sk.everythingseventual-第53部分

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a　storm　and　no　doubt　laughing　every　time　the　caller　pulled　B…12　out　of　the　hopper　and　said；　'All　right；　ladies；　it's　time　to　take　your　vitamins。'　Me；　I　was　watching　a　Clint　Eastwood　movie　on　TNT　and　wishing　I　was　anywhere　else　on　Planet　Earth。　Saskatchewan；　even。
　　The　phone　rings；　and　I　think；　oh　good；　it's　Pug；　gotta　be；　and　so　when　I　pick　it　up　I　say　in　my　smoothest　voice；　'You　have　reached　the　Church　of　Any　Eventuality；　Harkerville　branch；　Reverend　Dink　speaking。'
　　'Hello；　Mr。　Earnshaw；'　a　voice　says　back。　It　was　one　I'd　never　heard　before；　but　it　didn't　seem　the　least　put…out　or　puzzled　by　my　bullshit。
　　I　was　mortified　enough　for　both　of　us；　though。　Have　you　ever　noticed　that　when　you　do　something　like　that　on　the　phone…try　to　be　cool　right　from　the　pickup…it's　never　the　person　you　expected　on　the　other　end？　Once　I　heard　about　this　girl　who　picked　up　the　phone　and　said　'Hi；　it's　Helen；　and　I　want　you　to　fuck　me　raw'　because　she　was　sure　it　was　her　boyfriend；　only　it　turned　out　to　be　her　father。　That　story　is　probably　made　up；　like　the　one　about　the　alligators　in　the　New　York　sewers　（or　the　letters　in　Penthouse）；　but　you　get　the　point。
　　'Oh；　I'm　sorry；'　I　say；　too　flustered　to　wonder　how　the　owner　of　this　strange　voice　knows　that　Reverend　Dink　is　also　Mr。　Earnshaw；　actual　name　Richard　Ellery　Earnshaw。　'I　thought　you　were　someone　else。'
　　'I　am　someone　else；'　the　voice　says；　and　although　I　didn't　laugh　then；　I　did　later　on。　Mr。　Sharpton　was　someone　else；　all　right。　Seriously；　eventually　someone　else。
　　'Can　I　help　you？'　I　asked。　'If　you　wanted　my　mother；　I'll　have　to　take　a　message；　because　she's…'
　　'…out　playing　Bingo；　I　know。　In　any　case；　I　want　you；　Mr。　Earn…shaw。　I　want　to　offer　you　a　job。'
　　For　a　moment　I　was　too　surprised　to　say　anything。　Then　it　hit　me…some　sort　of　phone…scam。　'I　got　a　job；'　I　go。　'Sorry。'
　　'Delivering　pizza？'　he　says；　sounding　amused。　'Well；　I　suppose。　If　you　call　that　a　job。'
　　'Who　are　you；　mister？'　I　ask。
　　'My　name　is　Sharpton。　And　now　let　me　〃cut　through　the　bull…shit；〃　as　you　might　say；　Mr。　Earnshaw。　Dink？　May　I　call　you　Dink？'
　　'Sure；'　I　said。　'Can　I　call　you　Sharpie？'
　　'Call　me　whatever　you　want；　just　listen。'
　　'I'm　listening。'　I　was；　too。　Why　not？　The　movie　on　the　tube　was　Coogan's　Bluff；　not　one　of　Clint's　better　efforts。
　　'I　want　to　make　you　the　best　job…offer　you've　ever　had；　and　the　best　one　you　probably　ever　will　have。　It's　not　just　a　job；　Dink；　it's　an　adventure。'
　　'Gee；　where　have　I　heard　that　before？'　I　had　a　bowl　of　popcorn　in　my　lap；　and　I　tossed　a　handful　into　my　mouth。　This　was　turning　into　fun；　sort　of。
　　'Others　promise；　I　deliver。　But　this　is　a　discussion　we　must　have　face…to…face。　Will　you　meet　me？'
　　'Are　you　a　queer？'　I　asked。
　　'No。'　There　was　a　touch　of　amusement　in　his　voice。　Just　enough　so　that　it　was　hard　to　disbelieve。　And　I　was　already　in　the　hole；　so　to　speak；　from　the　smartass　way　I'd　answered　the　phone。　'My　sexual　orientation　doesn't　e　into　this。'
　　'Why're　you　yanking　my　chain；　then？　I　don't　know　anybody　who'd　call　me　at　nine…thirty　in　the　fucking　night　and　offer　me　a　job。'
　　'Do　me　a　favor。　Put　the　phone　down　and　go　look　in　your　front　hall。'
　　Crazier　and　crazier。　But　what　did　I　have　to　lose？　I　did　what　he　said；　and　found　an　envelope　lying　there。　Someone　had　poked　it　through　the　mail…slot　while　I　was　watching　Clint　Eastwood　chase　Don　Stroud　through　Central　Park。　The　first　envelope　of　many；　although　of　course　I　didn't　know　that　then。　I　tore　it　open；　and　seven　ten…dollar　bills　fell　out　into　my　hand。　Also　a　note。
　　This　can　be　the　beginning　of　a　great　career！
　　I　went　back　into　the　living　room；　still　looking　at　the　money。　Know　how　weirded…out　I　was？　I　almost　sat　on　my　bowl　of　popcorn。　I　saw　it　at　the　last　second；　set　it　aside；　and　plopped　back　on　the　couch。　I　picked　up　the　phone；　really　sort　of　expecting　Sharpton　to　be　gone；　but　when　I　said　hello；　he　answered。
　　'What's　this　all　about？'　I　asked　him。　'What's　the　seventy　bucks　for？　I'm　keeping　it；　but　not　because　I　think　I　owe　you　anything。　I　didn't　fucking　ask　for　anything。'
　　'The　money　is　absolutely　yours；'　Sharpton　says；　'with　not　a　string　in　the　world　attached。　But　I'll　let　you　in　on　a　secret；　Dink…a　job　isn't　just　about　money。　A　real　job　is　about　the　fringe　benefits。　That's　where　the　power　is。'
　　'If　you　say　so。'
　　'I　absolutely　do。　And　all　I　ask　is　that　you　meet　me　and　hear　a　little　more。　I'll　make　you　an　offer　that　will　change　your　life；　if　you　take　it。　That　will　open　the　door　to　a　new　life；　in　fact。　Once　I've　made　that　offer；　you　can　ask　all　the　questions　you　like。　Although　I　must　be　honest　and　say　you　probably　won't　get　all　the　answers　you'd　like。'
　　'And　if　I　just　decide　to　walk　away？'
　　'I'll　shake　your　hand；　clap　you　on　the　back；　and　wish　you　good　luck。'
　　'When　did　you　want　to　meet？'　Part　of　me…most　of　me…still　thought　all　this　was　a　joke；　but　there　was　a　minority　opinion　forming　by　then。　There　was　the　money；　for　one　thing；　two　weeks'　worth　of　tips　driving　for　Pizza　Roma；　and　that's　if　business　was　good。　But　mostly　it　was　the　way　Sharpton　talked。　He　sounded　like　he'd　been　to　school　。　。　。　and　I　don't　mean　at　Sheep's　Rectum　State　College　over　in　Van　Drusen；　either。　And　really；　what　harm　could　there　be？　Since　Skipper's　accident；　there　was　no　one　on　Planet　Earth　who　wanted　to　take　after　me　in　a　way　that　was　dangerous　or　painful。　Well；　Ma；　I　suppose；　but　her　only　weapon　was　her　mouth　。　。　。　and　she　wasn't　into　elaborate　practical　jokes。　Also；　I　couldn't　see　her　parting　with　seventy　dollars。　Not　when　there　was　still　a　Bingo　game　in　the　vicinity。
　　'Tonight；'　he　said。　'Right　now；　in　fact。'
　　'All　right；　why　not？　e　on　over。　I　guess　if　you　can　drop　an　envelope　full　of　tens　through　the　mail…slot；　you　don't　need　me　to　give　you　the　address。'
　　'Not　at　your　house。　I'll　meet　you　in　the　Supr　Savr　parking　lot。'
　　My　stomach　dropped　like　an　elevator　with　the　cables　cut；　and　the　conversation　stopped　being　the　least　bit　funny。　Maybe　this　was　some　kind　of　setup…something　with　cops　in　it；　even。　I　told　myself　no　one　could　know　about　Skipper；　least　of　all　the　cops；　but　Jesus。　There　was　the　letter；　Skipper　could　have　left　the　letter　lying　around　anywhere。　Nothing　in　it　anyone　could　make　out　（except　for　his　sister's　name；　but　there　are　millions　of　Debbies　in　the　world）；　no　more　than　anyone　could've　made　out　the　stuff　I　wrote　on　the　sidewalk　outside　Mrs。　Bukowski's　yard　。　。　。　or　so　I　would　have　said　before　the　goddam　phone　rang。　But　who　could　be　absolutely　sure？　And　you　know　what　they　say　about　a　guilty　conscience。　I　didn't　exactly　feel　guilty　about　Skipper；　not　then；　but　still　。　。　。
　　'The　Supr　Savr's　kind　of　a　weird　place　for　a　job　interview；　don't　you　think？　Especially　when　it's　been　closed　since　eight　o'clock。'
　　'That's　what　makes　it　good；　Dink。　Privacy　in　a　public　place。　I'll　park　right　by　the　Kart　Korral。　You'll　know　the　car…it's　a　big　gray　Mercedes。'
　　'I'll　know　it　because　it'll　be　the　only　one　there；'　I　said；　but　he　was　already　gone。
　　I　hung　up　and　put　the　money　in　my　pocket；　almost　without　realizing　I　was　doing　it。　I　was　sweating　lightly　all　over　my　body。　The　voice　on　the　phone　wanted　to　meet　me　by　the　Kart　Korral；　where　Skipper　had　so　often　teased　me。　Where　he　had　once　mashed　my　fingers　between　a　couple　of　shopping　carts；　laughing　when　I　screamed。　That　hurts　the　worst；　getting　your　fingers　mashed。　Two　of　the　nails　had　turned　black　and　fallen　off。　That　was　when　I'd　made　up　my　mind　to　try　the　letter。　And　the　results　had　been　unbelievable。　Still；　if　Skipper　Brannigan　had　a　ghost；　the　Kart　Korral　was　likely　where　it　would　hang　out；　looking　for　fresh　victims　to　torture。　The　voice　on　the　phone　couldn't　have　picked　that　place　by　accident。　I　tried　to　tell　myself　that　was　bullshit；　that　coincidences　happened　all　the　time；　but　I　just　didn't　believe　it。　Mr。　Sharpton　knew　about　Skipper。　Somehow　he　knew。
　　I　was　afraid　to　meet　him；　but　I　didn't　see　what　choice　I　had。　If　nothing　else；　I　ought　to　find　out　how　much　he　knew。　And　who　he　might　tell。
　　I　got　up；　put　on　my　coat　（it　was　early　spring　then；　and　cold　at　night…it　seems　to　me　that　it's　always　cold　at　night　in　western　Pennsylvania）；　started　out　the　door