pzb.drawingblood-第6部分

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　onto　the　floor。　The　contents　spilled；　skittered；　shattered。　Kinsey　tucked　the　receiver　into　the　hollow　of　his　shoulder　and　began　to　dial。
　　〃Kinsey；　no；　please！〃　Rima　grabbed　futilely　for　the　phone　again；　then　sagged　back　against　the　bar。　〃Don't　call　the　cops　。。。〃
　　His　finger　paused　over　the　last　number。　〃Why　shouldn't　I？〃
　　She　saw　her　opening　and　went　for　it。　〃Because　I　didn't　take　any　money。　Yes；　I　was　going　to；　but　I　didn't　have　time　。　。　。　and　I'm　in　trouble；　and　I'm　leaving　town。　Just　let　me　go　and　you'll　never　see　me　again。〃　Her　face　was　wet　with　tears。　In　the　half…light　of　the　bar　Kinsey　could　not　see　her　eyes。　Her　wrist　was　so　thin　that　his　hand　could　have　encircled　it　two　or　three　times；　the　bones　felt　as　fragile　as　dry　twigs。　He　eased　his　grip　a　little。
　　〃What　kind　of　trouble？〃
　　〃I　went　to　the　Planned　Parenthood　clinic　over　in　Corinth　。　。　。〃
　　Kinsey　just　looked　at　her。
　　〃You　want　me　to　spell　it　out？〃　Her　sharp　little　face　went　mean。　〃I'm　pregnant；　Kinsey。　I　need　an　abortion。　I　need　five　hundred　dollars！〃
　　Kinsey　blinked。　Whatever　he　had　expected；　that　wasn't　it。　Rima　had　arrived　in　Missing　Mile　just　a　few　months　ago。　Among　local　guys　who　had　asked　her　out　and　been　turned　down；　the　word　was　that　she　carried　a　torch　for　the　guitarist　of　a　speed　metal　band　back　in　her　native　California。　So　far　as　Kinsey　knew；　she　hadn't　been　back　to　California　recently。　〃Who　。　。　。　？〃　he　managed。
　　〃You　don't　know　him；　okay？〃　She　swiped　a　hand　across　her　eyes。　〃An　asshole　who　wouldn't　wear　a　rubber　because　that's　like　taking　a　shower　with　a　raincoat　on。　There's　plenty　of　'em　around。　They　shoot　their　wad　and　that's　the　last　thing　they　have　to　worry　about！〃　Now　her　mean　face　had　collapsed；　she　was　crying　so　hard　she　could　barely　choke　out　the　words。　〃Kinsey；　I　slept　with　the　wrong　guy　and　he's　not　going　to　help　me　out；　he　won't　even　talk　to　me。　And　I　don't　want　any　goddamn　baby；　let　alone　his。〃
　　〃At　least　tell　me　who。　I　could　talk　to　him。　There　are　things　。　。　。〃
　　She　shook　her　head　violently。　〃NO！　I　just　want　to　go　to　Raleigh　and　get　rid　of　it。　I　won't　e　back　to　Missing　Mile。　I'll　go　to　my　sister's　place　in　West　Virginia；　or　maybe　back　to　L。A。　。　。　。　Please；　Kinsey。　Just　let　me　go。　You　won't　see　me　around　here　again。〃
　　He　studied　her。　Rima　was　twenty…one；　he　knew；　but　her　body　seemed　years　younger：　barely　five　feet　tall；　breastless　and　hipless；　all　flat　planes　and　sharp　angles。　Her　straight；　shiny　brown　hair　was　held　back　with　plastic　barrettes　like　a　little　girl's。　He　tried　to　imagine　that　childish　body　swollen　with　pregnancy；　could　not。　The　very　idea　was　painful。
　　〃I　can't　give　you　any　money；〃　he　said。
　　〃No；　I　wouldn't…〃
　　〃But　you　can　take　your　last　pay　envelope。　It's　there　on　the　bulletin　board。〃　Kinsey　let　go　of　her　wrist　and　turned　away。
　　〃Oh；　God；　Kinsey；　thank　you。　Thank　you。〃　She　knelt　and　began　scraping　together　the　contents　of　her　purse。　When　she　had　searched　out　everything　in　the　dimness　of　the　bar；　she　went　to　the　bulletin　board　and　took　down　her　envelope。　Kinsey　was　hardly　surprised　to　see　her　glance　into　it　as　if　making　sure　enough　money　was　there。　She　turned　and　stared　at　him　for　a　long　moment；　as　if　deciding　whether　to　say　anything　else。
　　〃Good　luck；〃　he　told　her。
　　Rima　looked　surprised；　and　a　little　guilty。　Then；　as　if　the　milk　of　human　kindness　were　too　heady　a　potion　for　her　parched　soul；　she　spun　on　her　heel　and　left　without　another　word。
　　There　goes　my　mini…vacation；　Kinsey　thought。
　　Thirty　minutes　later；　with　the　lights　turned　up　and　the　swampy　area　behind　the　bar　half…mopped；　he　found　the　little　white　packet。
　　It　was　nestled　in　a　crack　in　the　wooden　floor　directly　below　the　spot　where　Rima's　purse　had　spilled。　With　the　lights　off；　as　they　had　been　when　Kinsey　caught　her；　it　was　unlikely　that　she　would　have　spotted　it。　Kinsey　bent；　picked　it　up；　and　looked　at　it　for　a　long　time。　It　didn't　look　like　much：　a　tiny　twist　of　plastic；　the　corner　of　a　Baggie　perhaps；　with　an　even　tinier　pinch　of　white　powder　inside。　No；　it　didn't　look　like　much　at　all。　But　Kinsey　knew　it　for　what　it　was：　a　towering　monument　to　his　gullibility。
　　She　could　still　be　pregnant；　he　reasoned　as　he　walked　to　the　restroom。　She　really　could　need　money　for　an　abortion。　Somebody　could　be　giving　her　coke。　Maybe　she　was　even　selling　the　shit　to　get　the　money　she　needed。
　　Yeah；　right。　The　things　she　had　said　about　the　father　of　her　embryo…if　embryo　there　was…hardly　suggested　that　he　would　be　giving　her　free　drugs。　And　Kinsey　knew　that　the　market　for　cocaine　in　Missing　Mile　was　very　poor　indeed。　You　could　hardly　turn　around　without　bumping　into　a　pothead　or　a　boozehound；　and　they　treated　psychedelics　like　candy；　but　coke　was　another　thing。　Most　of　the　younger　kids　seemed　to　think　it　was　boring：　it　didn't　tell　them　stories　or　give　them　visions；　didn't　drown　their　pain；　didn't　do　anything　for　them　that　a　pot　of　strong　coffee　couldn't　do　for　a　fraction　of　the　price。　They　would　probably　snort　coke　if　it　was　handed　to　them；　but　they　wouldn't　spend　their　allowances　on　it。　And　most　of　the　older　townie　crowd　couldn't　afford　it　even　if　they　wanted　it。
　　Rima；　though；　seemed　to　have　had　a　constant　low…grade　cold　for　the　last　couple　of　months。　She　was　always　going　to　the　restroom　to　blow　her　nose；　but　she　always　came　back　still　sniffling。　How　clear　was　hindsight。
　　You　could　still　call　the　cops；　Kinsey　told　himself　as　his　cupped　palm　hovered　over　the　toilet　bowl；　ready　to　tip　the　little　packet　in。　Show　them　this　stuff。　She　couldn't　be　far　out　of　town　yet。
　　His　hand　tilted。　There　was　a　tiny　splash；　barely　audible；　the　packet　floated　serenely　on　the　still　surface　of　the　water。
　　She　had　every　intention　of　ripping　you　off。　Bust　her。
　　His　fingers　found　the　flush　lever；　pushed　it。　There　was　a　deafening　liquid　roar…Kinsey　thought　the　plumbing　in　this　building　was　of　approximately　the　same　vintage　as　the　Confederate　boardinghouses　up　the　street…and　the　packet　was　gone。
　　Pregnant　or　not；　she's　in　some　kind　of　trouble。　That's　one　thing　she　wasn't　lying　about。　Why　make　it　worse　for　her？
　　Later；　mopping　the　floor　near　the　stage；　he　glanced　up　at　the　art　wall。　The　words　WE　ARE　NOT　AFRAID　gleamed　softly　at　him；　and　he　knew　that　wherever　Rima　was　now；　whatever　she　was　doing；　those　words　did　not　hold　true　for　her。
　　He　could　not　resent　letting　her　take　her　last　pay；　though。　There　was　always　a　chance　she　would　use　the　money　to　help　herself；　to　get　away　from　whatever　（or　whoever）　had　made　her　stash　cocaine　in　her　pocketbook　and　steal　from　people　who　wished　her　well。　There　was　always　a　chance。
　　Yeah。　And　there　was　always　a　chance　that　John　Lennon　would　rise　from　the　dead　and　the　Beatles　would　play　a　reunion　show　at　the　Sacred　Yew。　That　seemed　about　as　likely。
　　Kinsey　shook　his　head　dolefully　and　kept　mopping。
　　
　　　
　　　Chapter　Two
　　
　　Zachary　Bosch　awoke　from　fascinating　dreams；　pulled　the　pillow　off　his　face；　rubbed　his　eyes；　and　blinked　up　at　the　green　lizard　on　the　ceiling　just　above　his　head。
　　He　slept　in　a　small　alcove　at　the　side　of　the　room；　where　the　ceiling　was　lower　and　cozier　than　the　rest　of　his　lofty　French　Quarter　apartment。　The　plaster　here　was　soft　and　slightly　damp；　cracked　with　age；　yellowed　from　two　years　of　Zach　smoking　in　bed。　Against　the　dingy　plaster　the　lizard　was　a　vivid；　iridescent　green。　Children　in　New　Orleans　called　such　creatures　chameleons；　though　Zach　believed　they　were　actually　anoles。
　　He　reached　for　the　ashtray　next　to　the　bed　and　the　lizard　was　gone　in　a　brilliant　flicker　of　motion。　Zach　knew　from　experience　that　if　you　were　fast　enough　to　catch　them　by　the　tail；　the　thready　appendage　would　e　off；　still　twitching；　in　your　hand。　It　was　a　game　he　often　played　with　the　little　reptiles　but　seldom　won。
　　He　found　the　ashtray　without　looking；　brought　it　up　and　nestled　it　in　the　hollow　of　the　sheet　between　the　small　sharp　mountains　of　his　hipbones。　In　the　ashtray　was　a　tightly　rolled　joint　that　had　been　the　size　of　a　small　cigar；　a　panatela　or　whatever　the　things　were　called。　Zach　hated　the　taste　of　tobacco　and　its　harsh　brown　scorch　in　his　lungs；　he　never　touched　the　stuff。　His　friend　Eddy　put　it　simply　if　inelegantly：　〃If　it's　green；　smoke　it。　If　it's　brown；　flush　it。〃
　　Zach　had　smoked　half　of　this　particular　green　the　night　before；　while　concocting　a　news　story　to　plant　in　the　Times…Picayune　just　to　amuse　himself；　a　tasteful　little　number　about　some　petrified　fetus　parts　removed　from　a　woman's　womb　ten　years　after　an　illegal　back…alley　abortion。　If　it　wasn't　true；　it　ought　to　be…or　rather；　the　public　ought　to　think　it　was。　In　today's　moral　climate　（cloudy；　with　a　fascist　storm　front　threatening）；　illegal　abortions　needed　all　the　bad　publicity　they　could　get。
　　He　had　made　sure　to　stress　that　the　woman　suffered　great　pain；　bloated　grotesquely；　and　was　of　course　rendered　infertile。　By　the　time　he　finished　writing　the　article；　Zach　had　caught　himself　feeling　tender；　almost　protective；　toward　his　hapless　fiction。　She　was　a　true　martyr；　the　finest　kind　of　scapegoat；　a　vessel　for　imaginary　pain　so　that　real　pain　might　be　thwarted。
　　Zach　felt　for　a　book　of　matches　on　the　floor；　found　some　from　mander's　Palace；　lit　the　joint　and　sucked　smoke　in　deep。　The　flavor　filled　his　mouth；　his　throat；　his　lungs；　a　taste　as　bright　green　as　the　lizard。　He　stared　at　the　matchbook；　which　was　a　darker　green。　The　restaurant　was　one　of　the　oldest　and　most　expensive　in　the　city。　A　friend　of　a　friend　who　was　deep　in　hock　on　his　American　Express　card　had　taken　Zach　to　the　bar　there　recently；　and　charged　Zach's　four　extra…spicy　Bloody　Marys　to　his　Visa。　They　always　did　shit　like　that。　Stupid　patterns；　intricate　webs　they　wove　that　ended　up　trapping　themselves　most　tightly　of　all。
　　Geeks；　marks；　and　conspiracy　dupes。　In　the　end　they　all　amounted　to　the　same　thing：　sources　of　ine　for　Zachary　Bosch；　who　was　none　of　the　above。
　　His　third…floor　apartment　was　full　of　dust　and　sunlight　and　tons　upon　tons　of　paper。　His　friends　who　knew　his　reading　habits；　his　smoking　habits；　and　his　squirreling　habits　swore　the　place　was　one　of　the　most　hair…raising　fire　hazards　in　all　New　Orleans。　Zach　figured　it　was　damp　enough　to　discourage　any　flames　that