dk.coldfire-第12章

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ng　only　because　I　listen　to　myself　saying　it。〃　
　〃You're　not　in　a　trance。〃　
　〃No。〃　
　〃You　claim　to　be　a　medium；　a　psychic？〃　〃No。　I'm　sure　I'm　not。〃　
　〃You　think　the　dead　are　speaking　through　you？〃　〃No。　Not　that。〃　
　〃Then　who？〃　〃I　don't　know。〃　
　〃God？〃　〃Maybe。〃　
　〃But　you　don't　know；〃　Geary　said　exasperatedly　〃I　don't　know。〃　
　〃You're　not　only　the　strangest　man　I've　ever　met；　Jim。　You're　also　the　most　frustrating。〃　
　They　arrived　at　McCarran　International　in　Las　Vegas　at　ten　o'clock　that　night。　Only　a　couple　of　taxis　were　on　the　approach　road　to　the　airport。　
　The　rain　had　stopped。　The　palm　trees　stirred　in　a　mild　breeze；　and　everything　looked　as　if　it　had　been　scrubbed　and　polished。　
　Jim　opened　the　door　of　the　Toyota　even　as　Father　Geary　braked　in　front　of　the　terminal。　He　got　out；　turned；　and　leaned　back　in　for　a　last　word　with　the　priest。　
　〃Thank　you；　Father。　You　probably　saved　my　life。〃　
　〃Nothing　that　dramatic。〃　
　〃I'd　like　to　give　Our　Lady　of　the　Desert　some　of　the　three　thousand　I'm　carrying；　but　I　might　need　it　all。　I　just　don't　know　what's　going　to　happen　in　Boston；　what　I　might　have　to　spend　it　for。〃　
　The　priest　shook　his　head。　〃I　don't　expect　anything。〃　
　〃When　I　get　home　again；　I'll　send　some　money。　It'll　be　cash　in　an　envelope；　no　return　address；　but　it's　honest　money　in　spite　of　that。　
　You　can　accept　it　in　good　conscience。〃　
　〃It's　not　necessary；　Jim。　It　was　enough　just　to　meet　you。　Maybe　you　should　know。　。　。　you　brought　a　sense　of　the　mystical　back　into　the　life　of　a　weary　priest　who　had　sometimes　begun　to　doubt　his　calling　but　who　never　doubt　again。〃　
　They　regarded　each　other　with　a　mutual　affection　that　clearly　surprised　them　both。　Jim　leaned　into　the　car；　Geary　reached　across　the　seat；　and　they　shook　hands。　The　priest　had　a　firm；　dry　grip。　
　〃Go　with　God；〃　Geary　said。　
　〃I　hope　so。〃　
　AUGUST　24　THROUGH　AUGUST　26
　
　Sitting　at　her　desk　in　the　Press　newsroom　in　the　post…midnight　hours　of　Friday　morning；　staring　at　her　blank　puter　screen；　Holly　had　sunk　so　low　psychologically　that　she　just　wanted　to　go　home；　get　into　bed；　and　pull　the　covers　over　her　head　for　a　few　days。　
　She　despised　people　who　were　always　feeling　sorry　for　themselves。　She　tried　to　shame　herself　out　of　her　funk；　but　she　began　to　pity　herself　for　having　descended　to　self　pity。　Of　course；　it　was　impossible　not　to　see　the　humor　in　that　situation；　but　she　was　unable　to　manage　a　smile　at　her　own　expense；　instead；　she　pitied　herself　for　being　such　a　silly　and　amusing　figure。　
　She　was　glad　that　tomorrow　morning's　edition　had　been　put　to　bed　and　that　the　newsroom　was　almost　deserted；　so　none　of　her　colleagues　could　see　her　in　such　a　debased　condition。The　only　other　people　in　sight　were　Tommy　Weeks…a　lanky　maintenance　man　who　was　emptying　waste　cans　and　sweeping　up…and　George　Fintel。　
　George；　who　was　on　the　city…government　beat；　was　at　his　desk　at　the　far　end　of　the　big　room；　slumped　forward；　head　on　his　folded　arms；　asleep。　
　Occasionally　he　snored　loud　enough　for　the　sound　to　carry　all　the　way　to　Holly。　When　the　bars　closed；　George　sometimes　returned　to　the　newsroom　instead　of　to　his　apartment；　just　as　an　old　dray　horse；　when　left　on　slack　reins；　will　haul　its　cart　back　along　a　familiar　route　to　the　place　it　thinks　of　as　home。　He　would　wake　sometime　during　the　night；　realize　where　he　was；　and　wearily　weave　off　to　bed　at　last。　
　〃Politicians；〃　George　often　said；　〃are　the　lowest　form　of　life；　having　undergone　devolution　from　that　first　slimy　beast　that　crawled　out　of　the　primordial　sea。〃　At　fifty…seven；　he　was　too　burnt…out　to　start　over；　so　he　continued　to　spend　his　days　writing　about　public　officials　whom　he　privately　reviled；　and　in　the　process　he　had　e　to　hate　himself；　as　well；　and　to　seek　solace　in　a　prodigious　daily　intake　of　vodka　martinis。　
　If　she'd　had　any　tolerance　for　liquor；　Holly　would　have　worried　about　winding　up　like　George　Fintel。　But　one　drink　gave　her　a　nice　buzz；　two　made　her　tipsy；　and　three　put　her　to　sleep。　
　I　hate　my　life；　she　thought。　
　〃You　self　pitying　wretch；〃　she　said　aloud。　
　Well；　I　do。　I　hate　it；　everything's　so　hopeless。　
　〃You　nauseating　despair　junkie；〃　she　said　softly　but　with　genuine　disgust。　
　〃You　talking　to　me？〃　Tommy　Weeks　said；　piloting　a　push　broom　along　the　aisle　in　front　of　her　desk。　
　〃No；　Tommy。　Talking　to　myself〃　〃You？　Gee；　what've　you　got　to　be　unhappy　about？〃　〃My　life。〃　
　He　stopped　and　leaned　on　his　broom；　crossing　one　long　leg　in　front　of　the　other。　With　his　broad　freckled　face；　jug　ears；　and　mop　of　carroty　hair；　he　looked　sweet；　innocent；　kind。　〃Things　haven't　turned　out　like　you　planned？〃　Holly　picked　up　a　half　empty　bag　of　M　&　Ms；　tossed　a　few　pieces　of　candy　into　her　mouth；　and　leaned　back　in　her　chair。　〃When　I　left　the　University　of　Missouri　with　a　journalism　degree；　I　was　gonna　shake　up　this　world；　break　big　stories；　collect　Pulitzers　for　doorstops…and　now　look　at　me。　You　know　what　I　did　this　evening？〃　〃Whatever　it　was；　I　can　tell　you　didn't　enjoy　it。〃　
　〃I　was　down　at　the　Hilton　for　the　annual　banquet　of　the　Greater　Port　land　Lumber　Products　Association；　interviewing　manufacturers　of　prefabricated　pullmans；　plyboard　salesmen；　and　redwood…decking　distributors。　
　They　gave　out　the　Timber　Trophy…that's　what　they　call　it…for　the　lumber　products　man　of　the　year。〃　I　got　to　interview　him；　too。　Rushed　back　here　to　get　it　all　written　up　in　time　for　the　morning　edition。　Hot　stuff　like　that；　you　don't　want　to　let　the　bastards　at　The　New　York　Times　scoop　you　on　it〃　〃I　thought　you　were　arts　and　leisure。〃　
　〃Got　sick　of　it。　Let　me　tell　you；　Tommy；　the　wrong　poet　can　turn　you　the　arts　for　maybe　a　decade。〃　
　She　tossed　more　chocolate　morsels　in　her　mouth。　She　usually　didn't　eat　candy　because　she　was　determined　not　to　wind　up　with　a　weight　problem　like　the　one　that　had　always　plagued　her　mother；　and　she　was　gobbling　M　&　Ms　now　just　to　make　herself　feel　more　miserable　and　worthless。　S　was　in　a　bad　downward　spiral。　
　She　said；　〃TV　and　movies；　they　make　journalism　look　so　glamorous　exciting。　It's　all　lies。〃　
　〃Me；〃　Tommy　said；　〃I　haven't　had　the　life　I　planned　on；　either。　Y　think　I　figured　to　wind　up　head　of　maintenance　for　the　Press；　just　a　glorified　janitor？〃　〃I　guess　not；〃　she　said；　feeling　small　and　self　centered　for　whining　at　him　when　his　lot　in　life　was　not　as　desirable　as　her　own。　
　〃Hell；　no。　From　the　time　I　was　a　little　kid；　I　knew　I　was　gonna　grow　up　to　drive　one　of　those　big　damn　old　sanitation　trucks；　up　there　in　that　high　cab；　pushin'　the　buttons　to　operate　the　hydraulic…ram　pactor。〃　
　His　voice　became　wistful。　〃Ridin'　above　the　world；　all　that　powerful　machinery　at　my　mand。　It　was　my　dream；　and　I　went　for　it；　but　I　couldn't　pass　the　city　physical。　Have　this　kidney　problem；　see。　
　Nothin'　serious　but　enough　for　the　city's　health　insurers　to　disqualify　me。〃　
　He　leaned　on　his　broom；　gazing　off　into　the　distance；　smiling　faintly；　probably　visualizing　himself　ensconced　in　the　kingly　driver's　seat　of　a　garbage　truck。　
　Staring　at　him　in　disbelief；　Holly　decided　that　his　broad　face　did　not；　after　all；　look　sweet　and　innocent　and　kind。　She　had　misread　the　meaning　of　its　lines　and　planes。　It　was　a　stupid　face。　
　She　wanted　to　say；　You　idiot！　I　dreamed　of　winning　Pulitzers；　and　now　I'm　a　hack　writing　industry　puff　pieces　about　the　damn　Timber　Trophy！　That　is　tragedy。　You　think　having　to　settle　for　being　a　janitor　instead　of　a　garbage　collector　is　in　any　way　parable？　But　she　didn't　say　anything　because　she　realized　that　they　were　parable。　An　unfulfilled　dream；　regardless　of　whether　it　was　lofty　or　humble；　was　still　a　tragedy　to　the　dreamer　who　had　given　up　hope。　
　Pulitzers　never　won　and　sanitation　trucks　never　driven　were　equally　capable　of　inducing　despair　and　insomnia。　And　that　was　the　most　depressing　thought　she'd　had　yet。　
　Tommy's　eyes　swam　into　focus　again。　〃You　gotta　not　dwell　on　it；　Miss　Thorne。　Life。　。　。　it's　like　getting'　a　blueberry　muffin　in　a　coffeeshop　when　what　you　ordered　was　the　apricot…nut。　There　aren't　any　apricots　or　nuts　in　it；　and　you　can　get　tied　up　in　knots　just　thinkin'　about　what　you're　missin'；　when　the　smarter　thing　to　do　is　realize　that　blueberries　have　a　nice　taste；　too。〃　
　Across　the　room；　George　Fintel　farted　in　his　sleep。　It　was　a　window　rattler。　If　the　Press　had　been　a　big　newspaper；　with　reporters　hanging　around　who'd　just　returned　from　Beirut　or　some　war　zone；　they'd　have　all　dived　for　cover。　
　My　God；　Holly　thought；　my　life's　nothing　but　a　bad　imitation　of　a　Damon　Runyon　story。　Sleazy　newsrooms　after　midnight。　Half　baked　philosopher　janitors。　Hard…drinking　reporters　who　sleep　at　their　desks。　
　But　it　was　Runyon　as　revised　by　an　absurdist　writer　in　collaboration　with　a　bleak　existentialist。　
　〃I　feel　better　just　having　talked　to　you；〃　Holly　lied。　〃Thanks；　Tommy。〃　
　〃Anytime；　Miss　Thorne。〃　
　As　Tommy　set　to　work　with　his　push　broom　again　and　moved　on　down　the　aisle；　Holly　tossed　some　more　candy　into　her　mouth　and　wondered　if　she　would　be　able　to　pass　the　physical　required　of　potential　sanitation　truck　drivers。　On　the　positive　side；　the　work　would　be　different　from　journalism　as　she　knew　it　collecting　garbage　instead　of　dispensing　it…or　she　would　have　the　satisfaction　of　knowing　that　at　least　one　person　Portland　would　desperately　envy　her。　
　She　looked　at　the　wall　clock。　One…thirty　in　the　morning。　She　wasn't　sleepy。　She　didn't　want　to　go　home　and　lie　awake；　staring　at　the　ceiling　with　nothing　to　do　but　indulge　in　more　self　examination　and　self　pity　Well；　actually；　that　was　what　she　wanted；　because　she　was　in　a　wallow　in　it　mood；　but　she　knew　it　wasn't　a　healthy　thing　to　do。　
　Unfortunately；　she　was　without　alternatives：　weekday；　wee…hour　nightlife　in　Portland　was　twenty…four…hour　doughnut　shop。　
　She　was　less　than　a　day　away　from　the　start　of　her　vacation；　and　She　desperately　needed　it。　She　had　made　no　plans。　She　was　just　going　to　hang　out；　never　once　look　at　a　newspaper。　Maybe　see　some　movies。　
　maybe　read　a　few　books。　Maybe　go　to　the　Betty　Ford　Center　to　take　the　self　pity　detox　program。　
　She　had　reached　that　dangerous　state　in　which　she　began　to　brood　about　her　name。　Holly　Thorne。　Cute。　Real　cute。　What　in　God's　name　had　possessed　her　parents　to　hang　that　one　on　her？　Was　it　possible　to　imagine　the　Pulitzer　mittee　giving　that　grand　prize　to　a　woman　with　a　name　more　suitable　to　a　cartoon　character？　Sometimes…always　in　the　still　heart　of　the　night；　of　course…she　was　tempted　to　call　her　folks　and　demand　to　know　whether　this　name　thing　had　been　just　bad　taste；　a　misfired　joke；　or　conscious　cruelty。　
　But　her　parents　were　salt…of　the…earth　working…class　people　who　had　denied　themselves　many　pleasures　in　order　to　give　her　a　first…rate　education　；　and　they　wanted　nothing　but　the　best　for　her。　They　would　be　devastated　to　hear　that　she　loathed　her　name；　when　they　no　doubt　thought　it　was　clever　and　even　sophisticated。　She　loved　them　fiercely；　and　she　had　to　be　in　the　deepest　trenches　of　depression　before　she　had　the　gall　to　blame　them　for　her　shortings。　
　Half　afraid　that　she　would　pick　up　the　phone　and　call　them；　she　quickly　turned　to　her　puter　again　and　accessed　the　current…edition　file。　The　Press's　data…retrieval　system　made　it　possible　for　any　reporter　on　staff　to