pzb.drawingblood-第11部分

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　Missing　Mile's　bus　station。　The　Greyhound　groaned　to　a　stop　alongside　the　deserted　bench。
　　Trevor　hoisted　his　backpack　and　made　his　way　down　the　aisle；　then　down　the　steps。　His　feet　touched　North　Carolina　ground　for　the　first　time　in　two　decades；　and　a　shiver　ran　through　him　like　a　tiny　electric　chill。　No　one　else　got　off。
　　The　bus　had　seemed　hot；　but　the　humid　swelter　of　the　night　outside　made　him　realize　it　had　been　air…conditioned。　The　air　pressed　like　a　soft　damp　palm　against　his　face；　delicious　with　the　scents　of　honeysuckle；　wet　grass；　hot　charcoal　and　the　rich　oils　of　roasting　pork。　Someone　nearby　was　cooking　out　tonight。
　　The　smell　of　barbecue　made　his　stomach　roll　over；　then　growl：　he　was　either　sick　or　starved。　Years　of　institutional　food　had　blurred　the　two　sensations。　The　Boys'　Home　was　not　quite　Dickensian；　but　second　helpings　were　neither　kindly　looked　upon　by　the　cafeteria　ladies　nor　much　desired　by　the　boys。
　　Maybe　by　now　Missing　Mile　had　somewhere　to　eat　besides　that　greasy　diner。　But　if　not；　the　diner　would　do。　Trevor　decided　to　take　a　walk　through　downtown。　He　couldn't　go　out　to　the　house　yet。　Not　at　night。　He　was　ready　for　anything；　but　he　was　still　scared。
　　He　would　be　there　tomorrow；　for　the　twenty…year　reunion。
　　Trevor　only　hoped　he　was　invited　this　time。
　　
　　Kinsey　knew　tonight　was　going　to　suck。　Rima　was　scheduled　to　work；　and　Rima　was　gone；　finding　someone　else　to　rip　off；　having　raw　meat　scraped　out　of　her　womb；　coking　up　her　little　brain　until　it　spun　like　a　whirligig；　or　maybe　all　of　the　above。
　　So　Kinsey　would　be　working　by　himself。　Terry　Buckett's　new　band　Gumbo　was　playing。　Owner　and　manager　of　the　Whirling　Disc　record　store；　Terry　also　played　drums　and　sang　whenever　he　could　get　a　gig。　Gumbo　was　one　of　the　Yew's　biggest　draws　now　that　Lost　Souls？　were　on　the　road；　and　it　would　be　a　busy　night。
　　To　distract　himself；　Kinsey　decided　to　have　a　dinner　special。　It　would　make　him　even　busier；　but　he　loved　feeding　his　kids。　He　ran　through　his　limited　repertoire。　Curry？　。　。　。　no；　it　would　take　too　long　。　。　。　lentil　soup？　no；　he'd　had　that　one　twice　last　week　。　。　。　gumbo；　for　the　band　。　。　。　but　his　skills　weren't　up　to　it；　and　there　was　nowhere　to　get　fresh　seafood；　and　he　never　had　been　convinced　you　could　make　good　gumbo　anywhere　but　New　Orleans。　The　Mississippi　River　water　gave　it　that　special　flavor；　maybe。　At　last　Kinsey　decided　tonight　would　be　Japanese　Night。
　　He　hiked　home　and　put　together　a　quick　broth　from　some　elderly　vegetables　and　a　few　pork　bones　in　his　freezer；　loaded　it　into　his　car；　and　drove　slowly　back　into　town　so　as　not　to　slosh　it。　The　railroad　tracks　were　tricky；　but　he　managed　them　with　aplomb。　In　town；　he　stopped　at　the　little　grocery　next　to　Farmers　Hardware　and　bought　twenty　packages　of　Oodles　of　Noodles　and　several　bunches　of　green　onions。　The　rain　had　stopped；　which　meant　it　would　be　even　busier。
　　Back　at　the　Yew；　Kinsey　took　down　the　chalkboard　over　the　bar；　selected　a　piece　of　purple　chalk；　and　with　a　flourish　Wrote　JAPANESE　NOODLE　SOUP！　1。00！
　　If　anyone　ordered　the　special；　Kinsey　would　ladle　up　a　bowl　of　his　homemade　broth；　pop　in　the　noodles；　throw　away　the　sodium…laden　〃flavor　packet；〃　and　zap　the　whole　thing　in　the　microwave　he　kept　behind　the　bar。　The　green　onions　were　for　a　garnish；　and　he　set　to　chopping　them　into　small；　fragrant　rounds。　It　was　getting　near　eight。　The　band　wouldn't　start　until　ten；　but　the　kids　often　started　drifting　in　this　early　to　drink　and　eat　and　talk。　Sometimes　he　opened　the　club　at　five　for　happy　hour；　but　he　hadn't　been　happy　enough　today。
　　An　hour　later　the　Sacred　Yew　was　nearly　full。　Admission　was　free　until　ten。　After　that　he　would　have　to　find　someone　to　work　the　door。　That　was　never　hard：　all　the　door　people　had　to　do　was　collect　money；　shoot　the　shit；　and　watch　the　band　for　free。　If　they　were　of　age　they　got　a　free　beer　too。　The　club　served　no　alcohol　but　beer…bottled；　canned；　and　draft。　Still；　the　vagaries　of　North　Carolina　law　made　the　Yew　a　bar　and　forbade　the　presence　of　those　under　twenty…one。
　　For　the　place　to　be　an　all…ages　club…as　Kinsey　had　intended　all　along…it　must　qualify　as　a　restaurant　as　well。　Hence　the　noodle　soup；　the　sandwiches；　the　odds　and　ends　of　snacks　he　served。　At　first　making　the　food　had　been　a　bother。　Then　he　grew　to　like　it；　now　his　cookbook　collection　was　rapidly　expanding。　Regular　customers　gave　them　to　him　all　the　time；　and　Kinsey　chose　to　take　these　as　a　pliment。
　　Some　of　the　kids　he　knew；　the　ones　from　Missing　Mile　and　surrounding　areas；　most　of　whom　attended　a　nearby　Quaker　school　called　Windy　Hill。　There　was　a　public　high　school　too；　but　the　kids　there　were　mostly　metalheads　and　shitkickers；　Kinsey　knew　some　of　them；　had　even　helped　them　work　on　their　cars；　but　they　didn't　like　the　music　at　the　Yew。
　　The　kids　who　came　here　were　of　a　more　artistic　bent；　clothed　in　bright　ragtag　colors　or　ripped　T…shirts　and　bat　boots　or　chic；　sleek　black；　according　to　their　various　philosophies　and　passions。　Some　dyed　their　hair　and　cropped　it；　some　let　their　hair　grow　long　and　tied　it　with　colored　ribbons；　some　simply　shoved　it　behind　their　ears　and　didn't　give　a　shit；　or　pretended　not　to。　There　were　poets　and　painters；　firebrands　and　fuckups；　innocents　and　wantons。　There　were　Missing　Mile　townies　and　college　kids　from　Raleigh　and　Chapel　Hill；　the　ones　with　legal　IDs　and　money　for　beer；　the　ones　who　paid　his　bills。　There　were　younger　kids　furtively　fumbling　with　flasks；　adding　liquor　gotten　from　God　knows　where　to　their　Cokes　from　the　bar。　Unless　this　was　done　in　a　particularly　obvious　or　obnoxious　manner；　Kinsey　usually　turned　a　blind　eye。
　　He　had　just　hooked　up　a　new　keg　of　Budweiser　when　Terry　Buckett　sat　down　at　the　bar。　The　band　had　done　their　sound　check　earlier；　and　it　was　obvious　they'd　been　practicing：　they　were　tighter　than　ever；　Terry's　voice　clear　and　strong；　R。J。's　bass　line　thunderous。　〃What　do　you　call　that　style　of　music？〃　Kinsey　had　asked　after　listening　to　a　couple　of　numbers。
　　〃Swamp　rock；〃　Terry　had　said　with　a　grin。
　　Now　he　grinned　up　at　Kinsey　again；　stoned　and　amiable；　muscular　drummer's　forearms　propped　on　the　bar；　tie…dyed　bandanna　wrapped　around　his　dark　curly　hair。　〃Noodle　soup；　huh？　Where'd　you　e　up　with　that？〃
　　〃A　cookbook　called　The　Asian　Menu；〃　said　Kinsey。　〃With　certain　variations。〃
　　〃I'll　bet。　Well；　let's　give　it　a　try。　Gimme　a　Natty　Boho　too。〃　National　Bohemian　was　the　Yew's　bar　brand。　At　a　dollar…fifty　a　bottle　it　was　a　hot　seller。　Kinsey　opened　a　frosty　bottle　and　set　it　on　the　bar　in　front　of　Terry；　then　started　preparing　the　soup。
　　〃Talked　to　Steve　and　Ghost　today；〃　Terry　said。
　　〃Yeah？　They　call　the　store？〃　Steve　and　Ghost　were　the　two　members　of　the　band　Lost　Souls？；　the　spray…painted　lyric　WE　ARE　NOT　AFRAID　was　from　〃World；〃　the　song　they　always　used　to　close　their　set。　Steve　played　a　dark；　fierce　guitar；　Ghost　had　a　voice　like　golden　gravel　running　along　the　bottom　of　a　clear　mountain　stream。　A　couple　of　weeks　ago　they　had　returned　from　a　gig　in　New　York　and　promptly　left　town　again　for　a　cross…country　road　trip　in　Steve's　old　T…bird。　San　Francisco　was　their　ultimate　destination；　but　they　would　plan　their　route　as　they　traveled；　and　they　might　be　gone　for　as　much　as　a　year。
　　〃Yeah。　The　new　guy　answered；　and　Steve　goes　This　is　John　Thomas　from　the　IRS　calling　for　Mr。　Buckett。'　I　about　pissed　myself　when　he　handed　me　the　phone。　That　little　bastard　。　。　。〃　Terry　laughed　and　shook　his　head。
　　〃Are　they　doing　okay？〃
　　〃Sure。　They're　in　Texas　now。　Steve　said　they　played　at　a　coffeehouse　in　Austin　and　the　folkies　loved　'em。　Sold　some　tapes　too。　Maybe　I　ought　to　check　out　Austin。　You　ever　been？〃
　　〃No。　One　of　my　favorite　underground　cartoonists　came　from　there；　though。　Bobby　McGee。〃
　　Terry　frowned。　〃McGee？　Wasn't　he　the　guy　who　。　。　。〃
　　〃Yup。〃
　　〃That　house　is　still　standing　out　on　Violin　Road；〃　Terry　mused。　〃I　was　only　eight　when　the　murders　happened；　but　I　remember。　They　say　it's　haunted。〃
　　〃Of　course　they　do。　It　might　even　be　true。　But　his　ic　Birdland　was　brilliant；　right　up　there　with　Crumb　and…〃
　　〃Didn't　he　leave　one　of　his　kids　alive？〃
　　Kinsey　served　Terry　a　steaming　bowl　of　noodle　soup。　〃Yes；　he　left　a　kid。　A　five…year…old　son；　I　believe。　And　no；　I　don't　know　what　ever　happened　to　him。〃
　　〃I　bet　he　was　fucked　up　real　good；〃　said　Terry；　slurping　thoughtfully。
　　〃Excuse　me。　Could　I　get　a　bowl　of　that　soup？〃　said　a　quiet　voice　from　the　end　of　the　bar。
　　Kinsey　turned。　Neither　he　nor　Terry　had　noticed　the　boy　before；　the　bar　was　crowded　and　the　kid　fit　right　in；　tall　and　slender；　plain　black　T…shirt　tucked　into　black　jeans；　wavy　ginger…blond　hair　grown　long　and　pulled　back　in　a　ponytail　from　a　bony；　almost　delicate　face。　A　battered　gray　backpack　was　slung　over　his　shoulder。　He　looked　about　twenty　and　carried　himself　like　someone　maybe　even　younger；　unsure　of　his　wele　and　not　particularly　wanting　to　be　noticed。
　　But　his　eyes　were　arresting：　a　transparent；　icy　blue；　large　and　round；　irises　rimmed　with　a　thin　line　of　black。　They　seemed　enormous　in　the　thin　face。　Waif…eyes；　thought　Kinsey；　hunger…eyes。
　　〃You　new　in　town？〃　Terry　asked　through　a　mouthful　of　noodles。
　　The　boy　nodded。　〃I　came　in　on　the　bus　about　an　hour　ago。〃
　　〃That's　new；　all　right。〃　Terry　offered　his　hand。　The　boy　looked　confused　for　a　moment；　then　reached　out　and　shook。　〃I'm　Terry　Buckett。　I　run　the　record　store　here；　in　case　you　need　any　sounds。　Everything　from　Nine　Inch　Nails　to　Hank　Williams。〃
　　〃Hank　Williams；　Senior；〃　Kinsey　interjected。
　　〃Senior；　absolutely。　For　Bocephus　you　have　to　drive　to　Corinth…he's　a　little　too　all…American　for　us。　Who're　you？〃
　　〃Trevor　Black。　I　usually　listen　to　jazz。〃
　　〃Got　some　of　that　too。〃　Terry　grinned　at　the　boy。　After　a　moment's　hesitation；　the　boy　smiled　tentatively　back。　Terry's　friendliness　was　hard　to　resist；　he　would　keep　talking　until　a　person　starting　answering；　even　if　it　was　just　to　shut　him　up。
　　Kinsey　set　a　bowl　of　soup　in　front　of　Trevor　Black…the　name　seemed　vaguely　familiar；　but　he　couldn't　think　why　…　and　collected　the　boy's　dollar。　〃I　usually　buy　new　customers　a　beer。　If　you're　under　twenty…one；　I'll　buy　you　a　Co