sk.thetalisman-第9部分

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　I　mean　we　really　owe　them　。　。　。
　　'The　Territories；'　he　said　to　Speedy；　tasting　the　name　in　his　mouth　as　much　as　asking　a　question。
　　'Air　like　the　best　wine　in　a　rich　man's　cellar。　Soft　rain。　That's　the　place；　son。'
　　'You've　been　there；　Speedy？'　Jack　asked；　fervently　hoping　for　a　straightforward　answer。
　　But　Speedy　frustrated　him；　as　Jack　had　almost　known　he　would。　The　custodian　smiled　at　him；　and　this　time　it　was　a　real　smile；　not　just　a　subliminal　flare　of　warmth。
　　After　a　moment　Speedy　said；　'Hell；　I　never　been　outside　these　United　States；　Travellin　Jack。　Not　even　in　the　war。　Never　got　any　farther　than　Texas　and　Alabama。'
　　'How　do　you　know　about　the　。　。　。　the　Territories？'　The　name　was　just　beginning　to　fit　his　mouth。
　　'Man　like　me；　he　hear　all　kinds　of　stories。　Stories　about　two…headed　parrots；　men　that　fly　with　their　own　wings；　men　who　turn　into　wolves；　stories　about　queens。　Sick　queens。'
　　。　。　。　magic　like　we　have　physics；　right？
　　Angels　and　werewolves。　'I've　heard　stories　about　werewolves；'　Jack　said。　'They're　even　in　cartoons。　That　doesn't　mean　anything；　Speedy。'
　　'Probably　it　don't。　But　I　heard　that　if　a　man　pulls　a　radish　out　of　the　ground；　another　man　half　a　mile　away　will　be　able　to　smell　that　radish…the　air　so　sweet　and　clear。'
　　'But　angels　。　。　。　'
　　'Men　with　wings。'
　　'And　sick　queens；'　Jack　said；　meaning　it　as　a　joke…man；　this　is　some　dumb　place　you　make　up；　broom　jockey。　But　the　instant　he　spoke　the　words；　he　felt　sick　himself。　He　had　remembered　the　black　eye　of　a　gull　fixing　him　with　his　own　mortality　as　it　yanked　a　clam　from　its　shell：　and　he　could　hear　hustlin；　bustlin　Uncle　Morgan　asking　if　Jack　could　put　Queen　Lily　on　the　line。
　　Queen　of　the　Bs。　Queen　Lily　Cavanaugh。
　　'Yeah；'　Speedy　said　softly。　'Troubles　everywhere；　son。　Sick　Queen　。　。　。　maybe　dyin。　Dyin；　son。　And　a　world　or　two　waitin　out　there；　just　waitin　to　see　if　anyone　can　save　her。'　
　　Jack　stared　at　him　open…mouthed；　feeling　more　or　less　as　if　the　custodian　had　just　kicked　him　in　the　stomach。　Save　her？　Save　his　mother？　The　panic　started　to　flood　toward　him　once　again…how　could　he　save　her？　And　did　all　this　crazy　talk　mean　that　she　really　was　dying；　back　there　in　that　room？
　　'You　got　a　job；　Travellin　Jack；'　Speedy　told　him。　'A　job　that　ain't　gonna　let　you　go；　and　that's　the　Lord's　truth。　I　wish　it　was　different。'
　　'I　don't　know　what　you're　talking　about；'　Jack　said。　His　breath　seemed　to　be　trapped　in　a　hot　little　pocket　situated　at　the　base　of　his　neck。　He　looked　into　another　corner　of　the　small　red　room　and　in　the　shadow　saw　a　battered　guitar　propped　against　the　wall。　Beside　it　lay　the　neat　tube　of　a　thin　rolled…up　mattress。　Speedy　slept　next　to　his　guitar。
　　'I　wonder；'　Speedy　said。　'There　es　times；　you　know　what　I　mean；　you　know　more　than　you　think　you　know。　One　hell　of　a　lot　more。'
　　'But　I　don't…'　Jack　began；　and　then　pulled　himself　up　short。　He　had　just　remembered　something。　Now　he　was　even　more　frightened…another　chunk　of　the　past　had　rushed　out　at　him；　demanding　his　attention。　Instantly　he　was　filmed　with　perspiration；　and　his　skin　felt　very　cold…as　if　he　had　been　misted　by　a　fine　spray　from　a　hose。　This　memory　was　what　he　had　fought　to　repress　yesterday　morning；　standing　before　the　elevators；　pretending　that　his　bladder　was　not　about　to　burst。
　　'Didn't　I　say　it　was　time　for　a　little　refreshment？'　Speedy　asked；　reaching　down　to　push　aside　a　loose　floorboard。
　　Jack　again　saw　two　ordinary…looking　men　trying　to　push　his　mother　into　a　car。　Above　them　a　huge　tree　dipped　scalloped　fronds　over　the　automobile's　roof。
　　Speedy　gently　extracted　a　pint　bottle　from　the　gap　between　the　floorboards。　The　glass　was　dark　green；　and　the　fluid　inside　looked　black。　'This　gonna　help　you；　son。　Just　a　little　taste　all　you　need…send　you　some　new　places；　help　you　get　started　findin　that　job　I　told　you　bout。'
　　'I　can't　stay；　Speedy；'　Jack　blurted　out；　now　in　a　desperate　hurry　to　get　back　to　the　Alhambra。　The　old　man　visibly　checked　the　surprise　in　his　face；　then　slid　the　bottle　back　under　the　loose　floorboard。　Jack　was　already　on　his　feet。　'I'm　worried；'　he　said。
　　'Bout　your　mom？'
　　Jack　nodded；　moving　backward　toward　the　open　door。　
　　'Then　you　better　settle　your　mind　and　go　see　she's　all　right。　You　can　e　back　here　anytime；　Travellin　Jack。'
　　'Okay；'　the　boy　said；　and　then　hesitated　before　running　outside。　'I　think　。　。　。　I　think　I　remember　when　we　met　before。'
　　'Nah；　nah；　my　brains　got　twisted；'　Speedy　said；　shaking　his　head　and　waving　his　hands　back　and　forth　before　him。　'You　had　it　right。　We　never　met　before　last　week。　Get　on　back　to　your　mom　and　set　your　mind　at　ease。'　
　　Jack　sprinted　out　the　door　and　ran　through　the　dimension…less　sunlight　to　the　wide　arch　leading　to　the　street。　Above　it　he　could　see　the　letters　DLROWNUF　AIDACRA　outlined　against　the　sky：　at　night；　colored　bulbs　would　spell　out　the　park's　name　in　both　directions。　Dust　puffed　up　beneath　his　Nikes。　Jack　pushed　himself　against　his　own　muscles；　making　them　move　faster　and　harder；　so　that　by　the　time　he　burst　out　through　the　arch；　he　felt　almost　as　though　he　were　flying。
　　Nineteen　seventy…six。　Jack　had　been　puttering　his　way　up　Rodeo　Drive　on　an　afternoon　in　June？　July？　。　。　。　some　afternoon　in　the　drought　season；　but　before　that　time　of　the　year　when　everybody　started　worrying　about　brushfires　in　the　hills。　Now　he　could　not　even　remember　where　he　had　been　going。　A　friend's　house？　It　had　not　been　an　errand　of　any　urgency。　He　had；　Jack　remembered；　just　reached　the　point　where　he　no　longer　thought　of　his　father　in　every　unoccupied　second…for　many　months　after　Philip　Sawyer's　death　in　a　hunting　accident；　his　shade；　his　loss　had　sped　toward　Jack　at　a　bruising　speed　whenever　the　boy　was　least　prepared　to　meet　it。　Jack　was　only　seven；　but　he　knew　that　part　of　his　childhood　had　been　stolen　from　him…his　six…year…old　self　now　seemed　impossibly　naive　and　thoughtless…but　he　had　learned　to　trust　his　mother's　strength。　Formless　and　savage　threats　no　longer　seemed　to　conceal　themselves　in　dark　corners；　closets　with　half…open　doors；　shadowy　streets；　empty　rooms。
　　The　events　of　that　aimless　summer　afternoon　in　1976　had　murdered　this　temporary　peace。　After　it；　Jack　slept　with　his　light　on　for　six　months；　nightmares　roiled　his　sleep。
　　The　car　pulled　across　the　street　just　a　few　houses　up　from　the　Sawyers'　white　three…story　Colonial。　It　had　been　a　green　car；　and　that　was　all　that　Jack　had　known　about　it　except　that　it　was　not　a　Mercedes…Mercedes　was　the　only　kind　of　automobile　he　knew　by　sight。　The　man　at　the　wheel　had　rolled　down　his　window　and　smiled　at　Jack。　The　boy's　first　thought　had　been　that　he　knew　this　man…the　man　had　known　Phil　Sawyer；　and　wanted　just　to　say　hello　to　his　son。　Somehow　that　was　conveyed　by　the　man's　smile；　which　was　easy　and　unforced　and　familiar。　Another　man　leaned　forward　in　the　passenger　seat　and　peered　toward　Jack　through　blind…man　glasses…round　and　so　dark　they　were　nearly　black。　This　second　man　was　wearing　a　pure　white　suit。　The　driver　let　his　smile　speak　for　him　a　moment　longer。
　　Then　he　said；　'Sonny；　do　you　know　how　we　get　to　the　Beverly　Hills　Hotel？'　So　he　was　a　stranger　after　all。　Jack　experienced　an　odd　little　flicker　of　disappointment。
　　He　pointed　straight　up　the　street。　The　hotel　was　right　up　there；　close　enough　so　that　his　father　had　been　able　to　walk　to　breakfast　meetings　in　the　Loggia。
　　'Straight　ahead？'　the　driver　asked；　still　smiling。　
　　Jack　nodded。
　　'You're　a　pretty　smart　little　fellow；'　the　man　told　him；　and　the　other　man　chuckled。　'Any　idea　of　how　far　up　it　is？'　Jack　shook　his　head。　'Couple　of　blocks；　maybe？'
　　'Yeah。'　He　had　begun　to　get　unfortable。　The　driver　was　still　smiling；　but　now　the　smile　looked　bright　and　hard　and　empty。　And　the　passenger's　chuckle　had　been　wheezy　and　damp；　as　if　he　were　sucking　on　something　wet。
　　'Five；　maybe？　Six？　What　do　you　say？'
　　'About　five　or　six；　I　guess；'　Jack　said；　stepping　backward。　
　　'Well；　I　sure　do　want　to　thank　you；　little　fellow；'　the　driver　said。　'You　don't　happen　to　like　candy；　do　you？'　He　extended　a　closed　fist　through　the　window；　turned　it　palm…up；　and　opened　his　fingers：　a　Tootsie