p&c.brimstone-第14部分

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　He　crossed　Broadway　and　walked　west　down　94th　Street；　past　West　End　Avenue　to　Riverside　Drive。　On　the　far　side　of　the　leafy　drive；　past　the　thin　green　sliver　of　Riverside　Park；　he　could　make　out　the　West　Side　Highway　and　the　river　beyond。　It　was　a　pleasant　enough　evening；　but　the　sky　was　darkening　and　there　was　a　smell　of　moisture　in　the　air。　The　sluggish　waters　of　the　Hudson　roiled　along　like　black　ink；　and　the　lights　of　New　Jersey　speckled　the　far　shore。　There　was　a　faint　flicker　of　lightning。　
　He　turned　and　scanned　the　address　of　the　building　on　the　nearest　corner。　Number　214。　
　Two　fourteen？　D'Agosta　swore。　He　really　had　lost　it　in　those　few　years　in　Canada。　Eight　ninety…one　was　a　lot　farther　uptown　than　he　realized；　maybe　close　to　Harlem。　What　the　hell　was　Pendergast　doing　living　up　there？　
　He　could　go　back　to　the　subway；　but　that　meant　a　long　uphill　walk　back　to　Broadway；　and　perhaps　a　long　wait　in　the　station；　then　the　local　crawl　farther　uptown。　He　could　grab　a　cab；　but　that　still　meant　walking　back　to　Broadway；　and　uptown　cabs　were　almost　impossible　to　find　at　that　time　of　night。　
　Or　he　could　hoof　it。　
　D'Agosta　turned　north　and　began　walking　up　the　drive。　It　was　probably　only　ten　or　fifteen　short　blocks。　He　slapped　his　gut。　It　would　do　him　good；　work　off　some　of　that　greasy　burger。　Besides；　he　still　had　more　than　an　hour　to　kill。　
　He　set　a　brisk　pace　for　himself；　his　cuffs　and　keys　jangling。　The　wind　was　sighing　through　the　trees　along　the　edge　of　Riverside　Park；　and　the　facades　of　the　elegant　apartment　buildings　that　faced　the　river　were　brightly　lit；　most　sporting　doormen　or　security　guards。　Even　though　it　was　almost　eight；　a　lot　of　people　were　still　ing　home　from　work：　men　and　women　in　suits；　a　musician　carrying　a　cello；　a　couple　of　college　professor　types　in　tweedy　jackets　arguing　loudly　about　somebody　named　Hegel。　Once　in　a　while　someone　glanced　at　him；　smiled；　nodded；　glad　that　he　was　there。　September　11　had　changed　a　lot　of　things　in　New　York　City；　and　one　of　them　was　the　way　people　looked　at　cops。　Another　reason　to　get　himself　rehired　at　the　first　opportunity。　
　D'Agosta　hummed　as　he　walked　along；　filling　his　lungs　with　the　heady　fragrance；　that　West　Side　perfume　of　salt　air；　car　fumes；　garbage；　and　asphalt。　He　caught　a　brief　whiff　of　roasting　coffee　from　some　all…night　delicatessen。　New　York　City。　Once　it　got　into　your　blood；　you　could　never　get　it　out　again。　When　the　economy　turned　around　and　the　city　began　hiring　again；　D'Agosta　would　be　first　in　line。　Christ；　he'd　start　off　as　a　tire…kicker　in　Far　Rockaway　if　it　meant　working　again　for　the　NYPD。　
　He　crossed　110th　Street。　The　numbers　were　still　only　in　the　400s；　rising　but　not　fast　enough。　What　the　hell　was　the　cross…street　rule　for　Riverside？　Something　divided　by　something　minus　59　。　。　。　He　couldn't　even　guess　anymore…all　he　knew　was　it　was　going　to　be　farther　uptown　than　he　thought。　
　At　least　he　had　plenty　of　time。　Maybe　Pendergast　lived　in　one　of　those　professorial　brownstones　up　by　Columbia。　That　must　be　it：　Pendergast；　slumming　with　the　academics。　He　quickened　his　pace。　Now　the　buildings　were　less　elegant；　plainer；　but　still　neat　and　trim。　He　was　getting　into　the　Columbia　University　neighborhood；　with　its　students　and　their　baggy　clothes；　a　kid　shouting　down　from　a　window　to　some　other　kid　on　the　sidewalk；　tossing　down　a　book。　D'Agosta　wondered　what　his　life　would　have　been　like　if　he'd　e　from　a　family　that　had　sent　him　to　college。　He　might　be　a　big…time　writer　by　now。　Maybe　the　critics　would　have　liked　his　books　more。　You　made　a　lot　of　contacts　in　the　right　college；　and　a　hell　of　a　lot　of　thoseNew　York　Times　critics　seemed　to　e　from　Columbia。　And　they　all　reviewed　each　other's　books。　The　damnTimes　Book　Review　was　like　a　private　club。　
　He　shook　his　head。　As　his　old　Italian　grandfather　used　to　say；　it　wasacqua　passata。　
　He　paused　at　122nd　Street　to　catch　his　breath。　He　had　reached　the　northern　fringe　of　Columbia。　Ahead　was　International　House；　standing　like　the　last　outpost　on　the　edge　of　the　frontier。　Beyond　was　no…man's…land。　
　And　the　numbers　were　only　up　to　550。　
　Shit。He　checked　his　watch。　Ten　past　eight。　He'd　hiked　a　mile。　He'd　done　his　duty　for　the　day。　He　still　had　plenty　of　time；　but　he　was　no　longer　enjoying　himself。　And　this　far　uptown；　there　was　zero　chance　of　getting　a　cab。　There　were　still　one　or　two　students　in　view；　but　there　were　also　crowds　of　kids　loitering　on　stoops；　watching　him　pass；　sometimes　giving　a　little　hiss　or　muttering　something。　He　now　realized　that　891　Riverside　would　be　somewhere　around　135th　Street；　if　not　a　little　farther。　He　could　make　it　in　another　ten　minutes…and　he　would　still　be　early…but　it　meant　walking　into　the　heart　of　Harlem。　
　Once　again　he　pulled　the　card　from　his　pocket。　There　was　the　address；　in　Pendergast's　elegant　script。　It　seemed　impossible。　But　there　could　be　no　mistake。　
　He　left　the　bright　oasis　of　International　House　behind；　neither　hurrying　nor　loitering。　There　was　no　reason　for　him　to　be　nervous：　not　in　uniform　and　packing　his　Glock　9mm。　
　As　he　walked　on；　the　neighborhood　changed　abruptly。　Gone　now　were　the　students；　the　bustle　of　activity。　The　streetlights　were　broken；　the　apartment　facades　dim。　It　became　quiet；　almost　deserted。　At　130th　Street；　D'Agosta　passed　an　empty　mansion；　one　of　the　really　old　ones：　the　tin　ripped　off　the　empty　window　frames；　the　very　frame　of　the　building　exhaling　a　smell　of　mold　and　urine　into　the　street。　A　junkie　palace。　The　next　block　contained　a　single…room…occupancy　〃hotel；〃　the　inhabitants　sitting　on　the　stoop　and　drinking　beer。　They　fell　silent　and　watched　him　go　by　with　bleary　eyes。　A　dog　barked　incessantly。　
　Though　plenty　of　antiquated　cars　lined　the　curb…battered；　windowless；　sometimes　even　wheelless…there　were　fewer　cars　on　the　road　now。　An　ancient；　microscopic　Honda　Accord　CVCC　passed　by；　so　rusted　its　original　color　was　impossible　to　discern。　A　minute　or　so　later　it　was　followed　by　a　gold　Impala　with　smoked　windows。　It　seemed　to　D'Agosta　that　it　slowed　as　it　went　past。　He　watched　as　it　took　the　next　right。　
　A　gold　Impala。　There　must　be　a　million　of　them　in　the　city。　Hell；　he　was　starting　to　get　paranoid。　All　that　soft　living　in　Southampton　。　。　。　
　He　continued　steadily　on；　passing　rows　of　abandoned　buildings；　old　mansions　broken　into　apartments　and　SROs。　Dogshit　littered　the　sidewalk　now；　along　with　garbage　and　broken　bottles。　Most　of　the　streetlights　were　out…shooting　at　them　was　a　favorite　gang　pastime…and　with　the　city's　general　neglect　of　this　area；　it　took　forever　to　get　them　repaired。　
　He　was　now　approaching　the　hard…core　center　of　western　Harlem。　It　seemed　incredible　that　Pendergast　had　a　place　here：　the　guy　was　eccentric；　but　notthat　eccentric。　The　next　block；　132nd；　was　pletely　dark；　every　streetlight　out；　the　two　remaining　buildings　on　the　block　abandoned　and　boarded　up。　Even　the　lights　on　the　park　side　had　been　blown　away。　It　was　a　perfect　muggers'　block…except　no　one　in　his　right　mind　would　ever　walk　there　at　night。　
　D'Agosta　reminded　himself　he　was　packing；　in　full　uniform；　with　a　radio。　He　shook　his　head。　What　a　wimp　he'd　bee。　He　strode　resolutely　forward；　down　the　dark　block。　
　That　was　when　he　noticed　a　car　behind　him；　moving　slowly。　Waytoo　slowly。　As　it　passed　under　the　last　streetlight；　D'Agosta　saw　the　gleam　of　gold…the　same　Chevy　Impala　that　had　nearly　taken　off　his　toes　on　West　61st　Street。　
　D'Agosta　may　have　forgotten　the　street　address　formula；　but　his　NYPD　cop　radar　remained　in　perfect　working　order；　and　now　it　went　off　loudly。　The　car　was　moving　at　precisely　the　speed　that　would　bring　it　next　to　D'Agosta　at　the　middle　of　the　dark　block。　
　It　was　an　ambush。　
　D'Agosta　made　an　instant　decision。　Breaking　into　a　sudden　run；　he　cut　left　and　sprinted　across　the　street　in　front　of　the　approaching　car。　He　heard　the　screeching　acceleration　of　the　tires；　but　he　had　moved　too　quickly　and　was　already　heading　into　Riverside　Park　by　the　time　the　car　squealed　to　a　stop　along　the　curb。　
　As　he　sprinted　into　the　darkness　of　the　trees；　he　saw　both　doors　open　simultaneously。　
　　　
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　The　door　to　the　tenth…floor　suite　at　the　Sherry　NetherlandHotel　was　opened　by　an　English　butler　so　impeccably　outfitted　he　seemed　to　have　stepped　from　the　pages　of　a　Wodehouse　novel。　He　bowed　to　Pendergast；　standing　to　one　side。　The　man's　double…breasted　Prince　Albert　frock　coat　was　immaculately　brushed；　and　when　he　moved；　his　starched　white　shirtfront　rustled　faintly。　One　white…gloved　hand　took　Pendergast's　coat；　the　other　held　out　a　silver　tray。　Without　hesitation；　Pendergast　reached　into　his　pocket；　removed　a　slim　gold　card　case；　and　placed　his　card　on　the　tray。　
　〃If　the　gentleman　would　kindly　wait。〃　The　butler　gave　another　slight　bow　and　disappeared　into　a　long　hallway；　carrying　the　tray　before　him。　There　was　the　soft　opening　of　a　door；　the　faint　sound　of　clicking　and　hammering。　Another；　farther　door　was　opened。　Minutes　later　the　butler　returned。　
　〃If　the　gentleman　will　follow　me；〃　he　said。　
　Pendergast　followed　the　butler　into　a　wood…paneled　sitting　room；　where　he　was　greeted　by　a　birch　fire；　flickering　merrily　within　a　large　fireplace。　
　〃The　gentleman　is　wele　to　seat　himself　where　he　pleases；〃　the　butler　said。　
　Pendergast；　always　attracted　to　heat；　chose　the　red　leather　chair　nearest　the　fire。　
　〃The　count　will　be　available　momentarily。　Would　the　gentleman　care　for　amontillado？〃　
　〃Thank　you。〃　
　The　butler　retreated　noiselessly　and　reappeared　less　than　thirty　seconds　later；　bearing　a　tray　on　which　reposed　a　single　crystal　glass　half　filled　with　a　pale　amber　liquid。　He　set　it　on　the　nearby　table　and；　just　as　noiselessly；　was　gone。　
　Pendergast　sipped　the　dry；　delicate　liquid　and　gazed　about　the　room　with　growing　interest。　It　had　been　furnished　in　exquisite　and　yet　understated　taste；　managing　to　be　both　fortable　and　beautiful　at　the　same　time。　The　floor　was　covered　with　a　rare　Safavid　carpet　of　Shah　Abbassid　design。　The　fireplace　was　old；　carved　from　gray　Florentinepietra　serena　；　and　it　bore　the　crest　of　an　ancient　and　noble　family。　The　table　that　held　his　glass　also　bore　an　interesting　array　of　items：　several　pieces　of　old　silver；　an　antique　gasogene；　some　lovely　Roman　glass　perfum