sk.thetalisman-第35部分

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　　'Go　to　hell！'　Jack　managed　finally；　snatching　up　the　four　singles　and　the　little　strew　of　change。　'Teach　the　next　kid　who　es　in　here　how　to　look　out　for　number　one！　I'm　going！'　
　　He　crossed　the　floor　toward　the　door；　and　in　spite　of　his　anger　he　knew…did　not　just　think　but　flat…out　knew…that　he　wasn't　going　to　make　the　sidewalk。
　　'Jack。'
　　He　touched　the　doorknob；　thought　of　grasping　it　and　turning　it…but　that　voice　was　undeniable　and　full　of　a　certain　threat。　He　dropped　his　hand　and　turned　around；　his　anger　leaving　him。　He　suddenly　felt　shrunken　and　old。　Lori　had　gone　behind　the　bar；　where　she　was　sweeping　and　humming。　She　had　apparently　decided　that　Smokey　wasn't　going　to　work　Jack　over　with　his　fists；　and　since　nothing　else　really　mattered；　everything　was　all　right。
　　'You　don't　want　to　leave　me　in　the　lurch　with　my　weekend　crowd　ing　up。'
　　'I　want　to　get　out　of　here。　You　cheated　me。'
　　'No　sir；'　Smokey　said；　'I　explained　that。　If　anyone　blotted　your　copybook；　Jack；　it　was　you。　Now　we　could　discuss　your　meals…fifty　percent　off　the　food；　maybe；　and　even　free　sodas。　I　never　went　that　far　before　with　the　younger　help　I　hire　from　time　to　time；　but　this　weekened's　going　to　be　especially　hairy；　what　with　all　the　migrant　labor　in　the　county　for　the　apple…picking。　And　I　like　you；　Jack。　That's　why　I　didn't　clout　you　one　when　you　raised　your　voice　to　me；　although　maybe　I　should　have。　But　I　need　you　over　the　weekend。'　
　　Jack　felt　his　rage　return　briefly；　and　then　die　away　again。
　　'What　if　I　go　anyhow？'　he　asked。　'I'm　five　dollars　to　the　good；　anyway；　and　being　out　of　this　shitty　little　town　might　be　just　as　good　as　a　bonus。'　
　　Looking　at　Jack；　still　smiling　his　narrow　smile；　Smokey　said；　'You　remember　going　into　the　men's　last　night　to　clean　after　some　guy　who　whoopsed　his　cookies？'　
　　Jack　nodded。
　　'You　remember　what　he　looked　like？'
　　'Crewcut。　Khakis。　So　what？'
　　'That's　Digger　Atwell。　His　real　name's　Carlton；　but　he　spent　ten　years　taking　care　of　the　town　cemeteries；　so　everyone　got　calling　him　Digger。　That　was…oh；　twenty　or　thirty　years　ago。　He　went　on　the　town　cops　back　around　the　time　Nixon　got　elected　President。　Now　he's　Chief　of　Police。'　
　　Smokey　picked　up　his　Cheroot；　puffed　at　it；　and　looked　at　Jack。
　　'Digger　and　me　go　back；'　Smokey　said。　'And　if　you　was　to　just　walk　out　of　here　now；　Jack；　I　couldn't　guarantee　that　you　wouldn't　have　some　trouble　with　Digger。　Might　end　up　getting　sent　home。　Might　end　up　picking　the　apples　on　the　town's　land…Oatley　Township's　got　。　。　。　oh；　I　guess　forty　acres　of　good　trees。　Might　end　up　getting　beat　up。　Or　。　。　。　I've　heard　that　ole　Digger's　got　a　taste　for　kids　on　the　road。　Boys；　mostly。'　
　　Jack　thought　of　that　clublike　penis。　He　felt　both　sick　and　cold。
　　'In　here；　you're　under　my　wing；　so　to　speak；'　Smokey　said。　'Once　you　hit　the　street；　who　can　say？　Digger's　apt　to　be　cruising　anyplace。　You　might　get　over　the　town　line　with　no　sweat。　On　the　other　hand；　you　might　just　see　him　pulling　up　beside　you　in　that　big　Plymouth　he　drives。　Digger　ain't　totally　bright；　but　he　does　have　a　nose；　sometimes；　Or　。　。　。　someone　might　give　him　a　call。'　
　　Behind　the　bar；　Lori　was　doing　dishes。　She　dried　her　hands；　turned　on　the　radio；　and　began　to　sing　along　with　an　old　Steppenwolf　song。
　　'Tell　you　what；'　Smokey　said。　'Hang　in　there；　Jack。　Work　the　weekend。　Then　I'll　pack　you　into　my　pick…up　and　drive　you　over　the　town　line　myself。　How　would　that　be？　You'll　go　out　of　here　Sunday　noon　with　damn　near　thirty　bucks　in　your　poke　that　you　didn't　have　ing　in。　You'll　go　out　thinking　that　Oatley's　not　such　a　bad　place　after　all。　So　what　do　you　say？'　
　　Jack　looked　into　those　brown　eyes；　noted　the　yellow　scleras　and　the　small　flecks　of　red；　he　noted　Smokey's　big；　sincere　smile　lined　with　false　teeth；　he　even　saw　with　a　weird　and　terrifying　sense　of　déjà　vu　that　the　fly　was　back　on　the　paper　fry…cook's　hat；　preening　and　washing　its　hair…thin　forelegs。
　　He　suspected　Smokey　knew　that　he　knew　that　everything　Updike　had　said　was　a　lie；　and　didn't　even　care。　After　working　into　the　early　hours　of　Saturday　morning　and　then　Sunday　morning；　Jack　would　sleep　until　maybe　two　Sunday　afternoon。　Smokey　would　tell　him　he　couldn't　give　him　that　ride　because　Jack　had　woken　up　too　late；　now　he；　Smokey；　was　too　busy　watching　the　Colts　and　the　Patriots。　And　Jack　would　not　only　be　too　tired　to　walk；　he　would　be　too　afraid　that　Smokey　might　lose　interest　in　the　Colts　and　Patriots　just　long　enough　to　call　his　good　friend　Digger　Atwell　and　say；　'He's　walking　down　Mill　Road　right　now；　Digger　old　boy；　why　don't　you　pick　him　up？　Then　get　over　here　for　the　second　half。　Free　beer；　but　don't　you　go　puking　in　my　urinal　until　I　get　the　kid　back　here。'　
　　That　was　one　scenario。　There　were　others　that　he　could　think　of；　each　a　little　different；　each　really　the　same　at　bottom。
　　Smokey　Updike's　smile　widened　a　little。
　　
　　　CHAPTER　10
　　　Elroy
　　　
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　　When　I　was　six　。　。　。
　　The　Tap；　which　had　begun　to　wind　down　by　this　time　on　his　previous　two　nights；　was　roaring　along　as　if　the　patrons　expected　to　greet　the　dawn。　He　saw　two　tables　had　vanished…victims　of　the　fistfight　that　had　broken　out　just　before　his　last　expedition　into　the　john。　Now　people　were　dancing　where　the　tables　had　been。
　　'About　time；'　Smokey　said　as　Jack　staggered　the　length　of　the　bar　on　the　inside　and　put　the　case　down　by　the　refrigerator　partments。　'You　get　those　in　there　and　go　back　for　the　fucking　Bud。　You　should　have　brought　that　first；　anyway。'
　　'Lori　didn't　say…'
　　Hot；　incredible　pain　exploded　in　his　foot　as　Smokey　drove　one　heavy　shoe　down　on　Jack's　sneaker。　Jack　uttered　a　muffled　scream　and　felt　tears　sting　his　eyes。
　　'Shut　up；'　Smokey　said。　'Lori　don't　know　shit　from　Shinola；　and　you　are　smart　enough　to　know　it。　Get　back　in　there　and　run　me　out　a　case　of　Bud。'　
　　He　went　back　to　the　storeroom；　limping　on　the　foot　Smokey　had　stomped；　wondering　if　the　bones　in　some　of　his　toes　might　be　broken。　It　seemed　all　too　possible。　His　head　roared　with　smoke　and　noise　and　the　jagged　ripsaw　rhythm　of　The　Genny　Valley　Boys；　two　of　them　now　noticeably　weaving　on　the　bandstand。　One　thought　stood　out　clearly：　it　might　not　be　possible　to　wait　until　closing。　He　really　might　not　be　able　to　last　that　long。　If　Oatley　was　a　prison　and　the　Oatley　Tap　was　his　cell；　then　surely　exhaustion　was　as　much　his　warder　as　Smokey　Updike…maybe　even　more　so。
　　In　spite　of　his　worries　about　what　the　Territories　might　be　like　at　this　place；　the　magic　juice　seemed　more　and　more　to　promise　him　his　only　sure　way　out。　He　could　drink　some　and　flip　over　。　。　。　and　if　he　could　manage　to　walk　a　mile　west　over　there；　two　at　the　most；　he　could　drink　a　bit　more　and　flip　back　into　the　U。S。A。　well　over　the　town　line　of　this　horrible　little　place；　perhaps　as　far　west　as　Bushville　or　even　Pembroke。
　　When　I　was　six；　when　Jack…O　was　six；　when…
　　He　got　the　Bud　and　stumble…staggered　out　through　the　door　again　。　。　。　and　the　tall；　rangy　cowboy　with　the　big　hands；　the　one　who　looked　like　Randolph　Scott；　was　standing　there；　looking　at　him。
　　'Hello；　Jack；'　he　said；　and　Jack　saw　with　rising　terror　that　the　irises　of　the　man's　eyes　were　as　yellow　as　chicken…claws。　'Didn't　somebody　tell　you　to　get　gone？　You　don't　listen　very　good；　do　you？'　
　　Jack　stood　with　the　case　of　Bud　dragging　at　the　ends　of　his　arms；　staring　into　those　yellow　eyes；　and　suddenly　a　horrid　idea　hammered　into　his　mind：　that　this　had　been　the　lurker　in　the　tunnel…this　man…thing　with　its　dead　yellow　eyes。
　　'Leave　me　alone；'　he　said…the　words　came　out　in　a　win…tery　little　whisper。
　　He　crowded　closer。　'You　were　supposed　to　get　gone。'　
　　Jack　tried　to　back　up　。　。　。　but　now　he　was　against　the　wall；　and　as　the　cowboy　who　looked　like　Randolph　Scott　leaned　toward　him；　Jack　could　smell　dead　meat　on　its　breath。
　　　
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　　Between　the　time　Jack　started　work　on　Thursday　at　noon　and　four　o'clock；　when　the　Tap's　usual　after…work　crowd　started　to　e　in；　the　pay　phone　with　the　PLEASE　LIMIT　YOUR　CALLS　TO　THREE　MINUTES　sign　over　it　rang　twice。
　　The　first　time　it　rang；　Jack　felt　no　fear　at　all…and　it　turned　out　to　be　only　a　solicitor　for　the　United　Fund。
　　Two　hours　later；　as　Jack　was　bagging　up　the　last　of　the　previous　night's　bottles；　the　telephone　began　to　shrill　again。　This　time　his　head　snapped　up　like　an　animal　which　scents　fire　in　a　dry　forest　。　。　。　except　it　wasn't　fire　he　sensed；　but　ice。　He　turned　toward　the　telephone；　which　was　only　four　feet　from　where　he　was　working；　hearing　the　tendons　in　his　neck　creak。　He　thought　he　must　see　the　pay　phone　caked　with　ice；　ice　that　was　sweating　through　the　phone's　black　plastic　case；　extruding　from　the　holes　in　the　earpiece　and　the　mouthpiece　in　lines　of　blue　ice　as　thin　as　pencil…leads；　hanging　from　the　rotary　dial　and　the　coin　return　in　icicle　beards。
　　But　it　was　just　the　phone；　and　all　the　coldness　and　death　was　on　the　inside。
　　He　stared　at　it；　hypnotized。
　　'Jack！'　Smokey　yelled。　'Answer　the　goddam　phone！　What　the　fuck　am　I　paying　you　for？'　
　　
　　Jack　looked　toward　Smokey；　as　desperate　as　a　cornered　animal　。　。　。　but　Smokey　was　staring　back　with　the　thin…lipped；　out…of…patience　expression　that　he　got　on　his　face　just　before　he　popped　Lori　one。　He　started　toward　the　phone；　barely　aware　that　his　feet　were　moving；　he　stepped　deeper　and　deeper　into　that　capsule　of　coldness；　feeling　the　gooseflesh　run　up　his　arms；　feeling　the　moisture　crackle　in　his　nose。
　　He　reached　out　and　grasped　the　phone。　His　hand　went　numb。
　　He　put　it　to　his　ear。　His　ear　went　numb。
　　'Oatley　Tap；'　he　said　into　that　deadly　blackness；　and　his　mouth　went　numb。
　　The　voice　that　came　out　of　the　phone　was　the　cracked；　rasping　croak　of　something　long　dead；　some　creature　which　could　never　be　seen　by　the　living：　the　sight　of　it　would　drive　a　living　person　insane；　or　strike　him　dead　with　frost…etchings　on　his　lips　and　staring　eyes　blinded　by　cataracts　of　ice。　'Jack；'　this　scabrous；　rattling　voice　whispered　up　out　of　the　earpiece；　and　his　face　went　numb；　the　way　it　did　when　you　needed　to　spend　a　heavy　day　in　the　dentist's　chair　and　the　guy　needled　you　up　with　a　little　too　much　Novocain。　'You　get　your　ass