cb.imajica1-第2部分

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　Estabrook　growled　in　fury　and　frustration。　He'd　expected　a　clandestine　rendezvous…curtained　windows；　locked　doors…not　a　gypsy　encampment。　This　was　altogether　too　public　and　too　dangerous。　Would　it　not　be　the　perfect　irony　to　be　murdered　in　the　middle　of　an　assignation　with　an　assassin？
　He　leaned　back　against　the　creaking　leather　of　his　seat　and　said；　〃You've　let　me　down。〃
　〃I　promise　you　this　man　is　a　most　extraordinary　individual；〃　Chant　said。　〃Nobody　in　Europe　es　remotely　close。　I've　worked　with　him　before。〃
　〃Would　you　care　to　name　the　victims？〃
　Chant　looked　around　at　his　employer　and；　in　faintly　admonishing　tones；　said；　〃I　haven't　presumed　upon　your　privacy；　Mr。　Estabrook。　Please　don't　presume　upon　mine。〃
　Estabrook　gave　a　chastened　grunt。
　〃Would　you　prefer　we　go　back　to　Chelsea？〃　Chant　went　on。　〃I　can　find　somebody　else　for　you。　Not　as　good；　perhaps；　but　in　more　congenial　surroundings。〃
　Chant's　sarcasm　wasn't　lost　on　Estabrook；　nor　could　he　resist　the　recognition　that　this　was　not　a　game　he　should　have　entered　if　he'd　hoped　to　stay　lily…white。　〃No；　no；〃　he　said。　〃We're　here；　and　I　may　as　well　see　him。　What's　his　name？〃
　〃I　only　know　him　as　Pie；〃　Chant　said。
　〃Pie？　Pie　what？〃
　〃Just　Pie。〃
　Chant　got　out　of　the　car　and　opened　Estabrook's　door。
　Icy　air　swirled　in；　bearing　a　few　flakes　of　sleet。　Winter　was　eager　this　year。　Pulling　his　coat　collar　up　around　his　nape　and　plunging　his　hands　into　the　minty　depths　of　his　pockets；　Estabrook　followed　his　guide　through　the　nearest　gap　in　the　corrugated　wall。　The　wind　carried　the　tang　of　burning　timber　from　an　almost　spent　bonfire　set　among　the　trailers：　that；　and　the　smell　of　rancid　fat。
　〃Keep　close；〃　Chant　advised；　〃walk　briskly；　and　don't　show　too　much　interest。　These　are　very　private　people。〃
　〃What's　your　man　doing　here？〃　Estabrook　demanded　to　know。　〃Is　he　on　the　run？〃
　〃You　said　you　wanted　somebody　who　couldn't　be　traced。　'Invisible'　was　the　word　you　used。　Pie's　that　man。　He's　on　no　files　of　any　kind。　Not　the　police；　not　the　Social　Security。　He's　not　even　registered　as　born。〃
　〃I　find　that　unlikely。〃
　〃I　specialize　in　the　unlikely；〃　Chant　replied。
　Until　this　exchange　the　violent　turn　in　Chant's　eye　had　never　unsettled　Estabrook；　but　it　did　now；　preventing　him　as　it　did　from　meeting　the　other　man's　gaze　directly。　This　tale　he　was　telling　was　surely　a　lie。　Who　these　days　got　to　adulthood　without　appearing　on　a　file　somewhere？　But　the　thought　of　meeting　a　man　who　even　believed　himself　undocumented　intrigued　Estabrook。　He　nodded　Chant　on；　and　together　they　headed　over　the　ill…lit　and　squalid　ground。
　There　was　debris　dumped　every　side：　the　skeletal　hulks　of　rusted　vehicles；　heaps　of　rotted　household　refuse；　the　stench　of　which　the　cold　could　not　subdue；　innumerable　dead　bonfires。　The　presence　of　trespassers　had　attracted　some　attention。　A　dog　with　more　breeds　in　its　blood　than　hairs　on　its　back　foamed　and　yapped　at　them　from　the　limit　of　its　rope；　the　curtains　of　several　trailers　were　drawn　back　by　shadowy　witnesses；　two　girls　in　early　adolescence；　both　with　hair　so　long　and　blond　they　looked　to　have　been　baptized　in　gold　（unlikely　beauty；　in　such　a　place）　rose　from　beside　the　fire；　one　running　as　if　to　alert　guards；　the　other　watching　the　newers　with　a　smile　somewhere　between　the　seraphic　and　the　cretinous。
　〃Don't　stare；〃　Chant　reminded　him　as　he　hurried　on；　but　Estabrook　couldn't　help　himself。
　An　albino　with　white　dreadlocks　had　appeared　from　one　of　the　trailers　with　the　blond　girl　in　tow。　Seeing　the　strangers　he　let　out　a　shout　and　headed　towards　them。
　Two　more　doors　now　opened；　and　others　emerged　from　their　trailers；　but　Estabrook　had　no　chance　to　either　see　who　they　were　or　whether　they　were　armed　because　Chant　again　said；　〃Just　walk；　don't　look。　We're　heading　for　the　caravan　with　the　sun　painted　on　it。　See　it？〃
　〃I　see　it。〃
　There　were　twenty　yards　still　to　cover。　Dreadlocks　was　delivering　a　stream　of　orders　now；　most　of　them　incoherent　but　surely　intended　to　stop　them　in　their　tracks。　Estabrook　glanced　across　at　Chant；　who　had　his　gaze　fixed　on　their　destination　and　his　teeth　clenched。　The　sound　of　footsteps　grew　louder　behind　them。　A　blow　on　the　head　or　a　knife　in　the　ribs　couldn't　be　far　off。
　〃We're　not　going　to　make　it；〃　Estabrook　said。
　Within　ten　yards　of　the　trailer…the　albino　at　their　shoulders…the　door　ahead　opened；　and　a　woman　in　a　dressing　gown；　with　a　baby　in　her　arms；　peered　out。　She　was　small　and　looked　so　frail　it　was　a　wonder　she　could　hold　the　child；　who　began　bawling　as　soon　as　the　cold　found　it。　The　ache　of　its　plaint　drove　their　pursuers　to　action。　Dreadlocks　took　hold　of　Estabrook's　shoulder　and　stopped　him　dead。　Chant…wretched　coward　that　he　was…didn't　slow　his　pace　by　a　beat　but　strode　on　towards　the　trailer　as　Estabrook　was　swung　around　to　face　the　albino。　This　was　his　perfect　nightmare；　to　be　facing　scabby；　pockmarked　men　like　these；　who　had　nothing　to　lose　if　they　gutted　him　on　the　spot。　While　Dreadlocks　held　him　hard；　another　man…gold　incisors　glinting…stepped　in　and　pulled　open　Estabrook's　coat；　then　reached　in　to　empty　his　pockets　with　the　speed　of　an　illusionist。　This　was　not　simply　professionalism。　They　wanted　their　business　done　before　they　were　stopped。
　As　the　pickpocket's　hand　pulled　out　his　victim's　wallet；　a　voice　came　from　the　trailer　behind　Estabrook：　〃Let　the　Mister　go。　He's　real。〃
　Whatever　the　latter　meant；　the　order　was　instantly　obeyed；　but　by　that　time　the　thief　had　whipped　Estabrook's　wallet　into　his　own　pocket　and　had　stepped　back；　hands　raised　to　show　them　empty。　Nor；　despite　the　fact　that　the　speaker…presumably　Pie…was　extending　his　protection　to　his　guest；　did　it　seem　circumspect　to　try　and　reclaim　the　wallet。　Estabrook　retreated　from　the　thieves；　lighter　in　step　and　cash　but　glad　to　be　doing　so　at　all。
　Turning；　he　saw　Chant　at　the　trailer　door；　which　was　open。　The　woman；　the　baby；　and　the　speaker　had　already　gone　back　inside。
　'They　didn't　hurt　you；　did　they？〃　Chant　said。
　Estabrook　glanced　back　over　his　shoulder　at　the　thugs；　who　had　gone　to　the　fire；　presumably　to　divide　the　loot　by　its　light。　〃No；〃　he　said。　〃But　you'd　better　go　and　check　the　car；　or　they'll　have　it　stripped。〃
　〃First　I'd　like　to　introduce　you…〃
　〃Just　check　the　car；〃　Estabrook　said；　taking　some　satisfaction　in　the　thought　of　sending　Chant　back　across　the　no…man's…land　between　here　and　the　perimeter。　〃I　can　introduce　myself。〃
　〃As　you　like。〃
　Chant　went　off；　and　Estabrook　climbed　the　steps　into　the　trailer。　A　scent　and　a　sound　met　him；　both　sweet。　Oranges　had　been　peeled；　and　their　dew　was　in　the　air。　So　was　a　lullaby；　played　on　a　guitar。　The　player；　a　black　man；　sat　in　the　farthest　corner；　in　a　shadowy　place　beside　a　sleeping　child。　The　babe　lay　to　his　other　side；　gurgling　softly　in　a　simple　cot；　its　fat　arms　raised　as　if　to　pluck　the　music　from　the　air　with　its　tiny　hands。　The　woman　was　at　a　table　at　the　other　end　of　the　vehicle；　tidying　away　the　orange　peel。　The　whole　interior　was　marked　by　the　same　fastidiousness　she　was　applying　to　this　task；　every　surface　neat　and　polished。
　〃You　must　be　Pie；〃　Estabrook　said。
　〃Please　close　the　door；〃　the　guitar　player　said。　Estabrook　did　so。　〃And　sit　down。　Theresa？　Something　for　the　gentleman。　You　must　be　cold。〃
　The　china　cup　of　brandy　set　before　him　was　like　nectar。　He　downed　it　in　two　throatfuls；　and　Theresa　instantly　replenished　it。　He　drank　again　with　the　same　speed；　only　to　；　have　his　cup　furnished　with　a　further　draft。　By　the　time　Pie　had　played　both　the　children　to　sleep　and　rose　to　e　and　join　his　guest　at　the　table；　the　liquor　had　brought　a　pleasant　buzz　to　Estabrook's　head。
　In　his　life　Estabrook　had　known　only　two　other　black　men　by　name。　One　was　the　manager　of　a　tiling　manufacturer　in　Swindon；　the　other　a　colleague　of　his　brother's：　neither　of　them　men　he'd　wished　to　know　better。　He　was　of　an　age　and　class　that　still　swilled　the　dregs　of　colonialism　at　two　in　the　morning；　and　the　fact　this　man　had　black　blood　in　him　（and；　he　guessed；　much　else　besides）　counted　as　another　mark　against　Chant's　judgment。　And　yet…perhaps　it　was　the　brandy…he　found　the　fellow　opposite　him　intriguing。　Pie　didn't　have　the　face　of　an　assassin。　It　wasn't　dispassionate；　but　distressingly　vulnerable；　even　（though　Estabrook　would　never　have　breathed　this　aloud）　beautiful。　Cheeks　high；　lips　full；　eyes　heavily　lidded。　His　hair；　mingled　black　and　blond；　fell　in　Italianate　profusion；　knot…　　ted　ringlets　to　his　shoulders。　He　looked　older　than　Estabrook　would　have　expected；　given　the　age　of　his　children。　Perhaps　only　thirty；　but　wearied　by　some　excess　or　other；　the　burnished　sepia　of　his　skin　barely　concealing　a　sickly　iridescence；　as　though　there　were　a　mercurial　taint　in　his　cells。　It　made　him　difficult　to　fix；　especially　for　eyes　awash　with　brandy；　the　merest　motion　of　his　head　breaking　subtle　；　waves　against　his　bones；　their　spume　draining　back　into　his　skin　trailing　colors　Estabrook　had　never　seen　in　flesh　before。
　Theresa　left　them　to　their　business　and　retired　to　sit　beside　the　cot。　In　part　out　of　deference　to　the　sleepers　and　in　part　from　his　own　unease　at　saying　aloud　what　was　on　his　mind；　Estabrook　spoke　in　whispers。
　〃Did　Chant　tell　you　why　I'm　here？〃
　〃Of　course；〃　said　Pie。　〃You　want　somebody　murdered。〃　He　pulled　a　pack　of　cigarettes　from　the　breast　pocket　of　his　denim　shirt　and　offered　one　to　Estabrook；　who　declined　with　a　shake　of　his　head。　〃That　is　why　you're　here；　isn't　it？〃
　〃Yes；〃　Estabrook　replied。　〃Only…〃
　〃You're　looking　at　me　and　thinking　I'm　not　the　one　to　do　it；〃　Pie　prompted。　He　put　a　cigarette　to　his　lips。　〃Be　honest。〃
　〃You're　not　exactly　as　I　imagined；〃　Estabrook　replied。
　〃So；　this　is　good；〃　Pie　said；　applying　a　light　to　the　cigarette。　〃If　I　had　been　what　you'd　imagined；　I'd　look　like　an　assassin；　and　you'd　say　I　was　too　obvious。〃
　〃Maybe。〃
　〃If　you　don't　want　to　hire　me；　that's　fine。　I'm　sure　Chant　can　find　you　somebody　else。　If　you　do　want　to　hire　me；　then　you'd　better　tell　me　what　you　need。〃
　Estabrook　watched　the　smoke　drift　up　over　the　assassin's　gray　eyes；　and　before　he　could　prevent　himself　he　was　telling　his　story；　the　rules　he'd　drawn　for　this　exchange　forgotten。　Instead　of　questioning　the　man　closely；　conce