to　run　me　out　a　keg。　And　remember　to　get　in　the　men's　can　with　your　mop　every　half　an　hour　and　clean　up　the　puke。'　
　　And　then　he　had　told　Smokey　again　that　he　wanted　to　leave　and　Smokey　had　reiterated　his　false　promise　about　Sunday　afternoon　。　。　。　but　what　good　did　it　do　to　think　of　that？
　　There　were　louder　screams　now；　and　harsh　caws　of　laughter。　The　crunch　of　a　breaking　chair　and　a　wavering　yell　of　pain。　A　fistfight…the　third　of　the　night…had　broken　out　on　the　dance　floor。　Smokey　uttered　a　curse　and　shoved　past　Jack。　'Get　rid　of　that　keg；'　he　said。
　　Jack　got　the　empty　onto　the　dolly　and　trundled　it　back　toward　the　swinging　door；　looking　around　uneasily　for　Randolph　Scott　as　he　went。　He　saw　the　man　standing　in　the　crowd　that　was　watching　the　fight；　and　relaxed　a　little。
　　In　the　storeroom　he　put　the　empty　keg　with　the　others　by　the　loading…bay…Updike's　Oatley　Tap　had　already　gone　through　six　kegs　tonight。　That　done；　he　checked　his　pack　again。　For　one　panicky　moment　he　thought　it　was　gone；　and　his　heart　began　to　hammer　in　his　chest…the　magic　juice　was　in　there；　and　so　was　the　Territories　coin　that　had　bee　a　silver　dollar　in　this　world。　He　moved　to　the　right；　sweat　now　standing　out　on　his　forehead；　and　felt　between　two　more　kegs。　There　it　was…he　could　trace　the　curve　of　Speedy's　bottle　through　the　green　nylon　of　the　pack。　His　heartbeat　began　to　slow　down；　but　he　felt　shaky　and　rubber…legged…the　way　you　feel　after　a　narrow　escape。
　　The　men's　toilet　was　a　horror。　Earlier　in　the　evening　Jack　might　have　vomited　in　sympathy；　but　now　he　actually　seemed　to　be　getting　used　to　the　stench　。　。　。　and　that　was　somehow　the　worst　thing　of　all。　He　drew　hot　water；　dumped　in　et；　and　began　to　run　his　soapy　mop　back　and　forth　through　the　unspeakable　mess　on　the　floor。　His　mind　began　to　go　back　over　the　last　couple　of　days；　worrying　at　them　the　way　an　animal　in　a　trap　will　worry　at　a　limb　that　has　been　caught。
　　　
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　　The　Oatley　Tap　had　been　dark；　and　dingy；　and　apparently　dead　empty　when　Jack　first　walked　into　it。　The　plugs　on　the　juke；　the　pinball　machine；　and　the　Space　Invaders　game　were　all　pulled。　The　only　light　in　the　place　came　from　the　Busch　display　over　the　bar…a　digital　clock　caught　between　the　peaks　of　two　mountains；　looking　like　the　weirdest　UFO　ever　imagined。
　　Smiling　a　little；　Jack　walked　toward　the　bar。　He　was　almost　there　when　a　flat　voice　said　from　behind　him；　'This　is　a　bar。　No　minors。　What　are　you；　stupid？　Get　out。'　
　　Jack　almost　jumped　out　of　his　skin。　He　had　been　touching　the　money　in　his　pocket；　thinking　it　would　go　just　as　it　had　at　the　Golden　Spoon：　he　would　sit　on　a　stool；　order　something；　and　then　ask　for　the　job。　It　was　of　course　illegal　to　hire　a　kid　like　him…at　least　without　a　work　permit　signed　by　his　parents　or　a　guardian…and　that　meant　they　could　get　him　for　under　the　minimum　wage。　Way　under。　So　the　negotiations　would　start；　usually　beginning　with　Story　#2…Jack　and　the　Evil　Stepfather。
　　He　whirled　around　and　saw　a　man　sitting　alone　in　one　of　the　booths；　looking　at　him　with　chilly；　contemptuous　alertness。　The　man　was　thin；　but　ropes　of　muscles　moved　under　his　white　undershirt　and　along　the　sides　of　his　neck。　He　wore　baggy　white　cook's　pants。　A　paper　cap　was　cocked　forward　over　his　left　eyebrow。　His　head　was　narrow；　weasellike。　His　hair　was　cut　short；　graying　at　the　edges。　Between　his　big　hands　were　a　stack　of　invoices　and　a　Texas　Instruments　calculator。
　　'I　saw　your　Help　Wanted　sign；'　Jack　said；　but　now　without　much　hope。　This　man　was　not　going　to　hire　him；　and　Jack　was　not　sure　he　would　want　to　work　for　him　anyway。　This　guy　looked　mean。
　　'You　did；　huh？'　the　man　in　the　booth　said。　'You　must　have　learned　to　read　on　one　of　the　days　you　weren't　playing　hooky。'　There　was　a　package　of　Phillies　Cheroots　on　the　table。　He　shook　one　out。
　　'Well；　I　didn't　know　it　was　a　bar；'　Jack　said；　taking　a　step　back　toward　the　door。　The　sunlight　seemed　to　e　through　the　dirty　glass　and　then　just　fall　dead　on　the　floor；　as　if　the　Oatley　Tap　were　located　in　a　slightly　different　dimension。　'I　guess　I　thought　it　was　。　。　。　you　know；　a　bar　and　grill。　Something　like　that。　I'll　just　be　going。'
　　'e　here。'　The　man's　brown　eyes　were　looking　at　him　steadily　now。
　　'No；　hey；　that's　all　right；'　Jack　said　nervously。　'I'll　just…'
　　'e　here。　Sit　down。'　The　man　popped　a　wooden　match　alight　with　his　thumbnail　and　lit　the　cigar。　A　fly　which　had　been　preening　on　his　paper　hat　buzzed　away　into　the　darkness。　His　eyes　remained　on　Jack。　'I　ain't　gonna　bite　you。'　
　　Jack　came　slowly　over　to　the　booth；　and　after　a　moment　he　slipped　in　on　the　other　side　and　folded　his　hands　in　front　of　him　neatly。　Some　sixty　hours　later；　swamping　out　the　men's　toilet　at　twelve…thirty　in　the　morning　with　his　sweaty　hair　hanging　in　his　eyes；　Jack　thought…no；　he　knew…that　it　was　his　own　stupid　confidence　that　had　allowed　the　trap　to　spring　shut　（and　it　had　shut　the　moment　he　sat　down　opposite　Smokey　Updike；　although　he　had　not　known　it　then）。　The　Venus　flytrap　is　able　to　close　on　its　hapless；　insectile　victims；　the　pitcher　plant；　with　its　delicious　smell　and　its　deadly；　glassy…smooth　sides；　only　waits　for　some　flying　asshole　of　a　bug　to　buzz　on　down　and　inside　。　。　。　where　it　finally　drowns　in　the　rainwater　the　pitcher　collects。　In　Oatley　the　pitcher　was　full　of　beer　instead　of　rainwater…that　was　the　only　difference。
　　If　he　had　run…
　　But　he　hadn't　run。　And　maybe；　Jack　thought；　doing　his　best　to　meet　that　cold　brown　stare；　there　would　be　a　job　here　after　all。　Minette　Banberry；　the　woman　who　owned　and　operated　the　Golden　Spoon　in　Auburn；　had　been　pleasant　enough　to　Jack；　had　even　given　him　a　little　hug　and　a　peck　of　a　kiss　as　well　as　three　thick　sandwiches　when　he　left；　but　he　had　not　been　fooled。　Pleasantness　and　even　a　remote　sort　of　kindness　did　not　preclude　a　cold　interest　in　profits；　or　even　something　very　close　to　outright　greed。
　　The　minimum　wage　in　New　York　was　three　dollars　and　forty　cents　an　hour…that　information　had　been　posted　in　the　Golden　Spoon's　kitchen　by　law；　on　a　bright　pink　piece　of　paper　almost　the　size　of　a　movie　poster。　But　the　short…order　cook　was　a　Haitian　who　spoke　little　English　and　was　almost　surely　in　the　country　illegally；　Jack　thought。　The　guy　cooked　like　a　whiz；　though；　never　allowing　the　spuds　or　the　fried　clams　to　spend　a　moment　too　long　in　the　Fryolaters。　The　girl　who　helped　Mrs。　Banberry　with　the　waitressing　was　pretty　but　vacant　and　on　a　work…release　program　for　the　retarded　in　Rome。　In　such　cases；　the　minimum　wage　did　not　apply；　and　the　lisping；　retarded　girl　told　Jack　with　unfeigned　awe　that　she　was　getting　a　dollar　and　twenty…five　cents　each　hour；　and　all　for　her。
　　Jack　himself　was　getting　a　dollar…fifty。　He　had　bargained　for　that；　and　he　knew　that　if　Mrs。　Banberry　hadn't　been　strapped…her　old　dishwasher　had　quit　just　that　morning；　had　gone　on　his　coffee…break　and　just　never　e　back…she　would　not　have　bargained　at　all；　would　have　simply　told　him　take　the　buck　and　a　quarter；　kid；　or　see　what's　down　the　road。　It's　a　free　country。
　　Now；　he　thought；　with　the　unknowing　cynicism　that　was　also　a　part　of　his　new　self…confidence；　here　was　another　Mrs。　Banberry。　Male　instead　of　female；　rope…skinny　instead　of　fat　and　grandmotherly；　sour　instead　of　smiling；　but　almost　surely　a　Mrs。　Banberry　for　a'　that　and　a'　that。
　　'Looking　for　a　job；　huh？'　The　man　in　the　white　pants　and　the　paper　hat　put　his　cigar　down　in　an　old　tin　ashtray　with　the　word　CAMELS　embossed　on　the　bottom。　The　fly　stopped　washing　its　legs　and　took　off。
　　'Yes；　sir；　but　like　you　say；　this　is　a　bar　and　all…'
　　The　unease　stirred　in　him　again。　Those　brown　eyes　and　yellowed　scleras　troubled　him…they　were　the　eyes　of　some　old　hunting　cat　that　had　seen　plenty　of　errant　mice　like　him　before。
　　'Yeah；　it's　my　place；'　the　man　said。　'Smokey　Updike。'　He　held　his　hand　out。　Surprised；　Jack　shook　it。　It　squeezed　Jack's　hand　once；　hard；　almost　to　the　point　of　pain。　Then　it　relaxed　。　。　。　but　Smokey　didn't　let　go。　'Well？'　he　said。
　　'Huh？'　Jack　said；　aware　he　sounded　stupid　and　a　little　afraid…he　felt　stupid　and　a　little　afraid。　And　he　wanted　Up…dike　to　let　go　of　his　hand。
　　'Didn't　your　folks　ever　teach　you　to　innerduce　yourself？'　
　　This　was　so　unexpected　that　Jack　came　close　to　gabbling　out　his　real　name　instead　of　the　one　he　had　used　at　the　Golden　Spoon；　the　name　he　also　used　if　the　people　who　picked　him　up　asked　for　his　handle。　That　name…what　he　was　ing　to　think　of　as　his　'road…name'…was　Lewis　Farren。
　　'Jack　Saw…ah…Sawtelle；'　he　said。
　　Updike　held　his　hand　yet　a　moment　longer；　those　brown　eyes　never　moving。　Then　he　let　it　go。　'Jack　Saw…ah…Sawtelle；'　he　said。　'Must　be　the　longest　fucking　name　in　the　phonebook；　huh；　kid？'　
　　Jack　flushed　but　said　nothing。
　　'You　ain't　very　big；'　Updike　said。　'You　think　you　could　manage　to　rock　a　ninety…pound　keg　of　beer　up　on　its　side　and　walk　it　onto　a　hand…dolly？'
　　'I　think　so；'　Jack　said；　not　knowing　if　he　could　or　not。　It　didn't　look　as　if　it　would　be　much　of　a　problem；　anyway…in　a　place　as　dead　as　this；　the　guy　probably　only　had　to　change　kegs　when　the　one　hooked　up　to　the　taps　went　flat。
　　As　if　reading　his　mind；　Updike　said；　'Yeah；　nobody　here　now。　But　we　get　pretty