scoonts.theminotaur-第24部分

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less　Arnold　Spivey　sitting　on　Wilson's　stoop　drinking　from　a　bottle　in　a　paper　bag。
　She　was　going　to　get　pictures。　They　would　have　to　do　something　if　she　had　pictures。　And　if　they　didn't　do　anything；　she　would　send　the　photos　to　that　neighborhood　watch　group　or　maybe　even　the　newspapers。　Leaving　old　people　to　watch　their　neighborhood　rot　and　the　dope　peddlers　take　over…they　would　have　to　do　something　about　pictures。　She　snapped　the　camera　at　the　two　men　on　the　sidewalk；　slick　loose…jointed　dudes　with　sports　coats　and　pimp　hats　with　wide　brims　and　flashy　hatbands。　The　license　plate　of　that　big　car　would　be　in　both　photos。
　Here　es　someone。　A　white　man；　walking　bold　as　brass　after　dark　in　a　neighborhood　as　black　as　printer's　ink；　a　neighborhood　where　the　kids　would　rip　off　your　arm　to　get　your　Timex　watch。　She　squinted。　Late　fifties　or　early　sixties；　chunky；　wearing　a　full…length　raincoat　and　a　little　trilby　hat。　Oh　yes；　he　went　by　earlier　this　evening；　just　walking　and　looking。　She　hadn't　paid　much　attention　then；　but　here　he　is；　back　again。　She　pointed　the　camera　and　clicked　the　shutter。　The　two　dudes　on　the　opposite　sidewalk　by　the　big　car　were　watching　him；　but　he　was　ignoring　them。
　Now　what　did　he　just　do？　Stuffed　something　in　that　hollow　iron　fence　post　as　he　walked　by。
　Why　did　he　do　that？　My　God；　the　street　is　full　of　trash；　why　didn't　he　just　throw　it　down　like　everyone　else　does？
　The　two　men　who　had　gone　into　the　crack　house　came　out　and　they　and　their　patriots　piled　in　the　car　and　left；　laughing　and　peeling　rubber。　Mrs。　Jackson　got　more　photos　of　them；　then　busied　herself　in　the　kitchen　making　tea　since　the　street　seemed　quiet　now。
　She　was　sipping　tea　in　the　darkened　living　room　and　looking　through　the　curtain　gap　when　a　haggard　black　woman　in　dilapidated　blue　jeans　and　a　torn　sweatshirt　staggered　around　the　corner　and　along　the　sidewalk　to　the　crack　house。　She　struggled　up　the　steps　to　the　stoop。　The　door　opened　before　she　even　knocked。　Mrs。　Jackson　didn't　bother　taking　her　picture；　she　was　one　of　the　regulars；　a　crack　addict　who　Mrs。　Jackson　suspected　didn't　have　long　to　live。　Mrs。　Blue　next　door　had　said　her　name　was　Mandy　and　she　had　heard　she　was　doing　tricks　under　the　Southeast　Freeway。
　Nobody　gave　a　damn。　About　Mandy　or　Mrs。　Jackson　or　Mrs。　Blue　or　any　of　them。　Just　a　bunch　of　poor　niggers　down　in　the　sewer。
　Wonder　what　that　white　roan　stuffed　in　that　fence　post？　Something　to　do　with　that　crack　house；　no　doubt。　Maybe　he's　a　judge　or　police　on　the　take。　Not　getting　enough。　Maybe　it's　money；　a　payoff　for　someone。
　Well；　well　just　see。　We've　got　some　rights　too。
　She　pulled　her　sweater　around　her　shoulders　and　got　her　cane。　Her　arthritis　was　bothering　her　pretty　badly　but　there　was　no　help　for　it。　She　unbolted　the　door　and　lowered　herself　down　the　steps。　As　she　approached　the　hollow　iron　post　two　houses　down　she　glanced　around　guiltily。　Her　frustration　was　fast　evaporating　into　fear。　No　one　looking。　Quick！　She　reached　into　the　post。　Only　a　crushed　cigarette　pack。　Disappointed；　she　felt　around　in　the　hollow　cavity。　There　was　nothing　else。　With　the　cigarette　pack　in　her　pocket；　she　slowly　made　her　way　back　to　her　house；　steeling　herself　to　look　straight　ahead。　Oh　God；　why　had　she　done　this？
　She　locked　and　bolted　her　doors　and　sat　at　the　kitchen　table　examining　her　find。　Writing　on　the　back；　block　letters。　Numbers　and　such。　Code　of　some　sort。　Payoffs；　most　likely。　We'll　see　what　the　police　make　of　all　this。　Not　that　they'd　ever　tell　an　old　black　woman　what　it's　all　about。　No　matter；　if　they'd　just　close　that　crack　house；　that'd　be　something。
　But　should　she　go　to　the　police？　They've　been　told　about　that　crack　house　and　they've　done　nothing。　What　if　the　police　have　been　paid　off？　What　if　they　tell　the　dopers　about　her？
　Mrs。　Jackson　had　lived　too　long　in　the　ghetto　not　to　know　the　dangers　associated　with　interfering　in　someone　else's　illegal　enterprise。　As　she　stared　at　the　cigarette　pack　she　realized　she　had　crossed　that　invisible　line　between　officious　nuisance　and　enemy。　And　she　knew　exactly　what　happened　to　enemies　of　dope　dealers。　They　died。　Fast　and　bloody。　Those　four　punks　on　the　sidewalk　in　their　fancy　clothes　would　smile　as　they　cut　off　her　ears；　nose　and　tongue；　then　her　arms。
　She　turned　off　the　kitchen　light　and　sat　in　the　darkness；　trying　to　think。　What　should　she　do？　My　God；　what　had　she　done？
　
　Mrs。　Jackson　was　still　sitting　in　the　darkness　of　her　kitchen　thirty　minutes　later　when　Terry　Franklin　walked　past　the　front　of　her　house　toward　the　hollow　post。　He　had　parked　the　car　three　blocks　away。　Normally　he　was　very　circumspect　and　drove　around　for　at　least　an　hour　to　make　sure　that　he　had　lost　any　possible　tails；　but　tonight　he　was　in　a　hurry。　He　had　to　get　home　before　Lucy　and　the　kids　got　back　from　the　mall。　So　he　had　driven　straight　from　Annandale　to　G　Street。
　The　block　appeared　empty。　No；　there　was　someone　sitting　in　a　doorway；　across　the　street。　Some　black　guy　with　a　brown　bag。　A　wino。　No　sweat。　What　a　shitty　neighborhood！　He　had　never　understood　why　the　Russians　had　picked　a　drop　in　a　run…down　black　neighborhood；　but　since　he　hadn't　talked　to　them　after　he　had　found　the　described　drops；　he　had　had　no　opportunity　to　ask。
　It　would　be　just　his　luck　to　get　mugged　down　here　some　night。
　He　walked　at　a　regular　pace　toward　the　post；　not　too　fast　and　not　too　slow。　Just　a　man　who　knows　where　he's　going。　He　would　just　reach　in　while　barely　breaking　stride；　get　the　cigarette　pack　and　keep　on　walking；　right　on　around　the　block　and　back　to　his　car。　Piece　of　cake。
　He　slowed　his　pace　as　he　reached　into　the　post。
　It　was　empty！
　Dumbfounded；　he　stopped　and　looked　in。　There　was　just　enough　light　ing　from　the　streetlight　up　on　the　corner　and　the　windows　of　the　houses　to　see　into　the　hole。　It　was　about　four　inches　deep。　Empty！
　He　walked　on。　What　had　happened？　This　had　never　happened　before。　What　in　hell　was　going　on？
　He　turned　and　walked　back　to　the　post。　He　looked　in　again。　The　hole　was　still　empty。　He　looked　around　on　the　sidewalk　and　the　grass　behind　the　fence　for　anything　that　might　be　an　empty　cigarette　pack。
　Nothing！
　It　must　be　here；　somewhere；　and　he　just　wasn't　seeing　it。
　He　was　living　one　of　those　cold…sweat　gibbering　nightmares　where　you　are　stuck　in　quicksand　and　going　to　die　and　the　rope　is　forever　just　inches　out　of　reach。　Finally　he　realized　the　cigarette　pack　truly　wasn't　there。
　Maybe　he　was　being　set　up。　Maybe　the　FBI　was　going　to　grab　him。
　Franklin　looked　around　wildly；　trying　to　see　who　was　watching。　Just　blank　windows。　The　wino…still　there；　sucking　from　his　bottle。　He　reached　into　the　hole　again；　trying　to　understand。　Someone　had　gotten　it。　God；　it　must　be　the　FBI。　They　must　be　on　to　him。　Even　now；　they're　watching　from　somewhere；　ready　to　pounce。　Prison…he　would　go　to　prison。　The　wino…an　agent…watching　and　laughing　and　ready　to　arrest　him。
　Terry　Franklin　panicked。
　He　ran　for　the　car；　a　staggering　hell…bent　gallop　down　the　sidewalk　as　he　tried　to　look　in　every　direction　for　the　agents　closing　in。
　To　arrest　him。　He　careened　into　a　garbage　can　and　it　fell　over　with　a　loud　clang　and　the　lid　flew　off　and　garbage　went　everywhere。　He　kept　running。
　At　the　intersection　a　car　slammed　on　its　brakes　to　the　screeching　of　tires；　barely　missing　him。　He　bounced　off　a　parked　car　but　he　didn't　slow。　He　almost　broke　the　key　getting　it　into　the　door　lock。　The　engine　ground　mercilessly　and　refused　to　start。　He　smacked　his　head　against　the　steering　wheel　in　rage　and　frustration。　He　tried　the　ignition　again　as　he　scanned　the　sidewalks；　searching　for　the　agents　that　must　be　ing。　The　engine　caught。　Franklin　slammed　the　shift　lever　into　drive　and　mashed　on　the　accelerator。　Bang！　Into　the　car　ahead。　Holy。。！　Reverse。　Then　forward；　out　of　the　parking　space。　Cranking　the　wheel　over　at　the　corner；　he　slewed　around　with　tires　squalling　and　stomped　on　the　gas。
　
　Toad　Tarkington　stared　glumly　at　the　remains　of　a　beer　in　the　glass　in　front　of　him。　Across　the　table　Rita　Moravia　was　chattering　away　with　the　peckerhead　attack　pilot　who　had　spent　the　last　three　days　initiating　her　into　the　mysteries　of　the　A…6。　Beside　Toad　sat　the　bombardier　who　had　be