sk.everythingseventual-第44章

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　　'I'm　happy　for　you；　but　I　can't　say　I'm　relieved；　because…'
　　'…you　were　never　worried　in　the　first　place。'
　　'Got　it　in　one；'　he　said。
　　'Everything's　eventual；　in　other　words。'
　　He　laughed　at　that。　He　always　laughs　when　I　say　that。　'That's　right；　Dink。　Everything's　eventual。'
　　'Mr。　Sharpton？'
　　'Yes？'
　　'E…mail's　not　exactly　private；　you　know。　Anybody　who's　really　dedicated　can　hack　into　it。'
　　'Part　of　what　you　send　is　a　suggestion　that　the　recipient　delete　the　message　from　all　files；　is　it　not？'
　　'Yes；　but　I　can't　absolutely　guarantee　that　he'll　do　it。　Or　she。'
　　'Even　if　they　don't；　nothing　can　happen　to　someone　else　who　chances　on　such　a　message；　am　I　correct？　Because　it's　。　。　。　personalized。'
　　'Well；　it　might　give　someone　a　headache；　but　that　would　be　about　all。'
　　'And　the　munication　itself　would　look　like　so　much　gibberish。'
　　'Or　a　code。'
　　He　laughed　heartily　at　that。　'Let　them　try　to　break　it；　Dinky；　eh？　Just　let　them　try！'
　　I　sighed。　'I　suppose。'
　　'Let's　discuss　something　more　important；　Dink　。　。　。　how　did　it　feel？'
　　'Fucking　wonderful。'
　　'Good。　Don't　question　wonder；　Dink。　Don't　ever　question　wonder。'
　　And　he　hung　up。
　　
　　XVII
　　
　　Sometimes　I　have　to　send　actual　letters…print　out　the　stuff　I　whomp　up　in　DINKY'S　NOTEBOOK；　stick　it　in　an　envelope；　lick　stamps；　and　mail　it　off　to　somebody　somewhere。　Professor　Ann　Tevitch；　University　of　New　Mexico　at　Las　Cruces。　Mr。　Andrew　Neff；　c/o　The　New　York　Post；　New　York；　New　York。　Billy　Unger；　General　Delivery；　Stovington；　Vermont。　Only　names；　but　they　were　still　more　upsetting　than　the　phone　numbers。　More　personal　than　the　phone　numbers。　It　was　like　seeing　faces　swim　up　at　you　for　a　second　inside　your　Norden　bomb…sight。　I　mean；　what　a　freak…out；　right？　You're　up　there　at　twenty…five　thousand　feet；　no　faces　allowed　up　there；　but　sometimes　one　shows　up　for　a　second　or　two；　just　the　same。
　　I　wondered　how　a　University　Professor　could　get　along　without　a　modem　（or　a　guy　whose　address　was　a　fucking　New　York　newspaper；　for　that　matter）；　but　I　never　wondered　too　much。　I　didn't　have　to。　We　live　in　a　modern　world；　but　letters　don't　have　to　be　sent　by　puter；　after　all。　There's　still　snail…mail。　And　the　stuff　I　really　needed　was　always　in　the　database。　The　fact　that　Unger　had　a　1957　Thunderbird；　for　instance。　Or　that　Ann　Tevitch　had　a　loved　one…perhaps　her　husband；　perhaps　her　son；　perhaps　her　father…named　Simon。
　　
　　And　people　like　Tevitch　and　Unger　were　exceptions。　Most　of　the　folks　I　reach　out　and　touch　are　like　that　first　one　in　Columbus…fully　equipped　for　the　twenty…first　century。　SENDING　DINKYMAIL；　DINKYMAIL　SENT；　velly　good；　so　long；　Cholly。
　　I　could　have　gone　on　like　that　for　a　long　time；　maybe　forever…browsing　the　database　（there's　no　schedule　to　follow；　no　list　of　primary　cities　and　targets；　I'm　pletely　on　my　own　。　。　。　unless　all　that　shit　is　also　in　my　subconscious；　down　there　on　the　hard　disk）；　going　to　afternoon　movies；　enjoying　the　Ma…less　silence　of　my　little　house；　and　dreaming　of　my　next　step　up　the　ladder；　except　I　woke　up　feeling　horny　one　day。　I　worked　for　an　hour　or　so；　browsing　around　in　Australia；　but　it　was　no　good…my　dick　kept　trespassing　on　my　brain；　so　to　speak。　I　shut　off　the　puter　and　went　down　to　News　Plus　to　see　if　I　could　find　a　magazine　featuring　pretty　ladies　in　frothy　lingerie。
　　As　I　got　there；　a　guy　was　ing　out；　reading　the　Columbus　Dispatch。　I　never　read　the　paper　myself。　Why　bother？　It's　the　same　old　shit　day　in　and　day　out；　dictators　beating　the　ching…chong　out　of　people　weaker　than　they　are；　men　in　uniforms　beating　the　ching…chong　out　of　soccer　balls　or　footballs；　politicians　kissing　babies　and　kissing　ass。　Mostly　stories　about　the　Skipper　Brannigans　of　the　world；　in　other　words。　And　I　wouldn't　have　seen　this　story　even　if　I'd　happened　to　look　at　the　newspaper　display　rack　once　I　got　inside；　because　it　was　on　the　bottom　half　of　the　front　page；　below　the　fold。　But　this　fucking　dimbulb　es　out　with　the　paper　hanging　open　and　his　face　buried　inside　it。
　　In　the　lower　right　corner　was　a　picture　of　a　white…haired　guy　smoking　a　pipe　and　smiling。　He　looked　like　a　good…humored　fuck；　probably　Irish；　eyes　all　crinkled　up　and　these　white　bushy　eyebrows。　And　the　headline　over　the　photo…not　a　big　one；　but　you　could　read　it…said　NEFF　SUICIDE　STILL　PUZZLES；　GRIEVES　COLLEAGUES
　　For　a　second　or　two　I　thought　I'd　just　skip　News　Plus　that　day；　I　didn't　feel　like　ladies　in　lingerie　after　all；　maybe　I'd　just　go　home　and　take　a　nap。　If　I　went　in；　I'd　probably　pick　up　a　copy　of　the　Dispatch；　wouldn't　be　able　to　help　myself；　and　I　wasn't　sure　I　wanted　to　know　any　more　about　that　Irish…looking　guy　than　I　already　did　。　。　。　which　was　nothing　at　all；　as　you　can　fucking　believe　I　hastened　to　tell　myself。　Neff　couldn't　be　that　weird　a　name　anyway；　only　four　letters；　not　like　Shittendookus　or　Horecake；　there　must　be　thousands　of　Neffs；　if　you're　talking　coast　to　coast。　This　one　didn't　have　to　be　the　Neff　I　knew　about；　the　one　who　loved　Frank　Sinatra　records。
　　It　would　be　better；　in　any　case；　to　just　leave　and　e　back　tomorrow。　Tomorrow　the　picture　of　that　guy　with　the　pipe　would　be　gone。　Tomorrow　somebody　else's　picture　would　be　there；　on　the　lower　right　corner　of　page　one。　People　always　dying；　right？　People　who　aren't　superstars　or　anything；　just　famous　enough　to　get　their　pictures　down　there　in　the　lower　right　corner　of　page　one。　And　sometimes　people　were　puzzled　about　it；　the　way　folks　back　home　in　Harkerville　had　been　puzzled　about　Skipper's　death…no　alcohol　in　his　blood；　clear　night；　dry　road；　not　the　suicidal　type。
　　The　world　is　full　of　mysteries　like　that；　though；　and　sometimes　it's　best　not　to　solve　them。　Sometimes　the　solutions　aren't；　you　know；　too　eventual。
　　But　willpower　has　never　been　my　strong　point。　I　can't　always　keep　away　from　the　chocolate；　even　though　I　know　my　skin　doesn't　like　it；　and　I　couldn't　keep　away　from　the　Columbus　Dispatch　that　day。　I　went　on　inside　and　bought　one。
　　I　started　home；　then　had　a　funny　thought。　The　funny　thought　was　that　I　didn't　want　a　newspaper　with　Andrew　Neff's　picture　on　the　front　page　going　out　with　my　trash。　The　trash　pick…up　guys　came　in　a　city　truck；　surely　they　didn't…couldn't…have　anything　to　do　with　TransCorp；　but　。　。　。
　　
　　There　was　this　show　me　and　Pug　used　to　watch　one　summer　back　when　we　were　little　kids。　Golden　Years；　it　was　called。　You　probably　don't　remember　it。　Anyway；　there　was　a　guy　on　that　show　who　used　to　say　'Perfect　paranoia　is　perfect　awareness。'　It　was　like　his　motto。　And　I　sort　of　believe　that。
　　Anyway；　I　went　to　the　park　instead　of　back　home。　I　sat　on　a　bench　and　read　the　story；　and　when　I　was　done；　I　stuck　the　paper　in　a　park　trashbarrel。　I　didn't　even　like　doing　that；　but　hey…if　Mr。　Sharpton　has　got　a　guy　following　me　around　and　checking　on　every　little　thing　I　throw　away；　I'm　fucked　up　the　wazoo　no　matter　what。
　　There　was　no　doubt　that　Andrew　Neff；　age　sixty…two；　a　columnist　for　the　Post　since　1970；　had　mitted　suicide。　He　took　a　bunch　of　pills　that　probably　would　have　done　the　trick；　then　climbed　into　his　bathtub；　put　a　plastic　bag　over　his　head；　and　rounded　the　evening　off　by　slitting　his　wrists。　There　was　a　man　totally　dedicated　to　avoiding　counselling。
　　He　left　no　note；　though；　and　the　autopsy　showed　no　signs　of　disease。　His　colleagues　scoffed　at　the　idea　of　Alzheimer's；　or　even　early　senility。　'He　was　the　sharpest　guy　I've　ever　known；　right　up　to　the　day　he　died；'　a　guy　named　Pete　Hamill　said。　'He　could　have　gone　on　Challenge　Jeopardy！　and　run　both　boards。　I　have　no　idea　why　Andy　did　such　a　thing。'　Hamill　went　on　to　say　that　one　of　Neff's　'charming　oddities'　was　his　plete　refusal　to　participate　in　the　puter　revolution。　No　modems　for　him；　no　laptop　word　processor；　no　handheld　spell…checker　from　Franklin　Electronic　Publishers。　He　didn't　even　have　a　CD　player　in　his　apartment；　Hamill　said；　Neff　claimed；　perhaps　only　half…joking；　that　pact　discs　were　the　Devil's　work。　He　loved　the　Chairman　of　the　Board；　but　only　on　vinyl。
　　This　guy　Hamill　and　several　others　said　Neff　was　unfailingly　cheerful；　right　up　to　the　afternoon　he　filed　his　last　column；　went　home；　drank　a　glass　of　wine；　and　then　demo'd　himself。　One　of　the　Post's　chatter　columnists；　Liz　Smith；　said　she'd　shared　a　piece　of　pie　with　him　just　before　he　left　on　that　last　day；　and　Neff　had　seemed　'a　trifle　distracted；　but　otherwise　fine。'
　　Distracted；　sure。　With　a　headful　of　fouders；　bews；　and　smims；　you'd　be　distracted；　too。
　　Neff；　the　piece　went　on；　had　been　something　of　an　anomaly　on　the　Post；　which　sticks　up　for　the　more　conservative　view　of　life…I　guess　they　don't　e　right　out　and　remend　electrocuting　welfare　recipients　after　three　years　and　still　no　job；　but　they　do　hint　that　it's　always　an　option。　I　guess　Neff　was　the　house　liberal。　He　wrote　a　column　called　'Eneff　Is　Eneff；'　and　in　it　he　talked　about　changing　the　way　New　York　treated　single　teen　mothers；　suggested　that　maybe　abortion　wasn't　always　murder；　argued　that　the　low…ine　housing　in　the　outer　boroughs　was　a　self…perpetuating　hate　machine。　Near　the　end　of　his　life；　he'd　been　writing　columns　about　the　size　of　the　military；　and　asking　why　we　as　a　country　felt　we　had　to　keep　pouring　on　the　bucks　when　there　was；　essentially；　no　one　left　to　fight　except　for　the　terrorists。　He　said　we'd　do　better　to　spend　that　money　creating　jobs。　And　Post　readers；　who　would　have　crucified　anyone　else　saying　stuff　like　that；　pretty　much　loved　it　when　Neff　laid　it　down。　Because　he　was　funny。　Because　he　was　charming。　Maybe　because　he　was　Irish　and　had　kissed　the　Blarney　Stone。
　　That　was　about　all。　I　started　home。　Somewhere　along　the　way　I　took　a　detour；　though；　and　ended　up　walking　all　over　downtown。　I　zigged　and　zagged；　walking　down　boulevards　and　cutting　through　parking　lots；　all　the　time　thinking　about　Andrew　Neff　climbing　into　his　bathtub　and　putting　a　Baggie　over　his　head。　A　big　one；　a　gallon…size；　keeps　all　your　leftovers　supermarket…fresh。
　　
　　He　was　funny。　He　was　charming。　And　I　had　killed　him。　Neff　had　opened　my　letter　and　it　had　gotten　into　his　head；　somehow。　Judging　by　what　I'd　read　in　the　paper；　the　special　words　and　symbols　took　maybe　three　days　to　fuck　him　up　enough　to　swallow　the　pills　and　climb　into　the　tub。
　　He　deserved　it。
　　That's　what　Mr。　Sharpton　said　about　Skipper；　and　maybe　he　was　right　。　。　。　that　time。　But　did　Neff　deserve　it？　Was　there　shit　about　him　I　didn't　know；　did　he　maybe　like　little　girls　in　the　wrong　way　or　push　dope　or　go　after　people　too　weak　to　fight　back；　like　Skipper　had　gone　after　me　with　the　shopping　cart？
　　We　want　to　help　you　use　your　talent　for　the　betterment　of　all　mankind；　Mr。　Sharpton　said；　and　surely　that　didn't　mean　making　a　guy　off　himself　because　he　thought　the　Defense　Department　was　spending　too　much　money　on　smart…bombs。　Paranoid　shit　like　that　is　strictly　for　movies　starring　Steven　Seagal　and　Jean…Claude　Van　Damme。
　　Then　I　had　a　bad　idea…a　scary　idea。
　　Maybe　TransCorp　didn't　want　him　dead　because　he　wrote　that　stuff。
　　Maybe　they　wanted　him　dead　because　people…the　wrong　people…were　starting　to　think　about　what　he　wrote。
　　'That's　crazy；'　I　said；　right　out　loud；　and　a　woman　looking　into　the　window