sk.runningman-第12部分

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


ter　district。　It　looked　like　the　skeleton　of　a　murdered　idea。
　　When　Richards　walked　into　the　lobby；　the　desk　clerk　was　arguing　with　a　tiny；　scruffy　black　boy　in　a　killball　jersey　so　big　that　it　reached　down　over　his　blue　jeans　to　midshin。　The　disputed　territory　seemed　to　be　a　gum　machine　that　stood　inside　the　lobby　door。
　　〃I　loss　my　nickel；　honky。　I　loss　my　muh…fuhn　nickel！〃
　　〃If　you　don't　get　out　of　here；　I'll　call　the　house　detective；　kid。　That's　all。　I'm　done　talking　to　you。〃
　　〃But　that　goddam　machine　took　my　nickel！〃
　　〃You　stop　swearing　at　me；　you　little　scumbag！　〃　The　clerk；　who　looked　an　old；　cold　thirty；　reached　down　and　shook　the　jersey。　It　was　too　huge　for　him　to　be　able　to　shake　the　boy　inside；　too。　〃Now　get　out　of　here。　I'm　through　talking。〃
　　Seeing　he　meant　it；　the　almost　ic　mask　of　hate　and　defiance　below　the　dark　sunburst　of　the　kid's　afro　broke　into　a　hurt；　agonized　grimace　of　disbelief。　〃Lissen；　thass　the　oney　muh…fuhn　nickel　I　got。　That　gumball　machine　ate　my　nickel！　That…〃
　　〃I'm　calling　the　house　dick　right　now。〃　The　clerk　turned　toward　the　switchboard。　His　jacket；　a　refugee　from　some　bargain　counter；　flapped　tiredly　around　his　thin　butt。
　　The　boy　kicked　the　plaxteel　post　of　the　gum　machine；　then　ran。　〃Muh…fuhn　white　honky　sumbitch！〃
　　The　clerk　looked　after　him；　the　security　button；　real　or　mythical　unpressed。　He　smiled　at　Richards；　showing　an　old　keyboard　with　a　few　missing　keys。　〃You　can't　talk　to　niggers　anymore。　I'd　keep　them　in　cages　if　I　ran　the　Network。〃
　　〃He　really　lose　a　nickel？〃　Richards　asked；　signing　the　register　as　John　Deegan　from　Michigan。
　　〃If　he　did；　he　stole　it；〃　the　clerk　said。　〃Oh；　I　suppose　he　did。　But　if　I　gave　him　a　nickel；　I'd　have　two　hundred　pickaninnies　in　here　by　nightfall　claiming　the　same　thing。　Where　do　they　learn　that　language？　That's　what　I　want　to　know。　Don't　their　folks　care　what　they　do？　How　long　will　you　be　staying；　Mr。　Deegan？〃
　　〃I　don't　know。　I'm　in　town　on　business。〃　He　tried　on　a　greasy　smile；　and　when　it　felt　right；　he　widened　it。　The　desk　clerk　recognized　it　instantly　（perhaps　from　his　own　reflection　looking　up　at　him　from　the　depths　of　the　fake…marble　counter；　which　had　been　polished　by　a　million　elbows）　and　gave　it　back　to　him。
　　〃That's　15。50；　Mr。　Deegan。〃　He　pushed　a　key　attached　to　a　worn　wooden　tongue　across　the　counter　to　Richards。　〃Room　512。〃
　　〃Thank　you。〃　Richards　paid　cash。　Again；　no　ID。　Thank　God　for　the　YMCA。
　　He　crossed　to　the　elevators　and　looked　down　the　corridor　to　the　Christian　Lending　Library　on　the　left。　It　was　dimly　lit　with　flyspecked　yellow　globes；　and　an　old　man　wearing　an　overcoat　and　galoshes　was　perusing　a　tract；　turning　the　pages　slowly　and　methodically　with　a　trembling；　wetted　finger。　Richards　could　hear　the　clogged　whistle　of　his　breathing　from　where　he　was　by　the　elevators；　and　felt　a　mixture　of　sorrow　and　horror。
　　The　elevator　chinked　to　a　stop；　and　the　doors　opened　with　wheezy　reluctance。　As　he　stepped　in；　the　clerk　said　loudly：　〃It's　a　sin　and　a　shame。　I'd　put　them　all　in　cages。〃
　　Richards　glanced　up；　thinking　the　clerk　was　speaking　to　him；　but　the　clerk　was　not　looking　at　anything。
　　The　lobby　was　very　empty　and　very　silent。
　　
　　Minus　072　and　COUNTING
　　The　fifth　floor　hall　stank　of　pee。
　　The　corridor　was　narrow　enough　to　make　Richards　feel　claustrophobic；　and　the　carpet；　which　might　have　been　red；　had　worn　away　in　the　middle　to　random　strings。　The　doors　were　industrial　gray；　and　several　of　them　showed　the　marks　of　fresh　kicks；　smashes；　or　attempts　to　jimmy。　Signs　at　every　twenty　paces　advised　that　there　would　be　NO　SMOKING　IN　THIS　HALL　BY　ORDER　OF　FIRE　MARSHAL。　There　was　a　munal　bathroom　in　the　center；　and　the　urine　stench　became　suddenly　sharp。　It　was　a　smell　Richards　associated　automatically　with　despair。　People　moved　restlessly　behind　the　gray　doors　like　animals　in　cagesanimals　too　awful；　too　frightening；　to　be　seen。　Someone　was　chanting　what　might　have　been　the　Hail　Mary　over　and　over　in　a　drunken　voice。　Strange　gobbling　noises　came　from　behind　another　door。　A　country…western　tune　from　behind　another　（〃I　ain't　got　a　buck　for　the　phone/and　I'm　so　alone　。　。　。　〃）。　Shuffling　noises。　The　solitary　squeak　of　bedsprings　that　might　mean　a　man　in　his　own　hand。　Sobbing。　Laughter。　The　hysterical　grunts　of　a　drunken　argument。　And　from　behind　these；　silence。　And　silence。　And　silence。　A　man　with　a　hideously　sunken　chest　walked　past　Richards　without　looking　at　him；　carrying　a　bar　of　soap　and　a　towel　in　one　hand；　wearing　gray　pajama　bottoms　tied　with　string。　He　wore　paper　slippers　on　his　feet。
　　Richards　unlocked　his　room　and　stepped　in。　There　was　a　police　bar　on　the　inside；　and　he　used　it。　There　was　a　bed　with　almost…white　sheets　and　an　Army　surplus　blanket。　There　was　a　bureau　from　which　the　second　drawer　was　missing。　There　was　a　picture　of　Jesus　on　one　wall。　There　was　a　steel　rod　with　two　coathangers　kitty…cornered　in　the　right　angle　of　two　walls。　There　was　nothing　else　but　the　window；　which　looked　out　on　blackness。　It　was　10：15。
　　Richards　hung　up　his　jacket；　slipped　off　his　shoes；　and　lay　down　on　the　bed。　He　realized　how　miserable　and　unknown　and　vulnerable　he　was　in　the　world。　The　universe　seemed　to　shriek　and　clatter　and　roar　around　him　like　a　huge　and　indifferent　jalopy　rushing　down　a　hill　and　toward　the　lip　of　a　bottomless　chasm。　His　lips　began　to　tremble；　and　then　he　cried　a　little。
　　He　didn't　put　it　on　tape。　He　lay　looking　at　the　ceiling；　which　was　cracked　into　a　million　crazy　scrawls；　like　a　bad　potter's…glaze。　They　had　been　after　him　for　over　eight　hours　now。　He　had　earned　eight　hundred　dollars　of　his　stake　money。　Christ；　not　even　out　of　the　hole　yet。
　　And　he'd　missed　himself　on　Free…Vee。　Christ；　yes。　The　bag…over…the…head　spectacular。
　　Where　were　they？　Still　in　Harding？　New　York？　Or　on　their　way　to　Boston？　No；　they　couldn't　be　on　their　way　here；　could　they？　The　bus　had　not　passed　through　any　roadblocks。　He　had　left　the　biggest　city　in　the　world　anonymously；　and　he　was　here　under　an　assumed　name。　They　couldn't　be　onto　him。　No　way。
　　The　Boston　Y　might　be　safe　for　as　long　as　two　days。　After　that　he　could　move　north　toward　New　Hampshire　and　Vermont；　or　south　toward　Hartford　or　Philadelphia　or　even　Atlanta。　Further　east　was　the　ocean；　and　beyond　it　was　Britain　and　Europe。　It　was　an　intriguing　idea；　but　probably　out　of　reach。　Passage　by　plane　required　ID；　what　with　France　under　martial　law；　and　while　stowing…away　might　be　possible；　discovery　would　mean　a　quick　and　final　end　to　the　whole　thing。　And　west　was　out。　West　was　where　the　heat　was　the　hottest。
　　If　you　can't　stand　the　heat；　get　out　of　the　kitchen。　Who　had　said　that？　Molie　would　know。　He　snickered　a　little　and　felt　better。
　　The　disembodied　sound　of　a　radio　came　to　his　ears。
　　It　would　be　good　to　get　the　gun　now；　tonight；　but　he　was　too　tired。　The　ride　had　tired　him。　Being　a　fugitive　tired　him。　And　he　knew　in　an　animal　way　that　went　deeper　than　the　rational　that　very　soon　he　might　be　sleeping　in　an　October…cold　culvert　or　in　a　weed…　and　cinder…choked　gully。
　　The　gun　tomorrow　night。
　　He　turned　off　the　light　and　went　to　bed。
　　
　　Minus　071　and　COUNTING
　　It　was　showtime　again。
　　Richards　stood　with　his　buttocks　toward　the　video　recorder；　humming　the　theme　music　to　The　Running　Man。　A　YMCA　pillowslip　was　over　his　head；　turned　inside　out　so　the　name　stamped　on　its　hem　wouldn't　show。
　　The　camera　had　inspired　Richards　to　a　kind　of　creative　humor　that　he　never　would　have　believed　he　possessed。　The　self…image　he'd　always　held　was　that　of　a　rather　dour　man；　with　little　or　no　humor　in　his　outlook。　The　prospect　of　his　approaching　death　had　uncovered　a　solitary　edian　hiding　inside。
　　When　the　clip　popped　out；　he　decided　to　save　the　second　for　afternoon。　The　solitary　room　was　boring；　and　perhaps　something　else　would　occur　to　him。
　　He　dressed　slowly　and　then　went　to　the　window　and　looked　out。
　　Thursday　morning　traffic　hustled　busily　up　and　down　Huntington　Avenue。　Both　sidewalks　were　crowded　with　slowly　moving　pedestrians。　Some　of　them　were　scanning　bright…yellow　Help…Wanted　Fax。　Most　of　them　just　walked。　There　was　a　cop；　it　seemed；　on　every　corner。　Richards　could　hear　them　in　his　mind：　Move　along。　Ain't　you　got　someplace　to　go？　Pick　it　up；　maggot。
　　So　you　moved　on　to　the　next　corner；　which　was　just　like　the　last　corner；　and　were　moved　along　again。　You　could　try　to　get　mad　about　it；　but　mostly　your　feet　hurt　too　much。
　　Richards　debated　the　risk　of　going　down　the　hall　and　showering。　He　finally　decided　it　would　be　okay。　He　went　down　with　a　towel　over　his　shoulder；　met　no　one；　and　walked　into　the　bathroom。
　　Essence　of　urine；　shit；　puke；　and　disinfectant　mingled。　All　the　crapper　doors　had　been　yanked　off；　of　course。　Someone　had　scrawled　FUK　THE　NETWORK　in　foot…high　letters　above　the　urinal。　It　looked　as　though　he　might　have　been　angry　when　he　did　it。　There　was　a　pile　of　feces　in　one　of　the　urinals。　Someone　must　have　been　really　drunk；　Richards　thought。　A　few　sluggish　autumn　flies　were　crawling　over　it。　He　was　not　disgusted；　the　sight　was　too　mon；　but　he　was　matter…of…factly　glad　he　had　worn　his　shoes。
　　He　also　had　the　shower　room　to　himself。　The　floor　was　cracked　porcelain；　the　walls　gouged　tile　with　thick　runnels　of　decay　near　the　bottoms。　He　turned　on　a　nasty…clogged　showerhead；　full　hot；　and　waited　patiently　for　five　minutes　until　the　water　ran　tepid；　and　then　showered　quickly。　He　used　a　scrap　of　soap　he　found　on　the　floor；　the　Y　had　either　neglected　to　supply　it　or　the　chambermaid　had　walked　off　with　his。
　　On　his　way　back　to　his　room；　a　man　with　a　harelip　gave　him　a　tract。
　　Richards　tucked　his　shirt　in；　sat　on　his　bed；　and　lit　a　cigarette。　He　was　hungry　but　would　wait　until　dusk　to　go　out　and　eat。
　　Boredom　drove　him　to　the　window　again。　He　counted　different　makes　of　cars…Fords；　Chevies；　Wints；　VW's；　Plymouths；　Studebakers；　Rambler…Supremes。　First　one　to　a　hundred　wins。　A　dull　game；　but　better　than　no　game。
　　Further　up　Hunington　Avenue　was　Northeastern　University；　and　directly　across　the　street　from　the　Y　was　a　large　automated　bookshop。　While　he　counted　cars；　Richards　watched　the　students　e　and　go。　They　were　in　sharp　contrast　to　the　W