sk.everythingseventual-第66章

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you　to　deny　me　a　specific　room；　if　I　request　that　specific　room　and　the　room　is　vacant。　And　1408　is　vacant。　1408　is　always　vacant　these　days。'
　　But　Mr。　Olin　was　not　to　be　diverted　from　the　subject　of　Mike's　last　three　books…New　York　Times　best…sellers；　all…just　yet。　He　simply　shuffled　through　them　a　third　time。　The　mellow　lamplight　reflected　off　their　shiny　covers。　There　was　a　lot　of　purple　on　the　covers。　Purple　sold　scary　books　better　than　any　other　color；　Mike　had　been　told。
　　'I　didn't　get　a　chance　to　dip　into　these　until　earlier　this　evening；'　Olin　said。　'I've　been　quite　busy。　I　usually　am。　The　Dolphin　is　small　by　New　York　standards；　but　we　run　at　ninety　per　cent　occupancy　and　usually　a　problem　es　through　the　front　door　with　every　guest。'
　　'Like　me。'
　　Olin　smiled　a　little。　'I'd　say　you're　a　bit　of　a　special　problem；　Mr。　Enslin。　You　and　your　Mr。　Robertson　and　all　your　threats。'
　　Mike　felt　nettled　all　over　again。　He　had　made　no　threats；　unless　Robertson　himself　was　a　threat。　And　he　had　been　forced　to　use　the　lawyer；　as　a　man　might　be　forced　to　use　a　crowbar　on　a　rusty　lockbox　which　would　no　longer　accept　the　key。
　　The　lockbox　isn't　yours；　a　voice　inside　told　him；　but　the　laws　of　the　state　and　the　country　said　differently。　The　laws　said　that　room　1408　in　the　Hotel　Dolphin　was　his　if　he　wanted　it；　and　as　long　as　no　one　else　had　it　first。
　　He　became　aware　that　Olin　was　watching　him；　still　with　that　faint　smile。　As　if　he　had　been　following　Mike's　interior　dialogue　almost　word　for　word。　It　was　an　unfortable　feeling；　and　Mike　was　finding　this　an　unexpectedly　unfortable　meeting。　It　felt　as　if　he　had　been　on　the　defensive　ever　since　he'd　taken　out　the　minicorder　（which　was　usually　intimidating）　and　turned　it　on。
　　'If　any　of　this　has　a　point；　Mr。　Olin；　I'm　afraid　I　lost　sight　of　it　a　turn　or　two　back。　And　I've　had　a　long　day。　If　our　wrangle　over　room　1408　is　really　over；　I'd　like　to　go　on　upstairs　and…'
　　'I　read　one　。　。　。　uh；　what　would　you　call　them？　Essays？　Tales？'　Bill…payers　was　what　Mike　called　them；　but　he　didn't　intend　to　say　that　with　the　tape　running。　Not　even　though　it　was　his　tape。
　　'Story；'　Olin　decided。　'I　read　one　story　from　each　book。　The　one　about　the　Rilsby　house　in　Kansas　from　your　Haunted　Houses　book…'
　　'Ah；　yes。　The　axe　murders。'　The　fellow　who　had　chopped　up　all　six　members　of　the　Eugene　Rilsby　family　had　never　been　caught。
　　'Exactly　so。　And　the　one　about　the　night　you　spent　camped　out　on　the　graves　of　the　lovers　in　Alaska　who　mitted　suicide…the　ones　people　keep　claiming　to　see　around　Sitka…and　the　account　of　your　night　in　Gartsby　Castle。　That　was　actually　quite　amusing。　I　was　surprised。'
　　Mike's　ear　was　carefully　tuned　to　catch　the　undernotes　of　contempt　in　even　the　blandest　ments　about　his　Ten　Nights　books；　and　he　had　no　doubt　that　he　sometimes　heard　contempt　that　wasn't　there…few　creatures　on　earth　are　so　paranoid　as　the　writer　who　believes；　deep　in　his　heart；　that　he　is　slumming；　Mike　had　discovered…but　he　didn't　believe　there　was　any　contempt　here。
　　'Thank　you；'　he　said。　'I　guess。'　He　glanced　down　at　his　minicorder。　Usually　its　little　red　eye　seemed　to　be　watching　the　other　guy；　daring　him　to　say　the　wrong　thing。　This　evening　it　seemed　to　be　looking　at　Mike　himself。
　　'Oh　yes；　I　meant　it　as　a　pliment。'　Olin　tapped　the　books。　'I　expect　to　finish　these　。　。　。　but　for　the　writing。　It's　the　writing　I　like。　I　was　surprised　to　find　myself　laughing　at　your　quite　unsupernatural　adventures　in　Gartsby　Castle；　and　I　was　surprised　to　find　you　as　good　as　you　are。　As　subtle　as　you　are。　I　expected　more　hack　and　slash。'
　　Mike　steeled　himself　for　what　would　almost　certainly　e　next；　Olin's　variation　of　What's　a　nice　girl　like　you　doing　in　a　place　like　this。　Olin　the　urbane　hotelier；　host　to　blond　women　who　wore　black　dresses　out　into　the　night；　hirer　of　weedy；　retiring　men　who　wore　tuxes　and　tinkled　old　standards　like　'Night　and　Day'　in　the　hotel　bar。　Olin　who　probably　read　Proust　on　his　nights　off。
　　'But　they　are　disturbing；　too；　these　books。　If　I　hadn't　looked　at　them；　I　don't　think　I　would　have　bothered　waiting　for　you　this　evening。　Once　I　saw　that　lawyer　with　his　briefcase；　I　knew　you　meant　to　stay　in　that　goddamned　room；　and　that　nothing　I　could　say　was　apt　to　dissuade　you。　But　the　books　。　。　。'
　　Mike　reached　out　and　snapped　off　the　minicorder…that　little　red　staring　eye　was　starting　to　give　him　the　willies。　'Do　you　want　to　know　why　I'm　bottom…feeding？　Is　that　it？'
　　'I　assume　you　do　it　for　the　money；'　Olin　said　mildly。　'And　you're　feeding　a　long　way　from　the　bottom；　at　least　in　my　estimation　。　。　。　although　it's　interesting　that　you　would　jump　so　nimbly　to　such　a　conclusion。'
　　Mike　felt　warmth　rising　in　his　cheeks。　No；　this　wasn't　going　the　way　he　had　expected　at　all；　he　had　never　snapped　his　recorder　off　in　the　middle　of　a　conversation。　But　Olin　wasn't　what　he　had　seemed。　I　was　led　astray　by　his　hands；　Mike　thought。　Those　pudgy　little　hotel　manager's　hands　with　their　neat　white　crescents　of　manicured　nail。
　　'What　concerned　me…what　frightened　me…is　that　I　found　myself　reading　the　work　of　an　intelligent；　talented　man　who　doesn't　believe　one　single　thing　he　has　written。'
　　That　wasn't　exactly　true；　Mike　thought。　He'd　written　perhaps　two　dozen　stories　he　believed　in；　had　actually　published　a　few。　He'd　written　reams　of　poetry　he　believed　in　during　his　first　eighteen　months　in　New　York；　when　he　had　starved　on　the　payroll　of　The　Village　Voice。　But　did　he　believe　that　the　headless　ghost　of　Eugene　Rilsby　walked　his　deserted　Kansas　farmhouse　by　moonlight？　No。　He　had　spent　the　night　in　that　farmhouse；　camped　out　on　the　dirty　linoleum　hills　of　the　kitchen　floor；　and　had　seen　nothing　scarier　than　two　mice　trundling　along　the　baseboard。　He　had　spent　a　hot　summer　night　in　the　ruins　of　the　Transylvanian　castle　where　Vlad　Tepes　supposedly　still　held　court；　the　only　vampires　to　actually　show　up　had　been　a　fog　of　European　mosquitoes。　During　the　night　camped　out　by　the　grave　of　serial　killer　Jeffrey　Dahmer；　a　white；　blood…streaked　figure　waving　a　knife　had　e　at　him　out　of　the　two　o'clock　darkness；　but　the　giggles　of　the　apparition's　friends　had　given　him　away；　and　Mike　Enslin　hadn't　been　terribly　impressed；　anyway；　he　knew　a　teenage　ghost　waving　a　rubber　knife　when　he　saw　one。　But　he　had　no　intention　of　telling　any　of　this　to　Olin。　He　couldn't　afford　…
　　Except　he　could。　The　minicorder　（a　mistake　from　the　getgo；　he　now　understood）　was　stowed　away　again；　and　this　meeting　was　about　as　off…the…record　as　you　could　get。　Also；　he　had　e　to　admire　Olin　in　a　weird　way。　And　when　you　admired　a　man；　you　wanted　to　tell　him　the　truth。
　　'No；'　he　said；　'I　don't　believe　in　ghoulies　and　ghosties　and　long…leggety　beasties。　I　think　it's　good　there　are　no　such　things；　because　I　don't　believe　there's　any　good　Lord　that　can　protect　us　from　them；　either。　That's　what　I　believe；　but　I've　kept　an　open　mind　from　the　very　start。　I　may　never　win　the　Pulitzer　Prize　for　investigating　The　Barking　Ghost　in　Mount　Hope　Cemetery；　but　I　would　have　written　fairly　about　him　if　he　had　shown　up。'
　　Olin　said　something；　only　a　single　word；　but　too　low　for　Mike　to　make　it　out。
　　'I　beg　pardon？'
　　'I　said　no。'　Olin　looked　at　him　almost　apologetically。
　　Mike　sighed。　Olin　thought　he　was　a　liar。　When　you　got　to　that　point；　the　only　choices　were　to　put　up　your　dukes　or　disengage　totally　from　the　discussion。　'Why　don't　we　leave　this　for　another　day；　Mr。　Olin？　I'll　just　go　on　upstairs　and　brush　my　teeth。　Perhaps　I'll　see　Kevin　O'Malley　materialize　behind　me　in　the　bathroom　mirror。'
　　Mike　started　to　get　out　of　his　chair；　and　Olin　put　out　one　of　his　pudgy；　carefully　manicured　hands　to　stop　him。　'I'm　not　calling　you　a　liar；'　he　said；　'but；　Mr。　Enslin；　you　don't　believe。　Ghosts　rarely　appear　to　those　who　don't　believe　in　them；　and　when　they　do；　they　are　rarely　seen。　Why；　Eugene　Rilsby　could　have　bowled　his　severed　head　all　the　way　down　the　front　hall　of　his　home；　and　you　wouldn't　have　heard　a　thing！'
　　Mike　stood　up；　then　bent　to　grab　his　overnight　case。　'If　that's　so；　I　won't　have　anything　to　worry　about　in　room　1408；　will　I？'
　　'But　you　will；'　Olin　said。　'You　will。　Because　there　are　no　ghosts　in　room　1408　and　never　have　been。　There's　something　in　there…I've　felt　it　myself…but　it's　not　a　spirit　presence。　In　an　abandoned　house　or　an　old　castle　keep；　your　unbelief　may　serve　you　as　protection。　In　room　1408；　it　will　only　render　you　more　vulnerable。　Don't　do　it；　Mr。　Enslin。　That's　why　I　waited　for　you　tonight；　to　ask　you；　beg　you；　not　to　do　it。　Of　all　the　people　on　earth　who　don't　belong　in　that　room；　the　man　who　wrote　those　cheerful；　exploitative　true…ghost　books　leads　the　list。'
　　Mike　heard　this　and　didn't　hear　it　at　the　same　time。　And　you　turned　off　your　tape　recorder！　he　was　raving。　He　embarrasses　me　into　turning　off　my　tape　recorder　and　then　he　turns　into　Boris　Karloff　hosting　The　All…Star　Spook　Weekend！　Fuck　it。　I'll　quote　him　anyway。　If　he　doesn't　like　it；　let　him　sue　me。
　　All　at　once　he　was　burning　to　get　upstairs；　not　just　so　he　could　start　getting　his　long　night　in　a　corner　hotel　room　over　with；　but　because　he　wanted　to　transcribe　what　Olin　had　just　said　while　it　was　still　fresh　in　his　mind。
　　'Have　a　drink；　Mr。　Enslin。'
　　'No；　I　really…'
　　Mr。　Olin　reached　into　his　coat　pocket　and　brought　out　a　key　on　a　long　brass　paddle。　The　brass　looked　old　and　scratched　and　tarnished。　Embossed　on　it　were　the　numbers　1408。　'Please；'　Olin　said。　'Humor　me。　You　give　me　ten　more　minutes　of　your　time…long　enough　to　consume　a　short　Scotch…and　I'll　hand　you　this　key。　I　would　give　almost　anything　to　be　able　to　change　your　mind；　but　I　like　to　think　I　can　recognize　the　inevitable　when　I　see　it。'
　　'You　still　use　actual　keys　here？'　Mike　asked。　'That's　sort　of　a　nice　touch。　Antiquey。'
　　'The　Dolphin　went　to　a　MagCard　system　in　1979；　Mr。　Enslin；　the　year　I　took　the　job　as　manager。　1408　is　the　only　room　in　the　house　that　still　opens　with　a　key。　There　was　no　need　to　put　a　MagCard　lock　on　its　door；　because　there's　never　anyone　inside；　the　room　was　last　occupied　by　a　paying　guest　in　1978。'
　　'You're　shitting　me！'　Mike　sat　down　again；　and　unlimbered　his　minicorder　again。　He　pushed　the　RECORD　button　and　said；　'House　manager　Olin　claims　1408　not　rented　to　a　paying　guest　in　over　twenty　years。'
　　'It　is　just　as　well　that　1408　has　never　needed　a　MagCard　lock　on　its　door；　because　I　am　pletely　positive　the　device　wouldn't　work。　Digital　wristwatches　don't　work　in　room　1408。　Sometimes　they　run　backward；　sometimes　they　simply　go　out；　but　you　can't　tell　time　with　one。　Not　in　room　1408；　you　can't。　The　same　is　true　of　pocket　calculators　and　cell…phones。　If　you're　wearing　a　beeper；　Mr。　Enslin；　I　advise　you　to　turn　it　off；　because　once　you're　in　room　1408；　it　will　start　beeping　at　will。'　He　paused。　'And　turning　it　off　isn't　guaranteed　to　work；　either；　it　may　turn　itself　back　on。　The　only　sure　cure　is　to　pull　the　batteries。'　He　pushed　the　STOP　button　on　the　minicorder　without　examining　the　buttons；　Mike　supposed　he　used　a　similar　model　for　dictating　memos。　'Actually；　Mr。　Enslin；　the　only　sure　cure　is　to　stay　the　hell　out　of　that　room。'
　　'I　can't　do　that；'　Mike　said；　taking　his　minicorder　back　and　stowing　it　once