sk.everythingseventual-第61部分

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ag　over　his　head；　and　rounded　the　evening　off　by　slitting　his　wrists。　There　was　a　man　totally　dedicated　to　avoiding　counselling。
　　He　left　no　note；　though；　and　the　autopsy　showed　no　signs　of　disease。　His　colleagues　scoffed　at　the　idea　of　Alzheimer's；　or　even　early　senility。　'He　was　the　sharpest　guy　I've　ever　known；　right　up　to　the　day　he　died；'　a　guy　named　Pete　Hamill　said。　'He　could　have　gone　on　Challenge　Jeopardy！　and　run　both　boards。　I　have　no　idea　why　Andy　did　such　a　thing。'　Hamill　went　on　to　say　that　one　of　Neff's　'charming　oddities'　was　his　plete　refusal　to　participate　in　the　puter　revolution。　No　modems　for　him；　no　laptop　word　processor；　no　handheld　spell…checker　from　Franklin　Electronic　Publishers。　He　didn't　even　have　a　CD　player　in　his　apartment；　Hamill　said；　Neff　claimed；　perhaps　only　half…joking；　that　pact　discs　were　the　Devil's　work。　He　loved　the　Chairman　of　the　Board；　but　only　on　vinyl。
　　This　guy　Hamill　and　several　others　said　Neff　was　unfailingly　cheerful；　right　up　to　the　afternoon　he　filed　his　last　column；　went　home；　drank　a　glass　of　wine；　and　then　demo'd　himself。　One　of　the　Post's　chatter　columnists；　Liz　Smith；　said　she'd　shared　a　piece　of　pie　with　him　just　before　he　left　on　that　last　day；　and　Neff　had　seemed　'a　trifle　distracted；　but　otherwise　fine。'
　　Distracted；　sure。　With　a　headful　of　fouders；　bews；　and　smims；　you'd　be　distracted；　too。
　　Neff；　the　piece　went　on；　had　been　something　of　an　anomaly　on　the　Post；　which　sticks　up　for　the　more　conservative　view　of　life…I　guess　they　don't　e　right　out　and　remend　electrocuting　welfare　recipients　after　three　years　and　still　no　job；　but　they　do　hint　that　it's　always　an　option。　I　guess　Neff　was　the　house　liberal。　He　wrote　a　column　called　'Eneff　Is　Eneff；'　and　in　it　he　talked　about　changing　the　way　New　York　treated　single　teen　mothers；　suggested　that　maybe　abortion　wasn't　always　murder；　argued　that　the　low…ine　housing　in　the　outer　boroughs　was　a　self…perpetuating　hate　machine。　Near　the　end　of　his　life；　he'd　been　writing　columns　about　the　size　of　the　military；　and　asking　why　we　as　a　country　felt　we　had　to　keep　pouring　on　the　bucks　when　there　was；　essentially；　no　one　left　to　fight　except　for　the　terrorists。　He　said　we'd　do　better　to　spend　that　money　creating　jobs。　And　Post　readers；　who　would　have　crucified　anyone　else　saying　stuff　like　that；　pretty　much　loved　it　when　Neff　laid　it　down。　Because　he　was　funny。　Because　he　was　charming。　Maybe　because　he　was　Irish　and　had　kissed　the　Blarney　Stone。
　　That　was　about　all。　I　started　home。　Somewhere　along　the　way　I　took　a　detour；　though；　and　ended　up　walking　all　over　downtown。　I　zigged　and　zagged；　walking　down　boulevards　and　cutting　through　parking　lots；　all　the　time　thinking　about　Andrew　Neff　climbing　into　his　bathtub　and　putting　a　Baggie　over　his　head。　A　big　one；　a　gallon…size；　keeps　all　your　leftovers　supermarket…fresh。
　　
　　He　was　funny。　He　was　charming。　And　I　had　killed　him。　Neff　had　opened　my　letter　and　it　had　gotten　into　his　head；　somehow。　Judging　by　what　I'd　read　in　the　paper；　the　special　words　and　symbols　took　maybe　three　days　to　fuck　him　up　enough　to　swallow　the　pills　and　climb　into　the　tub。
　　He　deserved　it。
　　That's　what　Mr。　Sharpton　said　about　Skipper；　and　maybe　he　was　right　。　。　。　that　time。　But　did　Neff　deserve　it？　Was　there　shit　about　him　I　didn't　know；　did　he　maybe　like　little　girls　in　the　wrong　way　or　push　dope　or　go　after　people　too　weak　to　fight　back；　like　Skipper　had　gone　after　me　with　the　shopping　cart？
　　We　want　to　help　you　use　your　talent　for　the　betterment　of　all　mankind；　Mr。　Sharpton　said；　and　surely　that　didn't　mean　making　a　guy　off　himself　because　he　thought　the　Defense　Department　was　spending　too　much　money　on　smart…bombs。　Paranoid　shit　like　that　is　strictly　for　movies　starring　Steven　Seagal　and　Jean…Claude　Van　Damme。
　　Then　I　had　a　bad　idea…a　scary　idea。
　　Maybe　TransCorp　didn't　want　him　dead　because　he　wrote　that　stuff。
　　Maybe　they　wanted　him　dead　because　people…the　wrong　people…were　starting　to　think　about　what　he　wrote。
　　'That's　crazy；'　I　said；　right　out　loud；　and　a　woman　looking　into　the　window　of　Columbia　City…Oh　So　Pretty　turned　around　and　gave　me　the　old　fish…eye。
　　I　ended　up　at　the　public　library　around　two　o'clock；　with　my　legs　aching　and　my　head　throbbing。　I　kept　seeing　that　guy　in　the　bathtub；　with　his　wrinkled　old　man's　tits　and　white　chest…hair；　his　nice　smile　gone；　replaced　by　this　vague　Planet　X　look。　I　kept　seeing　him　putting　a　Baggie　over　his　head；　humming　a　Sinatra　tune　（'My　Way；'　maybe）　as　he　snugged　it　down　tight；　then　peered　through　it　the　way　you'd　peer　through　a　cloudy　window；　so　he　could　see　to　slit　the　veins　in　his　wrists。　I　didn't　want　to　see　that　stuff；　but　I　couldn't　stop。　My　bombsight　had　turned　into　a　telescope。
　　They　had　a　puter　room　in　the　library；　and　you　could　get　on　the　Internet　at　a　very　reasonable　cost。　I　had　to　get　a　library　card；　too；　but　that　was　okay。　A　library　card　is　good　to　have；　you　can　never　have　too　much　ID。
　　It　took　me　only　three　bucks'　worth　of　time　to　find　Ann　Tevitch　and　call　up　the　report　of　her　death。　The　story　started；　I　saw　with　a　sinking　sensation；　in　the　bottom　right…hand　corner　of　page　one；　The　Official　Dead　Folks'　Nook；　and　then　jumped　to　the　obituary　page。　Professor　Tevitch　had　been　a　pretty　lady；　blond；　thirty…seven。　In　the　photo　she　was　holding　her　glasses　in　her　hand；　as　if　she　wanted　people　to　know　she　wore　them　。　。　。　but　as　if　she'd　wanted　people　to　see　what　pretty　eyes　she　had；　too。　That　made　me　feel　sad　and　guilty。
　　Her　death　was　startlingly　like　Skipper's…ing　home　from　her　office　at　UNM　just　after　dark；　maybe　hurrying　a　little　because　it　was　her　turn　to　make　supper；　but　what　the　hell；　good　driving　conditions　and　great　visibility。　Her　car…vanity　license　plate　DNA　FAN；　I　happened　to　know…had　veered　off　the　road；　overturned；　and　landed　in　a　drywash。　She　was　still　alive　when　someone　spotted　the　headlights　and　found　her；　but　there　had　never　been　any　real　hope；　her　injuries　were　too　grave。
　　There　was　no　alcohol　in　her　system　and　her　marriage　was　in　good　shape　（no　kids；　at　least；　thank　God　for　small　favors）；　so　the　idea　of　suicide　was　farfetched。　She　had　been　looking　forward　to　the　future；　had　even　talked　about　getting　a　puter　to　celebrate　a　new　research　grant。　She'd　refused　to　own　a　PC　since　1988　or　so；　had　lost　some　valuable　data　in　one　when　it　locked　up；　and　had　distrusted　them　ever　since。　She　would　use　her　department's　equipment　when　she　absolutely　had　to；　but　that　was　all。
　　The　coroner's　verdict　had　been　accidental　death。
　　Professor　Ann　Tevitch；　a　clinical　biologist；　had　been　in　the　forefront　of　West　Coast　AIDS　research。　Another　scientist；　this　one　in　California；　said　that　her　death　might　set　back　the　search　for　a　cure　five　years。　'She　was　a　key　player；'　he　said。　'Smart；　yes；　but　more…I　once　heard　someone　refer　to　her　as　'a　natural…born　facilitator；'　and　that's　as　good　a　description　as　any。　Ann　was　the　kind　of　person　who　holds　other　people　together。　Her　death　is　a　great　loss　to　the　dozens　of　people　who　knew　and　loved　her；　but　it's　an　even　greater　loss　to　this　cause。'
　　Billy　Unger　was　also　easy　enough　to　find。　His　picture　topped　page　one　of　the　Stovington　Weekly　Courant　instead　of　getting　stuck　down　there　in　The　Dead　Folks'　Nook；　but　that　might　have　been　because　there　weren't　many　famous　people　in　Stovington。　Unger　had　been　General　William　'Roll　Em'　Unger；　winner　of　the　Silver　Star　and　Bronze　Star　in　Korea。　During　the　Kennedy　administration　he　was　an　Undersecretary　of　Defense　（Acquisition　Reform）；　and　one　of　the　really　big　war…hawks　of　that　time。　Kill　the　Russkies；　drink　their　blood；　keep　America　safe　for　the　Macy's　Thanksgiving　Day　Parade；　that　sort　of　thing。
　　Then；　around　the　time　Lyndon　Johnson　was　escalating　the　war　in　Vietnam；　Billy　Unger　had　a　change　of　mind　and　heart。　He　began　writing　letters　to　newspapers。　He　started　his　op…ed　page　career　by　saying　that　we　were　handling　the　war　wrong。　He　progressed　to　the　idea　that　we　were　wrong　to　be　in　Vietnam　at　all。　Then；　around　1975　or　so；　he　got　to　the　point　of　saying　all　wars　were　wrong。　That　was　okay　with　most　Vermonters。
　　He　served　seven　terms　in　the　state　legislature；　starting　in　1978。　When　a　group　of　Progressive　Dem