dk.solesurvivor-第12部分

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were　in　decline。　It　was　quartered　downtown；　in　an　entire　high…rise；　which　it　owned　and　which　covered　one　city　block。
　　Strictly　speaking；　the　Los　Angeles　Post　was　not　even　in　Los　Angeles。　It　occupied　an　aging　four…story　building　in　Sun　Valley；　near　the　Burbank　Airport；　within　the　metroplex　but　not　within　the　L。A。　city　limits。
　　Instead　of　a　multiple…level　underground　garage；　the　Post　provided　an　open　lot　surrounded　by　a　chain…link　fence　topped　with　spirals　of　razor　wire。　Rather　than　a　uniformed　attendant　with　a　name　tag　and　a　weling　smile；　a　sullen　young　man；　about　nineteen；　watched　over　the　ungated　entrance　from　a　folding　chair　under　a　dirty　café　umbrella　emblazoned　with　the　Cinzano　logo。　He　was　listening　to　rap　music　on　a　radio。　Head　shaved；　left　nostril　pierced　by　a　gold　ring；　fingernails　painted　black；　dressed　in　baggy　black　jeans　with　one　carefully　torn　knee　and　a　loose　black　T…shirt　with　the　words　FEAR　NADA　in　red　across　his　chest；　he　looked　as　if　he　were　assessing　the　parts　value　of　each　arriving　car　to　determine　which　would　bring　the　most　cash　if　stolen　and　delivered　to　a　chop　shop。　In　fact；　he　was　checking　for　an　employee　sticker　on　the　windshield；　ready　to　direct　visitors　to　on…street　parking。
　　The　stickers　were　replaced　every　two　years；　and　Joe's　was　still　valid。　Two　months　after　the　fall　of　Flight　353；　he　had　tendered　his　resignation；　but　his　editor；　Caesar　Santos；　had　refused　to　accept　it　and　had　put　him　on　an　unpaid　leave　of　absence；　guaranteeing　him　a　job　when　he　was　ready　to　return。
　　He　was　not　ready。　He　would　never　be　ready。　But　right　now　he　needed　to　use　the　newspaper's　puters　and　connections。
　　No　money　had　been　spent　on　the　reception　lounge：　institutional…beige　paint；　steel　chairs　with　blue　vinyl　pads；　a　steel…legged　coffee　table　with　a　faux…granite　Formica　top；　and　two　copies　of　that　day's　edition　of　the　Post。
　　On　the　walls　were　simple　framed　black…and…white　photographs　by　Bill　Hannett；　the　paper's　legendary　prize…winning　press　photographer。　Shots　of　riots；　a　city　in　flames；　grinning　looters　running　in　the　streets。　Earthquake…cracked　avenues；　buildings　in　rubble。　A　young　Hispanic　woman　jumping　to　her　death　from　the　sixth　floor　of　a　burning　building。　A　brooding　sky　and　a　Pacific…facing　mansion　teetering　on　the　edge　of　ruin　on　a　rain…soaked；　sliding　hillside。　In　general；　no　journalistic　enterprise；　whether　electronic　or　print；　built　its　reputation　or　revenues　on　good　news。
　　Behind　the　reception　counter　was　Dewey　Beemis；　the　bination　receptionist　and　security　guard；　who　had　worked　at　the　Post　for　over　twenty　years；　since　an　insanely　egotistical　billionaire　had　founded　it　with　the　naive　and　hopeless　intention　of　toppling　the　politically　connected　Times　from　its　perch　of　power　and　prestige。　Originally　the　paper　had　been　quartered　in　a　new　building　in　Century　City；　with　its　public　spaces　conceived　and　furnished　by　the　uberdesigner；　Steven　Chase；　at　which　time　Dewey　had　been　only　one　of　several　guards　and　not　a　receptionist。　Even　a　megalomaniacal　billionaire；　determined　to　prevent　the　dehydration　of　his　pride；　grows　weary　of　pouring　away　money　with　the　tap　open　wide。　Thus　the　grand　offices　were　traded　for　more　humble　space　in　the　valley。　The　staff　had　been　pared　down；　and　Dewey　had　hung　on　by　virtue　of　being　the　only　six…feet…four；　bull…necked；　plank…shouldered　security　guard　who　could　type　eighty　words　a　minute　and　claim　awesome　puter　skills。
　　With　the　passage　of　time；　the　Post　had　begun　to　break　even。　The　brilliant　and　visionary　Mr。　Chase　subsequently　designed　numerous　striking　interiors；　which　were　celebrated　in　Architectural　Digest　and　elsewhere；　and　then　died　in　spite　of　his　genius　and　talent；　just　as　the　billionaire　would　one　day　die　in　spite　of　his　vast　fortune；　just　as　Dewey　Beemis　would　die　in　spite　of　his　mendable　variety　of　skills　and　his　infectious　smile。
　　'Joe！'　Dewey　said；　grinning；　rising　from　his　chair；　a　bearish　presence；　extending　his　big　hand　across　the　counter。
　　Joe　shook　hands。　'How're　you　doing；　Dewey？'
　　'Carver　and　Martin　both　graduated　summa　cum　laude　from　UCLA　in　June；　one　going　to　law　school　now；　the　other　medical；'　Dewey　gushed；　as　if　this　news　were　only　hours　old　and　about　to　hit　the　front　page　of　the　next　day's　Post。　Unlike　the　billionaire　who　employed　him；　Dewey's　pride　was　not　in　his　own　acplishments　but　in　those　of　his　children。　'My　Julie；　she　finished　her　second　year　on　scholarship　at　Yale　with　a　three…point…eight　average；　and　this　fall　she　takes　over　as　editor　of　the　student　literary　magazine；　wants　to　be　a　novelist　like　this　Annie　Proulx　she's　always　reading　over　and　over　again…'
　　With　the　sudden　memory　of　Flight　353　passing　through　his　eyes　as　obviously　as　a　dimming　cloud　across　a　bright　moon；　Dewey　silenced　himself；　ashamed　to　have　been　boasting　about　his　sons　and　daughter　to　a　man　whose　children　were　lost　forever。
　　'How's　Lena？'　Joe　asked；　inquiring　about　Dewey's　wife。
　　'She's　good。　。　。　she's　okay；　yeah；　doing　okay。'　Dewey　smiled　and　nodded　to　cover　his　uneasiness；　editing　his　natural　enthusiasm　for　his　family。
　　Joe　hated　this　awkwardness　in　his　friends；　their　pity。　Even　after　an　entire　year；　here　it　was。　This　was　one　reason　he　avoided　everyone　from　his　old　life。　The　pity　in　their　eyes　was　genuine　passion；　but　to　Joe；　although　he　knew　that　he　was　being　unfair；　they　also　seemed　to　be　passing　a　sad　judgment　on　him　for　being　unable　to　put　his　life　back　together。
　　'I　need　to　go　upstairs；　Dewey；　put　in　a　little　time；　do　some　research；　if　that's　okay。'
　　Dewey's　expression　brightened。　'You　ing　back；　Joe？'
　　'Maybe；'　Joe　lied。
　　'Back　on　staff？'
　　'Thinking　about　it。'
　　'Mr。　Santos　would　love　to　hear　that。'
　　'Is　he　here　today？'
　　'No。　On　vacation；　actually；　fishing　up　in　Vancouver。'
　　Relieved　that　he　wouldn't　have　to　lie　to　Caesar　about　his　true　motives；　Joe　said；　'There's　just　something　I've　gotten　interested　in；　a　quirky　human　interest　story；　not　my　usual　thing。　Thought　I'd　e　do　some　background。'
　　'Mr。　Santos　would　want　you　to　feel　like　you're　home。　You　go　on　up。'
　　'Thanks；　Dewey。'
　　Joe　pushed　through　a　swinging　door　into　a　long　hallway　with　a　worn　and　stained　green　carpet；　age…mottled　paint；　and　a　discoloured　acoustic…tile　ceiling。　Following　the　abandonment　of　the　fat…city　trappings　that　had　characterized　the　Post's　years　in　Century　City；　the　preferred　image　was　guerrilla　journalism；　hardscrabble　but　righteous。
　　
　　To　the　left　was　an　elevator　alcove。　The　doors　at　both　shafts　were　scraped　and　dented。
　　The　ground　floor…largely　given　over　to　file　rooms；　clerical　offices；　classified　ad　sales；　and　the　circulation　department…was　full　of　Saturday　silence。　In　the　quiet；　Joe　felt　like　an　intruder。　He　imagined　that　anyone　he　encountered　would　perceive　at　once　that　he　had　returned　under　false　pretenses。
　　While　he　was　waiting　for　an　elevator　to　open；　he　was　surprised　by　Dewey；　who　had　hurried　from　the　reception　lounge　to　give　him　a　sealed　white　envelope。　'Almost　forgot　this。　Lady　came　by　few　days　ago；　said　she　had　some　information　on　a　story　just　right　for　you。'
　　'What　story？'
　　'She　didn't　say。　Just　that　you'd　understand　this。'
　　Joe　accepted　the　envelope　as　the　elevator　doors　opened。
　　Dewey　said；　'Told　her　you　hadn't　worked　here　ten　months；　and　she　wanted　your　phone　number。　Of　course　I　said　I　couldn't　give　it　out。　Or　your　address。'
　　Stepping　into　the　elevator；　Joe　said；　'Thanks；　Dewey。'
　　'Told　her　I'd　send　it　on　or　call　you　about　it。　Then　I　discovered　you　moved　and　got　a　new　phone；　unlisted；　and　we　didn't　have　it。'
　　'Can't　be　important；'　Joe　assured　him；　indicating　the　envelope。　After　all；　he　was　not　actually　returning　to　journalism。
　　As　the　elevator　doors　started　to　close；　Dewey　blocked　them。　Frowning；　he　said；　'Wasn't　just　personnel　records　not　up　to　speed　with　you；　Joe。　Nobody　here；　none　of　your　friends；　knew　how　to　reach　you。'
　　'I　know。'
　　Dewey　hesitated　before　he　said；　'You've　been　way　down；　huh？'
　　'Pretty　far；'　Joe　acknowledged。　'But　I'm　climbing　back　up。'
　　'Friends　can　hold　the　ladder　steady；　make　it　easier。'　Touched；　Joe　nodded。
　　'Just　remember；'　Dewey　said。
　　'Thanks。'
　　Dewey　stepped　back；　and　the　doors　closed。　The　elev