preston&child.thecabinetofcuriosities-第34部分

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b　Pissoir；　though：　music；　free　drinks；　dancing。　The　whole　Ford　crowd　had　been　there；　along　with　a　bunch　of　photographers；　the　Mademoiselle　and　Cosmo　people；　everyone　who　mattered　in　the　fashion　world。　She　really　was　making　it。　The　thought　still　amazed　her。　Only　six　months　before；　she'd　been　working　at　Rodney's　in　Bismarck；　giving　free　makeovers。　Then；　the　right　person　happened　to　e　through　the　shop。　And　now　she　was　on　the　testing　board　at　the　Ford　agency。　Eileen　Ford　herself　had　taken　her　under　her　wing。　It　was　all　ing　together　faster　than　she'd　ever　dreamed　possible。
　Her　father　called　almost　every　day　from　the　farm。　It　was　funny；　kind　of　cute　really；　how　worried　he　was　about　her　living　in　New　York　City。　He　thought　the　place　was　a　den　of　iniquity。　He'd　freak　if　he　knew　she　stayed　out　till　dawn。　He　still　wanted　her　to　go　to　college。　And　maybe　she　would…someday。　But　right　now　she　was　eighteen　and　having　the　time　of　her　life。　She　smiled　affectionately　at　the　thought　of　her　conservative　old　father；　riding　his　John　Deere；　worrying　himself　about　her。　She'd　make　the　call　this　time；　give　him　a　surprise。
　She　turned　onto　Seventh　Street；　passing　the　darkened　park；　keeping　a　wary　eye　out　for　muggers。　New　York　was　a　lot　safer　now；　but　it　was　still　wise　to　be　careful。　She　felt　into　her　purse；　hand　closing　fortingly　around　the　small　bottle　of　pepper　spray　attached　to　her　key　chain。
　There　were　a　couple　of　homeless　sleeping　on　pieces　of　cardboard；　and　a　man　in　a　threadbare　corduroy　suit　sat　on　a　bench；　drinking　and　nodding。　An　early　breeze　passed　through　the　listless　sycamore　branches；　rattling　the　leaves。　They　were　just　beginning　to　turn　a　jaundiced　yellow。
　Once　again；　she　wished　her　walk…up　apartment　wasn't　so　far　from　a　subway　station。　She　couldn't　afford　cabs…not　yet；　anyway…and　walking　the　nine　blocks　home　at　night　was　a　hassle。　At　first　it　had　seemed　like　a　cool　neighborhood；　but　the　seediness　was　starting　to　get　to　her。　Gentrification　was　creeping　in；　but　not　fast　enough：　the　dingy　squats　and　the　old　hollow　buildings；　sealed　shut　with　cinderblock；　were　depressing。　The　Flatiron　District　would　be　better；　or　maybe　even　Yorkville。　A　lot　of　the　Ford　models；　the　ones　who'd　made　it；　lived　up　there。
　She　left　the　park　behind　and　turned　up　Avenue　C。　Silent　brownstones　rose　on　either　side；　and　the　wind　sent　trash　along　the　gutters　with　a　dry；　skittery　sound。　The　faint　ammoniac　tang　of　urine　floated　out　from　dark　doorways。　Nobody　picked　up　after　their　dogs；　and　she　made　her　way　with　care　through　a　disgusting　minefield　of　dog　shit。　This　part　of　the　walk　was　always　the　worst。
　She　saw；　ahead　of　her；　a　figure　approaching　down　the　sidewalk。　She　stiffened；　considered　crossing　the　street；　then　relaxed：　it　was　an　old　man；　walking　painfully　with　a　cane。　As　he　approached　she　could　see　he　was　wearing　a　funny　derby　hat。　His　head　was　bowed；　and　she　could　make　out　its　even　brim；　the　crisp　black　lines　of　its　crown。　She　didn't　recall　ever　seeing　anybody　wearing　a　derby；　except　in　old　black…and…white　movies。　He　looked　very　old…fashioned；　shuffling　along　with　cautious　steps。　She　wondered　what　he　was　doing　out　so　early。　Probably　insomnia。　Old　people　had　it　a　lot；　she'd　heard。　Waking　up　at　four　in　the　morning；　couldn't　go　back　to　sleep。　She　wondered　if　her　father　had　insomnia。
　They　were　almost　even　now。　The　old　man　suddenly　seemed　to　grow　aware　of　her　presence；　he　raised　his　head　and　lifted　his　arm　to　grasp　his　hat。　He　was　actually　going　to　tip　his　hat　to　her。
　The　hat　came　up；　the　arm　obscuring　everything　except　the　eyes。　They　were　remarkably　bright　and　cold；　and　they　seemed　to　be　regarding　her　intently。　Must　be　insomnia；　she　thought…despite　the　hour；　this　old　fellow　wasn't　sleepy　at　all。
　〃Good　morning；　miss；〃　said　an　old；　creaky　voice。
　〃Good　morning；〃　she　replied；　trying　to　keep　the　surprise　from　her　voice。　Nobody　ever　said　anything　to　you　on　the　street。　It　was　so　un…New　York。　It　charmed　her。
　As　she　passed　him；　she　suddenly　felt　something　whip　around　her　neck　with　horrible　speed。
　She　struggled　and　tried　to　cry　out；　but　found　her　face　covered　with　a　cloth；　damp　and　reeking　with　a　sickly…sweet　chemical　smell。　Instinctively；　she　tried　to　hold　her　breath。　Her　hand　scrabbled　in　her　purse　and　pulled　out　the　bottle　of　pepper　spray；　but　a　terrible　blow　knocked　it　to　the　sidewalk。　She　twisted　and　thrashed；　moaning　in　pain　and　fear；　her　lungs　on　fire；　she　gasped　once；　and　then　all　swirled　into　oblivion。
　
　FIVE
　　
　IN　HIS　MESSY　cubicle　on　the　fifth　floor　of　the　Times　building；　Smithback　examined　with　dissatisfaction　the　list　he　had　handwritten　in　his　notebook。　At　the　top　of　the　list；　the　phrase　〃Fairhaven's　employees〃　had　been　crossed　out。　He　hadn't　been　able　to　get　back　into　the　Moegen…Fairhaven　Building…Fairhaven　had　seen　to　that。　Likewise；　〃neighbors〃　had　also　been　crossed　out：　he'd　been　given　the　bum's　rush　at　Fairhaven's　apartment　building；　despite　all　his　best　stratagems　and　tricks。　He'd　looked　into　Fairhaven's　past；　to　his　early　business　associates；　but　they　were　either　full　of　phony　praise　or　simply　refused　ment。
　Next；　he'd　checked　out　Fairhaven's　charities。　The　New　York　Museum　was　a　dead　loss…no　one　who　knew　Fairhaven　would　talk　about　him；　for　obvious　reasons…but　he　had　more　success　with　one　of　Fairhaven's　other　projects；　the　Little　Arthur　Clinic　for　Children。　If　success　was　the　right　word　for　it。　The　clinic　was　a　small　research　hospital　that　cared　for　sick　children　with　〃orphaned〃　diseases：　very　rare　illnesses　that　the　big　drug　panies　had　no　interest　in　finding　cures　for。　Smithback　had　managed　to　get　in　posing　as　himself…a　New　York　Times　reporter　interested　in　their　work…without　rousing　suspicion。　They　had　even　given　him　an　informal　tour。　But　in　the　end　that；　too；　had　been　a　snow　job：　The　doctors；　nurses；　parents；　even　the　children　sang　hosannas　for　Fairhaven。　It　was　enough　to　make　you　sick：　turkeys　at　Thanksgiving；　bonuses　at　Christmas；　toys　and　books　for　the　kids；　trips　to　Yankee　Stadium。　Fairhaven　had　even　attended　a　few　funerals；　which　must　have　been　tough。　And　yet；　thought　Smithback　grumpily；　all　it　proved　was　that　Fairhaven　carefully　cultivated　his　public　image。
　The　guy　was　a　public　relations　pro　from　way　back。　Smithback　had　found　nothing。　Nothing。
　That　reminded　him：　he　turned；　grabbed　a　battered　dictionary　from　a　nearby　shelf；　flipped　through　the　pages　until　he　reached　〃n。〃　Nugatory：　of　no　importance；　trifling。
　Smithback　put　back　the　dictionary。
　What　was　needed　here　was　some　deeper　digging。　Before　the　time　when　Fairhaven　had　gone　pro　with　his　life。　Back　when　he　was　just　another　pimply　high　school　kid。　So　Fairhaven　thought　Smithback　was　just　another　run…of…the…mill　reporter；　doing　nugatory　work？　Well；　he'd　wouldn't　be　laughing　so　hard　when　he　opened　his　Monday　paper。
　All　it　took　was　ten　minutes　on　the　Web　to　hit　paydirt。　Fairhaven's　class　at　P。S。　1984；　up　on　Amsterdam　Avenue；　had　recently　celebrated　the　fifteenth　anniversary　of　their　graduation。　They　had　created　a　Web　page　reproducing　their　yearbook。　Fairhaven　hadn't　shown　up　for　the　reunion；　and　he　might　not　have　even　known　of　the　Web　page…but　all　the　information　about　him　from　his　old　yearbook　was　posted；　for　all　to　see：　photos；　nicknames；　clubs；　interests；　everything。
　There　he　was：　a　clean…cut；　all…around　kid；　smiling　cockily　out　of　a　blurry　graduation　photograph。　He　was　wearing　a　tennis　sweater　and　a　checked　shirt…a　typical　well…heeled　city　boy。　His　father　was　in　real　estate；　his　mother　a　homemaker。　Smithback　quickly　learned　all　kinds　of　things：　that　he　was　captain　of　the　swim　team；　that　he　was　born　under　the　sign　of　Gemini；　that　he　was　head　of　the　debating　club；　that　his　favorite　rock　group　was　the　Eagles；　that　he　played　the　guitar　badly；　that　he　wanted　to　be　a　doctor；　that　his　favorite　color　was　burgundy；　and　that　he　had　been　voted　most　likely　to　bee　a　millionaire。
　As　Smithback　scrolled　through　the　Web　site；　the　sinking　feeling　returned。　It　was　all　so　unspeakably　boring。　But　there　was　one　detail　that　caught　his　eye。　Every　student　had　been　given　a　nickname；　and　Fairhaven's　was　〃The　Slasher。〃　He　felt　his　disappointment　abate　just　slightly。　The　Slasher。　It　would　be　nice　if　the　nickname　turned　up　a　secret　interest　in　torturing　animals。　It　wasn't　much