sk.everythingseventual-第90部分

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　　'I　know　you　can't；'　Mike　said；　replacing　the　cigarette　behind　his　ear。　He　didn't　slick　his　hair　back　with　Vitalis　or　Wildroot　Cream　Oil；　as　those　colorful　fedora…wearing　scribblers　of　yore　had；　but　he　still　changed　the　cigarette　every　day；　just　as　he　changed　his　underwear。　You　sweat　back　there　behind　your　ears；　if　he　examined　the　cigarette　at　the　end　of　the　day　before　throwing　its　unsmoked　deadly　length　into　the　toilet；　Mike　could　see　the　faint　yellow…orange　residue　of　that　sweat　on　the　thin　white　paper。　It　did　not　increase　the　temptation　to　light　up。　How　he　had　smoked　for　almost　twenty　years…thirty　butts　a　day；　sometimes　forty…was　now　beyond　him。　Why　he　had　done　it　was　an　even　better　question。
　　Olin　picked　up　the　little　stack　of　paperbacks　from　the　blotter。　'I　sincerely　hope　you're　wrong。'
　　Mike　ran　open　the　zipper　on　the　side　pocket　of　his　overnight　bag。　He　brought　out　a　Sony　minicorder。　'Would　you　mind　if　I　taped　our　conversation；　Mr。　Olin？'
　　Olin　waved　a　hand。　Mike　pushed　RECORD　and　the　little　red　light　came　on。　The　reels　began　to　turn。
　　Olin；　meanwhile；　was　shuffling　slowly　through　the　stack　of　books；　reading　the　titles。　As　always　when　he　saw　his　books　in　someone　else's　hands；　Mike　Enslin　felt　the　oddest　mix　of　emotions：　pride；　unease；　amusement；　defiance；　and　shame。　He　had　no　business　feeling　ashamed　of　them；　they　had　kept　him　nicely　over　these　last　five　years；　and　he　didn't　have　to　share　any　of　the　profits　with　a　packager　（'book…whores'　was　what　his　agent　called　them；　perhaps　partly　in　envy）；　because　he　had　e　up　with　the　concept　himself。　Although　after　the　first　book　had　sold　so　well；　only　a　moron　could　have　missed　the　concept。　What　was　there　to　do　after　Frankenstein　but　Bride　of　Frankenstein？
　　Still；　he　had　gone　to　Iowa。　He　had　studied　with　Jane　Smiley。　He　had　once　been　on　a　panel　with　Stanley　Elkin。　He　had　once　aspired　（absolutely　no　one　in　his　current　circle　of　friends　and　acquaintances　had　any　least　inkling　of　this）　to　be　published　as　a　Yale　Younger　Poet。　And；　when　the　hotel　manager　began　speaking　the　titles　aloud；　Mike　found　himself　wishing　he　hadn't　challenged　Olin　with　the　recorder。　Later　he　would　listen　to　Olin's　measured　tones　and　imagine　he　heard　contempt　in　them。　He　touched　the　cigarette　behind　his　ear　without　being　aware　of　it。
　　'Ten　Nights　in　Ten　Haunted　Houses；'　Olin　read。　'Ten　Nights　in　Ten　Haunted　Graveyards。　Ten　Nights　in　Ten　Haunted　Castles。'　He　looked　up　at　Mike　with　a　faint　smile　at　the　corners　of　his　mouth。　'Got　to　Scot…land　on　that　one。　Not　to　mention　the　Vienna　Woods。　And　all　tax…deductible；　correct？　Hauntings　are；　after　all；　your　business。'
　　'Do　you　have　a　point？'
　　'You're　sensitive　about　these；　aren't　you？'　Olin　asked。
　　'Sensitive；　yes。　Vulnerable；　no。　If　you're　hoping　to　persuade　me　out　of　your　hotel　by　critiquing　my　books…'
　　'No；　not　at　all。　I　was　curious；　that's　all。　I　sent　Marcel…he's　the　concierge　on　days…out　to　get　them　two　days　ago；　when　you　first　appeared　with　your　。　。　。　request。'
　　'It　was　a　demand；　not　a　request。　Still　is。　You　heard　Mr。　Robertson；　New　York　State　law…not　to　mention　two　federal　civil　rights　laws…forbids　you　to　deny　me　a　specific　room；　if　I　request　that　specific　room　and　the　room　is　vacant。　And　1408　is　vacant。　1408　is　always　vacant　these　days。'
　　But　Mr。　Olin　was　not　to　be　diverted　from　the　subject　of　Mike's　last　three　books…New　York　Times　best…sellers；　all…just　yet。　He　simply　shuffled　through　them　a　third　time。　The　mellow　lamplight　reflected　off　their　shiny　covers。　There　was　a　lot　of　purple　on　the　covers。　Purple　sold　scary　books　better　than　any　other　color；　Mike　had　been　told。
　　'I　didn't　get　a　chance　to　dip　into　these　until　earlier　this　evening；'　Olin　said。　'I've　been　quite　busy。　I　usually　am。　The　Dolphin　is　small　by　New　York　standards；　but　we　run　at　ninety　per　cent　occupancy　and　usually　a　problem　es　through　the　front　door　with　every　guest。'
　　'Like　me。'
　　Olin　smiled　a　little。　'I'd　say　you're　a　bit　of　a　special　problem；　Mr。　Enslin。　You　and　your　Mr。　Robertson　and　all　your　threats。'
　　Mike　felt　nettled　all　over　again。　He　had　made　no　threats；　unless　Robertson　himself　was　a　threat。　And　he　had　been　forced　to　use　the　lawyer；　as　a　man　might　be　forced　to　use　a　crowbar　on　a　rusty　lockbox　which　would　no　longer　accept　the　key。
　　The　lockbox　isn't　yours；　a　voice　inside　told　him；　but　the　laws　of　the　state　and　the　country　said　differently。　The　laws　said　that　room　1408　in　the　Hotel　Dolphin　was　his　if　he　wanted　it；　and　as　long　as　no　one　else　had　it　first。
　　He　became　aware　that　Olin　was　watching　him；　still　with　that　faint　smile。　As　if　he　had　been　following　Mike's　interior　dialogue　almost　word　for　word。　It　was　an　unfortable　feeling；　and　Mike　was　finding　this　an　unexpectedly　unfortable　meeting。　It　felt　as　if　he　had　been　on　the　defensive　ever　since　he'd　taken　out　the　minicorder　（which　was　usually　intimidating）　and　turned　it　on。
　　'If　any　of　this　has　a　point；　Mr。　Olin；　I'm　afraid　I　lost　sight　of　it　a　turn　or　two　back。　And　I've　had　a　long　day。　If　our　wrangle　over　room　1408　is　really　over；　I'd　like　to　go　on　upstairs　and…'
　　'I　read　one　。　。　。　uh；　what　would　you　call　them？　Essays？　Tales？'　Bill…payers　was　what　Mike　called　them；　but　he　didn't　intend　to　say　that　with　the　tape　running。　Not　even　though　it　was　his　tape。
　　'Story；'　Olin　decided。　'I　read　one　story　from　each　book。　The　one　about　the　Rilsby　house　in　Kansas　from　your　Haunted　Houses　book…'
　　'Ah；　yes。　The　axe　murders。'　The　fellow　who　had　chopped　up　all　six　members　of　the　Eugene　Rilsby　family　had　never　been　caught。
　　'Exactly　so。　And　the　one　about　the　night　you　spent　camped　out　on　the　graves　of　the　lovers　in　Alaska　who　mitted　suicide…the　ones　people　keep　claiming　to　see　around　Sitka…and　the　account　of　your　night　in　Gartsby　Castle。　That　was　actually　quite　amusing。　I　was　surprised。'
　　Mike's　ear　was　carefully　tuned　to　catch　the　undernotes　of　contempt　in　even　the　blandest　ments　about　his　Ten　Nights　books；　and　he　had　no　doubt　that　he　sometimes　heard　contempt　that　wasn't　there…few　creatures　on　earth　are　so　paranoid　as　the　writer　who　believes；　deep　in　his　heart；　that　he　is　slumming；　Mike　had　discovered…but　he　didn't　believe　there　was　any　contempt　here。
　　'Thank　you；'　he　said。　'I　guess。'　He　glanced　down　at　his　minicorder。　Usually　its　little　red　eye　seemed　to　be　watching　the　other　guy；　daring　him　to　say　the　wrong　thing。　This　evening　it　seemed　to　be　looking　at　Mike　himself。
　　'Oh　yes；　I　meant　it　as　a　pliment。'　Olin　tapped　the　books。　'I　expect　to　finish　these　。　。　。　but　for　the　writing。　It's　the　writing　I　like。　I　was　surprised　to　find　myself　laughing　at　your　quite　unsupernatural　adventures　in　Gartsby　Castle；　and　I　was　surprised　to　find　you　as　good　as　you　are。　As　subtle　as　you　are。　I　expected　more　hack　and　slash。'
　　Mike　steeled　himself　for　what　would　almost　certainly　e　next；　Olin's　variation　of　What's　a　nice　girl　like　you　doing　in　a　place　like　this。　Olin　the　urbane　hotelier；　host　to　blond　women　who　wore　black　dresses　out　into　the　night；　hirer　of　weedy；　retiring　men　who　wore　tuxes　and　tinkled　old　standards　like　'Night　and　Day'　in　the　hotel　bar。　Olin　who　probably　read　Proust　on　his　nights　off。
　　'But　they　are　disturbing；　too；　these　books。　If　I　hadn't　looked　at　them；　I　don't　think　I　would　have　bothered　waiting　for　you　this　evening。　Once　I　saw　that　lawyer　with　his　briefcase；　I　knew　you　meant　to　stay　in　that　goddamned　room；　and　that　nothing　I　could　say　was　apt　to　dissuade　you。　But　the　books　。　。　。'
　　Mike　reached　out　and　snapped　off　the　minicorder…that　little　red　staring　eye　was　starting　to　give　him　the　willies。　'Do　you　want　to　know　why　I'm　bottom…feeding？　Is　that　it？'
　　'I　assume　you　do　it　for　the　money；'　Olin　said　mildly。　'And　you're　feeding　a　long　way　from　the　bottom；　at　least　in　my　estimation　。　。　。　although　it's　interesting　that　you　would　jump　so　nimbly　to　such　a　conclusion。'
　　Mike　felt　warmth　rising　in　his　cheeks。　No；　this　wasn't　going　the　way　he　had　expected　at　all；　he　had　never　snapped　his　recorder　off　in　the　middle　of　a　conversation。　But　Olin　wasn't　what　he　had　seemed。　I　was　led　astray　by　his　hands；　Mike　thought。　Those　pudgy　little　hotel　manager's　hands　with　their　neat　white　crescents　of　manicured　nail。
　　'What　concerned　me…what　frightened　me…is　t