sk.everythingseventual-第29部分

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　　'Do　you　deny　that　for　the　last　fourteen　months　you　have　given　certain　information　to　a　man　named　Tomás　Herrera；　who　has　in　turn　funneled　it　to　a　certain　munist　insurgent　named　Pedro　Nú？ez？'
　　'No；'　Fletcher　said。　'I　don't　deny　it。'　To　adequately　keep　up　his　side　of　this　charade…the　charade　summarized　by　the　difference　between　the　words　conversation　and　interrogation…he　should　now　justify；　attempt　to　explain。　As　if　anyone　in　the　history　of　the　world　had　ever　won　a　political　argument　in　a　room　like　this。　But　he　didn't　have　it　in　him　to　do　so。　'Although　it　was　a　little　longer　than　that。　Almost　a　year　and　a　half　in　all；　I　think。'
　　'Have　a　cigarette；　Mr。　Fletcher。'　Escobar　opened　a　drawer　and　took　out　a　thin　folder。
　　'Not　just　yet。　Thank　you。'
　　'Okay。'　From　Escobar　it　of　course　came　out　ho…kay。　When　he　did　the　TV　weather；　the　boys　in　the　control　room　would　sometimes　superimpose　a　photograph　of　a　woman　in　a　bikini　on　the　weather　map。　When　he　saw　this；　Escobar　would　laugh　and　wave　his　hands　and　pat　his　chest。　People　liked　it。　It　was　ical。　It　was　like　the　sound　of　ho…kay。　It　was　like　the　sound　of　steenkin　batches。
　　Escobar　opened　the　folder　with　his　own　cigarette　planted　squarely　in　the　middle　of　his　mouth　with　the　smoke　running　up　into　his　eyes。　It　was　the　way　you　saw　the　old　men　smoking　on　the　street　corners　down　here；　the　ones　who　still　wore　straw　hats；　sandals；　and　baggy　white　pants。　Now　Escobar　was　smiling；　keeping　his　lips　shut　so　his　Marlboro　wouldn't　fall　out　of　his　mouth　and　onto　the　table　but　smiling　just　the　same。　He　took　a　glossy　black…and…white　photograph　out　of　the　thin　folder　and　slid　it　across　to　Fletcher。　'Here　is　your　friend　Tomás。　Not　too　pretty；　is　he？'
　　It　was　a　high…contrast　full…face　shot。　It　made　Fletcher　think　of　photographs　by　that　semi…famous　news　photographer　of　the　forties　and　fifties；　the　one　who　called　himself　Weegee。　It　was　a　portrait　of　a　dead　man。　The　eyes　were　open。　The　flashbulb　had　reflected　in　them；　giving　them　a　kind　of　life。　There　was　no　blood；　only　one　mark　and　no　blood；　but　still　one　knew　at　once　that　the　man　was　dead。　His　hair　was　bed；　one　could　still　see　the　toothmarks　the　b　had　left；　and　there　were　those　little　lights　in　his　eyes；　but　they　were　reflected　lights。　One　knew　at　once　the　man　was　dead。
　　The　mark　was　on　the　left　temple；　a　et　shape　that　looked　like　a　powder　burn；　but　there　was　no　bullet　hole；　no　blood；　and　the　skull　wasn't　pushed　out　of　shape。　Even　a　low…caliber　pistol　like　a　。22；　fired　close　enough　to　the　skin　to　leave　a　powder　burn；　would　have　pushed　the　skull　out　of　shape。
　　Escobar　took　the　picture　back；　put　it　in　the　folder；　closed　the　folder；　and　shrugged　as　if　to　say　You　see？　You　see　what　happens？　When　he　shrugged；　the　ash　fell　off　his　cigarette　onto　the　table。　He　brushed　it　off　onto　the　gray　lino　floor　with　the　side　of　one　fat　hand。
　　'We　dint　actually　want　to　bother　you；'　Escobar　said。　'Why　would　we？　This　a　small　country。　We　are　small　people　in　a　small　country。　The　New　York　Times　a　big　paper　in　a　big　country。　We　have　our　pride；　of　course；　but　we　also　have　our　。　。　。'　Escobar　tapped　his　temple　with　one　finger。　'You　see？'
　　Fletcher　nodded。　He　kept　seeing　Tomás。　Even　with　the　picture　back　in　the　folder　he　could　see　Tomás；　the　marks　the　b　had　left　in　Tomás's　dark　hair。　He　had　eaten　food　Tomás's　wife　had　cooked；　had　sat　on　the　floor　and　watched　cartoons　with　Tomás's　youngest　child；　a　little　girl　of　perhaps　five。　Tom　and　Jerry　cartoons；　with　what　little　dialogue　there　was　in　Spanish。
　　'We　don't　want　to　bother　you；'　Escobar　was　saying　as　the　cigarette　smoke　rose　and　broke　apart　on　his　face　and　curled　around　his　ears；　'but　for　a　long　time　we　was　watching。　You　dint　see　us…maybe　because　you　are　so　big　and　we　are　just　little…but　we　was　watching。　We　know　that　you　know　what　Tomás　knows；　and　so　we　go　to　him。　We　try　to　get　him　to　tell　what　he　knows　so　we　don't　have　to　bother　you；　but　he　won't。　Finally　we　ask　Heinz　here　to　try　and　make　him　tell。　Heinz；　show　Mr。　Fletcher　how　you　try　to　make　Tomás　tell；　when　Tomás　was　sitting　right　where　Mr。　Fletcher　was　sitting　now。'
　　'I　can　do　that；'　said　Heinz。　He　spoke　English　in　a　nasal　New　York　accent。　He　was　bald；　except　for　a　fringe　of　hair　around　his　ears。　He　wore　little　glasses。　Escobar　looked　like　a　movie　Mexican；　the　woman　looked　like　Elsa　Lanchester　in　Bride　of　Frankenstein；　Heinz　looked　like　an　actor　in　a　TV　mercial；　the　one　who　explained　why　Excedrin　was　best　for　your　headache。　He　walked　around　the　table　to　the　trolley；　gave　Fletcher　a　look　both　roguish　and　conspiratorial；　and　flicked　away　the　cloth　over　the　top。
　　There　was　a　machine　underneath；　something　with　dials　and　lights　that　were　now　all　dark。　Fletcher　at　first　thought　it　was　a　lie　detector…that　made　a　certain　amount　of　sense…but　in　front　of　the　rudimentary　control　panel；　connected　to　the　side　of　the　machine　by　a　fat　black　cord；　was　an　object　with　a　rubber　grip。　It　looked　like　a　stylus　or　some　sort　of　fountain　pen。　There　was　no　nib；　though。　The　thing　just　tapered　to　a　blunt　steel　point。
　　Below　the　machine　was　a　shelf。　On　the　shelf　was　a　car　battery　marked　DELCO。　There　were　rubber　cups　over　the　battery　terminals。　Wires　rose　from　the　rubber　cups　to　the　back　of　the　machine。　No；　not　a　lie　detector。　Except　maybe　to　these　people　it　was。
　　Heinz　spoke　briskly；　with　the　pleasure　of　a　man　who　likes　to　explain　what　he　does。　'It's　quite　simple；　really；　a　modification　of　the　device　neurologists　use　to　administer　electric　shocks　to　people　suffering　unipolar　neurosis。　Only　this　administers　a　far　more　powerful　jolt。　The　pain　is　really　secondary；　I　find。　Most　people　don't　even　remember　the　pain。　What　makes　them　so　eager　to　talk　is　an　aversion　to　the　process。　This　might　almost　be　called　an　atavism。　Someday　I　hope　to　write　a　paper。'
　　Heinz　picked　up　the　stylus　by　its　insulated　rubber　grip　and　held　it　in　front　of　his　eyes。
　　'This　can　be　touched　to　the　extremities　。　。　。　the　torso　。　。　。　the　genitals；　of　course　。　。　。　but　it　can　also　be　inserted　in　places　where…forgive　the　crudity…the　sun　never　shines。　A　man　whose　shit　has　been　electrified　never　forgets　it；　Mr。　Fletcher。'
　　'Did　you　do　that　to　Tomás？'
　　'No；'　Heinz　said；　and　replaced　the　stylus　carefully　in　front　of　the　shock…generator。　'He　got　a　jolt　at　half…power　on　the　hand；　just　to　acquaint　him　with　what　he　was　up　against；　and　when　he　still　declined　to　discuss　El　Cóndor…'
　　'Never　mind　that；'　the　Bride　of　Frankenstein　said。
　　'Beg　pardon。　When　he　still　wouldn't　tell　us　what　we　wanted　to　know；　I　applied　the　wand　to　his　temple　and　administered　another　measured　jolt。　Carefully　measured；　I　assure　you；　half…power；　not　a　bit　more。　He　had　a　seizure　and　died。　I　believe　it　may　have　been　epilepsy。　Did　he　have　a　history　of　epilepsy；　do　you　know；　Mr。　Fletcher？'
　　Fletcher　shook　his　head。
　　'Nevertheless；　I　believe　that's　what　it　was。　The　autopsy　revealed　nothing　wrong　with　his　heart。'　Heinz　folded　his　long…fingered　hands　in　front　of　him　and　looked　at　Escobar。
　　Escobar　removed　his　cigarette　from　the　center　of　his　mouth；　looked　at　it；　dropped　it　to　the　gray　tile　floor；　stepped　on　it。　Then　he　looked　at　Fletcher　and　smiled。　'Very　sad；　of　course。　Now　I　ask　you　some　questions；　Mr。　Fletcher。　Many　of　them…I　tell　you　this　frankly…are　the　questions　Tomás　Herrera　refused　to　answer。　I　hope　you　will　not　refuse；　Mr。　Fletcher。　I　like　you。　You　sit　there　in　dignity；　do　not　cry　or　beg　or　urinate　the　pants。　I　like　you。　I　know　you　only　do　what　you　believe。　It　is　patriotism。　So　I　tell　you；　my　friend；　it's　good　if　you　answer　my　questions　quickly　and　truthfully。　You　don't　want　Heinz　to　use　his　machine。'
　　'I've　said　I'd　help　you；'　Fletcher　said。　Death　was　closer　than　the　overhead　lights　in　their　cunning　wire　cages。　Pain；　unfortunately；　was　closer　yet。　And　how　close　was　Nú？ez；　El　Cóndor？　Closer　than　these　three　guessed；　but　not　close　enough　to　help　him。　If　Escobar　and　the　Bride　of　Frankenstein　had　waited　another　two　days；　perhaps　even　another　twenty…four　hours　。　。　。　but　they　had　not；　and　he　was　here　in　the　deathroom。　Now　he　would　see　what　he　was　made　of。
　　'You　said　it　and　you　had　better　mean　it；'　the　woman　said；　speaking　very　clearly。　'We're　not　fucking　around；　gringo。'
　　'I　know　you'