sk.everythingseventual-第39章

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！


　　'Who　are　you；　mister？'　I　ask。
　　'My　name　is　Sharpton。　And　now　let　me　〃cut　through　the　bull…shit；〃　as　you　might　say；　Mr。　Earnshaw。　Dink？　May　I　call　you　Dink？'
　　'Sure；'　I　said。　'Can　I　call　you　Sharpie？'
　　'Call　me　whatever　you　want；　just　listen。'
　　'I'm　listening。'　I　was；　too。　Why　not？　The　movie　on　the　tube　was　Coogan's　Bluff；　not　one　of　Clint's　better　efforts。
　　'I　want　to　make　you　the　best　job…offer　you've　ever　had；　and　the　best　one　you　probably　ever　will　have。　It's　not　just　a　job；　Dink；　it's　an　adventure。'
　　'Gee；　where　have　I　heard　that　before？'　I　had　a　bowl　of　popcorn　in　my　lap；　and　I　tossed　a　handful　into　my　mouth。　This　was　turning　into　fun；　sort　of。
　　'Others　promise；　I　deliver。　But　this　is　a　discussion　we　must　have　face…to…face。　Will　you　meet　me？'
　　'Are　you　a　queer？'　I　asked。
　　'No。'　There　was　a　touch　of　amusement　in　his　voice。　Just　enough　so　that　it　was　hard　to　disbelieve。　And　I　was　already　in　the　hole；　so　to　speak；　from　the　smartass　way　I'd　answered　the　phone。　'My　sexual　orientation　doesn't　e　into　this。'
　　'Why're　you　yanking　my　chain；　then？　I　don't　know　anybody　who'd　call　me　at　nine…thirty　in　the　fucking　night　and　offer　me　a　job。'
　　'Do　me　a　favor。　Put　the　phone　down　and　go　look　in　your　front　hall。'
　　Crazier　and　crazier。　But　what　did　I　have　to　lose？　I　did　what　he　said；　and　found　an　envelope　lying　there。　Someone　had　poked　it　through　the　mail…slot　while　I　was　watching　Clint　Eastwood　chase　Don　Stroud　through　Central　Park。　The　first　envelope　of　many；　although　of　course　I　didn't　know　that　then。　I　tore　it　open；　and　seven　ten…dollar　bills　fell　out　into　my　hand。　Also　a　note。
　　This　can　be　the　beginning　of　a　great　career！
　　I　went　back　into　the　living　room；　still　looking　at　the　money。　Know　how　weirded…out　I　was？　I　almost　sat　on　my　bowl　of　popcorn。　I　saw　it　at　the　last　second；　set　it　aside；　and　plopped　back　on　the　couch。　I　picked　up　the　phone；　really　sort　of　expecting　Sharpton　to　be　gone；　but　when　I　said　hello；　he　answered。
　　'What's　this　all　about？'　I　asked　him。　'What's　the　seventy　bucks　for？　I'm　keeping　it；　but　not　because　I　think　I　owe　you　anything。　I　didn't　fucking　ask　for　anything。'
　　'The　money　is　absolutely　yours；'　Sharpton　says；　'with　not　a　string　in　the　world　attached。　But　I'll　let　you　in　on　a　secret；　Dink…a　job　isn't　just　about　money。　A　real　job　is　about　the　fringe　benefits。　That's　where　the　power　is。'
　　'If　you　say　so。'
　　'I　absolutely　do。　And　all　I　ask　is　that　you　meet　me　and　hear　a　little　more。　I'll　make　you　an　offer　that　will　change　your　life；　if　you　take　it。　That　will　open　the　door　to　a　new　life；　in　fact。　Once　I've　made　that　offer；　you　can　ask　all　the　questions　you　like。　Although　I　must　be　honest　and　say　you　probably　won't　get　all　the　answers　you'd　like。'
　　'And　if　I　just　decide　to　walk　away？'
　　'I'll　shake　your　hand；　clap　you　on　the　back；　and　wish　you　good　luck。'
　　'When　did　you　want　to　meet？'　Part　of　me…most　of　me…still　thought　all　this　was　a　joke；　but　there　was　a　minority　opinion　forming　by　then。　There　was　the　money；　for　one　thing；　two　weeks'　worth　of　tips　driving　for　Pizza　Roma；　and　that's　if　business　was　good。　But　mostly　it　was　the　way　Sharpton　talked。　He　sounded　like　he'd　been　to　school　。　。　。　and　I　don't　mean　at　Sheep's　Rectum　State　College　over　in　Van　Drusen；　either。　And　really；　what　harm　could　there　be？　Since　Skipper's　accident；　there　was　no　one　on　Planet　Earth　who　wanted　to　take　after　me　in　a　way　that　was　dangerous　or　painful。　Well；　Ma；　I　suppose；　but　her　only　weapon　was　her　mouth　。　。　。　and　she　wasn't　into　elaborate　practical　jokes。　Also；　I　couldn't　see　her　parting　with　seventy　dollars。　Not　when　there　was　still　a　Bingo　game　in　the　vicinity。
　　'Tonight；'　he　said。　'Right　now；　in　fact。'
　　'All　right；　why　not？　e　on　over。　I　guess　if　you　can　drop　an　envelope　full　of　tens　through　the　mail…slot；　you　don't　need　me　to　give　you　the　address。'
　　'Not　at　your　house。　I'll　meet　you　in　the　Supr　Savr　parking　lot。'
　　My　stomach　dropped　like　an　elevator　with　the　cables　cut；　and　the　conversation　stopped　being　the　least　bit　funny。　Maybe　this　was　some　kind　of　setup…something　with　cops　in　it；　even。　I　told　myself　no　one　could　know　about　Skipper；　least　of　all　the　cops；　but　Jesus。　There　was　the　letter；　Skipper　could　have　left　the　letter　lying　around　anywhere。　Nothing　in　it　anyone　could　make　out　（except　for　his　sister's　name；　but　there　are　millions　of　Debbies　in　the　world）；　no　more　than　anyone　could've　made　out　the　stuff　I　wrote　on　the　sidewalk　outside　Mrs。　Bukowski's　yard　。　。　。　or　so　I　would　have　said　before　the　goddam　phone　rang。　But　who　could　be　absolutely　sure？　And　you　know　what　they　say　about　a　guilty　conscience。　I　didn't　exactly　feel　guilty　about　Skipper；　not　then；　but　still　。　。　。
　　'The　Supr　Savr's　kind　of　a　weird　place　for　a　job　interview；　don't　you　think？　Especially　when　it's　been　closed　since　eight　o'clock。'
　　'That's　what　makes　it　good；　Dink。　Privacy　in　a　public　place。　I'll　park　right　by　the　Kart　Korral。　You'll　know　the　car…it's　a　big　gray　Mercedes。'
　　'I'll　know　it　because　it'll　be　the　only　one　there；'　I　said；　but　he　was　already　gone。
　　I　hung　up　and　put　the　money　in　my　pocket；　almost　without　realizing　I　was　doing　it。　I　was　sweating　lightly　all　over　my　body。　The　voice　on　the　phone　wanted　to　meet　me　by　the　Kart　Korral；　where　Skipper　had　so　often　teased　me。　Where　he　had　once　mashed　my　fingers　between　a　couple　of　shopping　carts；　laughing　when　I　screamed。　That　hurts　the　worst；　getting　your　fingers　mashed。　Two　of　the　nails　had　turned　black　and　fallen　off。　That　was　when　I'd　made　up　my　mind　to　try　the　letter。　And　the　results　had　been　unbelievable。　Still；　if　Skipper　Brannigan　had　a　ghost；　the　Kart　Korral　was　likely　where　it　would　hang　out；　looking　for　fresh　victims　to　torture。　The　voice　on　the　phone　couldn't　have　picked　that　place　by　accident。　I　tried　to　tell　myself　that　was　bullshit；　that　coincidences　happened　all　the　time；　but　I　just　didn't　believe　it。　Mr。　Sharpton　knew　about　Skipper。　Somehow　he　knew。
　　I　was　afraid　to　meet　him；　but　I　didn't　see　what　choice　I　had。　If　nothing　else；　I　ought　to　find　out　how　much　he　knew。　And　who　he　might　tell。
　　I　got　up；　put　on　my　coat　（it　was　early　spring　then；　and　cold　at　night…it　seems　to　me　that　it's　always　cold　at　night　in　western　Pennsylvania）；　started　out　the　door；　then　went　back　and　left　a　note　for　Ma。　'Went　out　to　see　a　couple　of　guys；'　I　wrote。　'Will　be　back　by　midnight。'　I　intended　to　be　back　well　before　midnight；　but　that　note　seemed　like　a　good　idea。　I　wouldn't　let　myself　think　too　closely　about　why　it　seemed　like　a　good　idea；　not　then；　but　I　can　own　up　to　it　now：　if　something　happened　to　me；　something　bad；　I　wanted　to　make　sure　Ma　would　call　the　police。
　　
　　VIII
　　
　　There　are　two　kinds　of　scared…at　least　that's　my　theory。　There's　TV…scared；　and　there's　real…scared。　I　think　we　go　through　most　of　our　lives　only　getting　TV…scared。　Like　when　we're　waiting　for　our　blood…tests　to　e　back　from　the　doctor　or　when　we're　walking　home　from　the　library　in　the　dark　and　thinking　about　bad　guys　in　the　bushes。　We　don't　get　real…scared　about　shit　like　that；　because　we　know　in　our　heart　of　hearts　that　the　blood…tests　will　e　back　clean　and　there　won't　be　any　bad　guys　in　the　bushes。　Why？　Because　stuff　like　that　only　happens　to　the　people　on　TV。
　　When　I　saw　that　big　gray　Mercedes；　the　only　car　in　about　an　acre　of　empty　parking　lot；　I　got　real…scared　for　the　first　time　since　the　thing　in　the　box…room　with　Skipper　Brannigan。　That　time　was　the　closest　we　ever　came　to　really　getting　into　it。
　　Mr。　Sharpton's　ride　was　sitting　under　the　light　of　the　lot's　yellow　mercury…vapor　lamps；　a　big　old　Krautmobile；　at　least　a　450　and　probably　a　500；　the　kind　of　car　that　costs　a　hundred　and　twenty　grand　these　days。　Sitting　there　next　to　the　Kart　Korral　（now　almost　empty　for　the　night；　all　the　carts　except　for　one　poor　old　three…wheeled　cripple　safely　locked　up　inside）　with　its　parking　lights　on　and　white　exhaust　drifting　up　into　the　air。　Engine　rumbling　like　a　sleepy　cat。
　　I　drove　toward　it；　my　heart　pumping　slow　but　hard　and　a　taste　like　pennies　in　my　throat。　I　wanted　to　just　mat　the　accelerator　of　my　Ford　（which　in　those　days　always　smelled　like　a　pepperoni　pizza）　and　get　the　hell　out　of　there；　but　I　couldn't　get　rid　of　the　idea　that　the　guy　knew　about　Skipper。　I　could　tell　myself　there　was　nothing　to　know；　that　Charles　'Skipper'　Brannigan　had　either　had　an　accident　or　mitted　suicide；　the　cops　weren't　sure　which　（they　couldn't　have　known　him　very　well；　if　they　had；　they　would　have　thrown　the　idea　of　suicide　right　out　the　window…guys　like　Skipper　don't　off　themselves；　not　at　the　age　of　twenty…three　they　don't）；　but　that　didn't　stop　the　voice　from　yammering　away　that　I　was　in　trouble；　someone　had　figured　it　out；　someone　had　gotten　hold　of　the　letter　and　figured　it　out。
　　That　voice　didn't　have　logic　on　its　side；　but　it　didn't　need　to。　It　had　good　lungs　and　just　outscreamed　logic。　I　parked　beside　the　idling　Mercedes　and　rolled　my　window　down。　At　the　same　time；　the　driver's…side　window　of　the　Mercedes　rolled　down。　We　looked　at　each　other；　me　and　Mr。　Sharpton；　like　a　couple　of　old　friends　meeting　at　the　Hi…Hat　Drive…In。
　　I　don't　remember　much　about　him　now。　That's　weird；　considering　all　the　time　I've　spent　thinking　about　him　since；　but　it's　the　truth。　Only　that　he　was　thin；　and　that　he　was　wearing　a　suit。　A　good　one；　I　think；　although　judging　stuff　like　that's　not　my　strong　point。　Still；　the　suit　eased　me　a　little。　I　guess　that；　unconsciously；　I　had　this　idea　that　a　suit　means　business；　and　jeans　and　a　tee…shirt　means　fuckery。
　　'Hello；　Dink；'　he　says。　'I'm　Mr。　Sharpton。　e　on　in　here　and　sit　down。'
　　'Why　don't　we　just　stay　the　way　we　are？'　I　asked。　'We　can　talk　to　each　other　through　these　windows。　People　do　it　all　the　time。'
　　He　only　looked　at　me　and　said　nothing。　After　a　few　seconds　of　that；　I　turned　off　the　Ford　and　got　out。　I　don't　know　exactly　why；　but　I　did。　I　was　more　scared　than　ever；　I　can　tell　you　that。　Real…scared。　Real　as　real　as　real。　Maybe　that　was　why　he　could　get　me　to　do　what　he　wanted。
　　I　stood　between　Mr。　Sharpton's　car　and　mine　for　a　minute；　looking　at　the　Kart　Korral　and　thinking　about　Skipper。　He　was　tall；　with　this　wavy　blond　hair　he　bed　straight　back　from　his　forehead。　He　had　pimples；　and　these　red　lips；　like　a　girl　wearing　lipstick。　'Hey　Dinky；　let's　see　your　dinky；'　he'd　say。　Or　'Hey　Dinky；　you　want　to　suck　my　dinky？'　You　know；　witty　shit　like　that。　Sometimes；　when　we　were　rounding　up　the　carts；　he'd　chase　me　with　one；　nipping　at　my　heels　with　it　and　going　'Rmmmm！　Rmmmmm！　Rmmmmm！'　like　a　fucking　race…car。　A　couple　of　times　he　knocked　me　over。　At　dinner…break；　if　I　had　my　food　on　my　lap；　he'd　bump　into　me　good　and　hard；　see　if　he　could　knock　something　onto　the　floor。　You　know　the　kind　of　stuff　I'm　talking　about；　I'm　sure。　It　was　like　he'd　never　gotten　over　those　ideas　of　what's　funny　to　bored　kids　sitting　in　the　back　row　of　study　hall。
　　I　had　a　ponytail　at　work；　you　had　to　wear　your　hair　in　a　ponytail　if　you　had　it　long；　supermarket　rules；　and　sometimes　Skipper　would　e　up　behind　me；　grab　the　rubber　band　I　used；　and　yank　it　out。　Sometimes　it　would　snarl　in　my　hair　and　pull　it。　Sometimes　it　would　break　and　snap　against　my　neck。　It　got　so　I'd　stick　two　or　three　extra　rubbe