p&c.brimstone-第12部分

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　Cutforth　managed　to　suppress　any　look　of　surprise。　He　stood　up。　〃Follow　me。〃　
　They　went　back　into　the　control　room。　Cutforth　cast　his　eyes　around。　〃That。〃　
　The　cop　went　over；　looked；　frowning。　
　〃A　letter　Janis　Joplin　wrote　to　Jim　Morrison；　but　never　mailed。　Just　two　lines。　Called　him　the　worst　lay　of　her　life。〃　Cutforth　mustered　a　chuckle。　
　The　cop　took　out　his　notebook　and　began　copying　the　letter。　Cutforth　rolled　his　eyes。　
　〃And　the　price？〃　
　〃I　told　him　it　wasn't　for　sale。〃　
　〃Did　he　give　a　reason　why　he　was　interested？〃　
　〃He　just　said　he　collected　Doors　paraphernalia。　That's　all。〃　
　〃And　you　didn't　mind　getting　a　call　in　the　wee　hours　of　the　morning？〃　
　〃In　the　music　business；　we　keep　late　hours。〃　Cutforth　walked　toward　the　control　room　door；　held　it　open；　giving　the　cop　a　big　hint　about　leaving。　But　the　man　didn't　budge。　Instead；　he　seemed　to　be　sniffing　the　air　again。　
　〃That　smell；　it's　really　peculiar。〃　
　〃I'm　about　to　call　maintenance。〃　
　〃There　was　exactly　this　smell　at　the　site　of　Jeremy　Grove's　homicide。〃　
　Cutforth　swallowed。　What　was　it　Grove　had　said？The　smell　is　the　worst　part　of　it。　I　can　hardly　think　straight。　In　his　call；　Grove　said　he'd　found　something…a　lump　of　fur…covered　meat　the　size　of　a　golf　ball。　It　had　seemed　to　be　alive　。　。　。　at　least　until　Grove　stomped　on　it　and　flushed　it　down　the　toilet。　Cutforth　felt　his　heart　pounding　in　his　rib　cage；　and　he　took　a　couple　of　breaths；　let　them　out　slowly；　the　way　he'd　been　taught　in　those　anxiety　management　classes。　This　was　ridiculous。　This　was　the　twenty…first　fucking　centuryol　it；　Nigel。　
　〃Do　you　know　a　Locke　Bullard；　Mr。　Cutforth？　Or　one　Ranier　Beckmann？〃　
　These　questions；　ing　on　the　heels　of　each　other；　almost　physically　staggered　Cutforth。　He　shook　his　head；　hoping　his　expression　wasn't　betraying　him。　
　〃You　been　in　touch　with　Beckmann？〃　he　pressed。　
　〃No。〃　Hell；　he　never　should　have　let　the　cop　in　here。　
　〃What　about　Bullard？　You　been　in　touch　with　him？　You　know；　just　a　friendly　chat　about　old　times？〃　
　〃No。　I　don't　know　the　man。　I　don't　know　either　one　of　them。〃　
　The　cop　made　a　long　notation　in　his　notebook。　Cutforth　wondered　what　it　was　that　took　so　long　to　write　down。　He　felt　the　sweat　trickling　down　his　sides。　He　swallowed；　but　there　was　nothing　to　swallow。　His　mouth　was　dry。　
　〃Sure　you　don't　want　to　tell　me　more　about　that　telephone　call？　Because　everybody　else　who　spoke　to　him　that　night　said　Grove　was　upset。　Terribly　upset。　Not　exactly　in　the　mood　to　buy　rock　memorabilia。〃　
　〃I　already　told　you　everything。〃　
　Now　at　last　they　returned　to　the　living　room。　Cutforth　didn't　sit　down　or　offer　a　seat　to　the　cop。　He　just　wanted　him　out。　
　〃Do　you　always　keep　the　apartment　this　hot；　Mr。　Cutforth？〃　
　Itwas　hot；　Cutforth　noticed；　hot　even　for　him。　He　didn't　answer。　
　〃It　was　also　excessively　warm　at　the　site　of　the　Grove　homicide；　despite　the　fact　that　the　heat　was　off　in　the　house。〃　The　cop　looked　at　him　inquiringly；　but　still　Cutforth　said　nothing。　
　The　cop　grunted；　slapped　shut　his　notebook；　returned　the　pen　to　its　leather　loop。　〃If　I　were　you；　Mr。　Cutforth；　next　time　I'd　decline　to　answer　a　police　officer's　questions　without　a　lawyer　present。〃　
　〃Why？〃　
　〃Because　a　lawyer　would　advise　you　that　keeping　your　mouth　shut　is　better　than　lying。〃　
　Cutforth　stared　at　the　cop。　〃What　makes　you　think　I'm　lying？〃　
　〃Grove　hated　rock　music。〃　
　Cutforth　stifled　his　response。　This　cop　wasn't　as　dumb　as　he　looked。　In　fact；　he　was　about　as　dumb　as　a　fox。　
　〃I'll　be　back；　Mr。　Cutforth。　And　next　time　it　will　be　on　tape　and　under　oath。　Keep　in　mind　that　perjury　is　a　serious　crime。　One　way　or　the　other；　wewill　find　out　what　you　discussed　with　Grove。　Thank　you　for　your　time。〃　
　As　soon　as　the　elevator　had　hummed　its　way　down；　Cutforth　picked　up　the　phone　with　a　shaking　hand　and　dialed。　What　he　needed　was　a　humping　vacation　on　the　beach。　A　beach　on　the　other　side　of　the　earth。　He　knew　a　girl　in　Phuket　who　did　amazing　things。　He　couldn't　leave　tomorrow…Jowly；　his　biggest　client；　was　ing　in　for　an　overdub　session…but　after　that　he'd　be　clean　gone；　fuck　the　rest　of　the　clients。　He　was　going　to　get　the　hell　out　of　town。　Away　from　his　wife。　Away　from　this　cop　and　his　questions。　And；　most　especially；　away　from　this　apartment　and　its　stench　。　。　。　
　〃Doris？　Nigel　here。　I　want　to　book　a　flight　to　Bangkok。　Tomorrow　night　if　possible；　otherwise　first　thing　Monday。　No；　just　me。　With　a　limo　and　driver　for　Phuket。　And　find　me　a　nice　big　house　on　the　beach；　something　really　secure；　with　a　cook；　maid；　personal　trainer；　bodyguard；　the　works。　Don't　tell　anyone　where　I've　gone；　okay；　Doris　darling？　Yeah；Thai　land　。　。　。　I　know　it's　hot　this　time　of　year；　you　let　me　worry　about　the　heat。〃　
　Do　you　always　keep　the　apartment　this　hot；　Mr。　Cutforth？　
　He　slammed　the　phone　down　and　went　into　the　bedroom；　threw　a　suitcase　on　the　bed；　and　began　hauling　things　out　of　his　closet：　bathing　suits；　sharkskin　jacket　and　slacks；　shades；　sandals；　money；　watch；　passport；　satellite　phone。　
　They　couldn't　nail　him　for　perjury　if　they　couldn't　friggingfind　him。　
　　　
　11
　
　By　the　time　Sergeant　Vincent　D'Agosta　entered　the　back　doorof　the　New　York　Athletic　Club；　he　was　a　very　pissed…off　cop。　The　doorman　had　stopped　him　at　the　Central　Park　South　entrance…even　though　he　was　wearing　a　tie　as　part　of　his　full　dress　uniform…and　upon　hearing　his　inquiry　sent　him　around　to　the　back　door　because　he　wasn't　a　member。　That　meant　walking　all　the　way　to　Sixth　Avenue；　down　the　block；　and　ing　back　around　on　58th　Street…almost　a　quarter　of　a　mile。　
　D'Agosta　cursed　under　his　breath　as　he　walked。　Cutforth　was　lying；　that　much　he　was　sure　of。　He'd　taken　a　gamble；　with　that　wild　guess　about　Grove　hating　rock　music；　and　Cutforth's　eyes　had　given　him　away。　Still；　for　all　his　tough　talk；　D'Agosta　knew　there　was　an　entire　legal　system　between　him　and　a　rich　bastard　like　Cutforth。　Milbanke　had　been　a　total　wash：　all　she'd　wanted　to　do　was　babble　about　her　new　emerald　necklace。　The　nutcase　hadn't　given　him　a　single　decent　lead；　not　one。　And　now　here　he　was；　taking　an　unexpected　constitutional　around　one　of　Manhattan's　long　crosstown　blocks。Shit。　
　Finally　arriving　at　the　back　door　of　the　Athletic　Club；　D'Agosta　punched　the　button　for　the　service　elevator…the　only　elevator　there…and　when　it　opened　at　last；　creaking　and　groaning　after　a　good　three…minute　wait；　he　punched　9。　The　elevator　ascended　slowly；　pissing　and　moaning　the　whole　way；　at　long　last　opening　its　doors　again　with　a　wheeze。　D'Agosta　stepped　out　into　a　dim　corridor…for　a　fancy　club；　this　one　was　pretty　dark…and　followed　a　little　wooden　sign　with　a　gold　hand　pointing　a　finger　towardBilliards。　There　was　a　faint　smell　of　cigar　smoke　in　the　air　that　made　him　crave　a　good　Cuban。　His　wife　had　nagged　him　into　giving　up　the　habit　before　they　moved　to　Canada。　But　maybe　he'd　take　it　up　again。　Hell；　no　reason　not　to　anymore。　
　As　he　walked　down　the　corridor；　the　smell　grew　stronger。　
　He　came　through　a　door　into　a　spacious　room；　its　far　wall　studded　with　grand　windows。　As　he　entered；　another　guardian　of　the　order　sprang　up　from　a　little　desk　with　a　〃Sir！〃　Ignoring　the　man；　D'Agosta　peered　around　the　room。　His　eye　finally　discerned　a　lone；　dark　figure；　wreathed　in　smoke；　hunched　over　the　farthest　billiard　table。　
　〃If　I　may　inquire　your　business；　sir…？〃　
　〃You　may　not。〃　D'Agosta　brushed　by　the　attendant　and　strode　past　the　billiard　tables；　low…hanging　lamps　casting　pools　of　light　over　their　emerald　surfaces。　It　was　six　o'clock　in　the　evening；　and　through　the　windows；　the　rectangle　of　Central　Park　was　a　graveyard　of　darkness。　New　York　was　at　that　magical　twilight　moment；　neither　light　nor　dark；　where　the　glow　of　the　city　matched　the　glow　of　the　sky　behind　it。　
　D'Agosta　paused　about　ten　feet　from　the　man　and　pulled　out　his　notebook。　He　flipped　it　open　and　wrote；Bullard。　October　20。　Then　he　waited。　
　He　expected　Bullard　to　look　up　and　acknowledge　him；　but　he　didn't。　Instead；　the　man　leaned　farther　over　the　green　baize；　his　face　in　shadow；　and　tapped　another　ball。　He　chalked　his　cue　with　a　swift　twist　of　the　wrist；　came　around　the　table；　hit　again。　The　table　was　like　no　pool　table　D'Agosta　had　ever　seen：　much　larger；　with　smaller　pockets　and　smaller　balls　in　just　two　colors；　red　and　white。　
　〃Mr。　Bullard？〃　
　The　man　ignored　him；　moving　to　make　yet　another　shot。　His　back　was　huge；　his　shoulders　broad；　and　the　silk　fabric　of　his　suit　strained　taut　across　them。　All　D'Agosta　could　clearly　discern　was　the　glowing　stump　of　a　huge　cigar　and　two　great　knotted　hands　that　were　thrust　into　the　circle　of　light；　the　veins　on　their　backs　as　thick　and　rolled　as　blue　earthworms。　One　of　the　hands　sported　two　immense　gold　rings。　The　man　tapped；　moved　around；　tapped　again。　
　Just　as　D'Agosta　was　about　to　say　something；　the　man　abruptly　straightened；　turned；　pulled　the　cigar　from　his　mouth；　and　said：　
　〃What　do　you　want？〃　
　D'Agosta　didn't　answer　right　away。　Instead；　he　took　a　minute　to　observe　the　man's　face。　Quite　possibly　there　wasn't　an　uglier　man　on　God's　earth。　His　head　was　huge　and　swarthy；　and　though　the　body　it　was　perched　on　seemed　as　massive　and　thick　as　a　grizzly's；　the　head　still　appeared　oversize。　A　lantern　jaw；　anchored　by　popping　muscles；　rose　toward　a　pair　of　undulant　earlobes。　Centered　between　them　were　dry　fleshy　lips　white　against　the　dark　skin：　a　particularly　unpleasant　bination。　Above　stuck　out　a　thick；　pitted　nose。　Massive；　beetling　brows　jutted　far　over　a　pair　of　sunken　eyes。　From　the　bushy　eyebrows　above；　a　squat　forehead　led　upward　to　a　bald　dome；　its　skin　covered　with　freckles　and　liver　spots。　The　impression　the　man　gave　was　of　enormous　brute　strength　and　self…assurance　in　both　mind　and　body。　When　he　moved；　the　blue　silk　that　clad　his　frame　rustled；　and　his　movements　were　as　heavy　and　deliberate　as　those　of　a　well…muscled　draft　horse。　
　D'Agosta　licked　his　lips。　〃I　have　a　few　questions　for　you。〃　
　Bullard　looked　at　him　for　a　moment；　then　shifted　the　cigar　back　into　his　mouth；　leaned　over　the　table；　and　gave　one　of　the　balls　a　little　tap。　
　〃If　it's　too　distracting　in　here；　we　can　always　do　this　downtown。〃　
　〃Just　a　minute。〃　
　D'Agosta　checked　his　watch。　He　glanced　bac