pzb.lostsouls-第4部分

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ally　he　dug　out　his　special　tool；　a　length　of　coat　hanger　bent　into　a　hook　at　one　end。　He　wondered　if　he　ought　to　pull　the　T…bird　up　so　it　was　hiding　the　front　of　the　Pepsi　machine。　No；　he　decided；　anybody　out　driving　this　time　of　night　is　probably　on　business　just　as　shady　as　mine。
　　With　a　last　glance　at　Ghost；　Steve　knelt；　fed　the　wire　into　the　coin…return　slot　of　the　machine；　and　wiggled　it　around　until　he　felt　it　catch。　He　tugged　gently　and　seconds　later　was　blessed　by　a　shower　of　silver。　Steve　scooped　the　quarters；　dimes；　and　nickels　out　of　the　dirt；　shoved　them　into　his　pockets；　hustled　back　to　the　car；　and　got　the　hell　out　of　the　parking　lot。
　　Twenty　fast　miles　later；　Steve　had　the　radio　on　a　rock　station　and　Ghost　was　trying　to　decide　whether　to　rejoin　the　living。　〃Are　we　still　in　North　Carolina？〃
　　〃Yeah。〃　Steve　turned　Led　Zeppelin　down　and　waited　for　the　stories。　Ghost　always　told　Steve　his　dreams；　and　they　were　sometimes　coherent；　sometimes　nonsensical　and　lovely；　and　almost　invariably　a　little　frightening。　Ghost　sat　up　and　stretched；　working　out　his　sleep　cramps。　Steve　saw　a　flash　of　belly　where　Ghost's　sweatshirt　parted　from　his　tie…dyed　pants。　Pale　skin；　golden　hair　sparse　and　curly。　Ghost　looked　out　the　window　for　several　miles；　his　brow　furrowed；　his　eyes　puzzled。　That　meant　he　was　remembering。　Steve　waited；　and　Ghost　began；　haltingly；　to　speak。
　　〃When　they　were　young　。　。　。　they　were　the　world's　darlings。　The　world's　opinion　meant　everything　to　them；　even　though　they　tried　to　pretend　it　meant　nothing。　Their　town　was　even　grayer　and　muddier　when　they　pranced　along　the　streets　after　midnight；　and　the　rooftops　bent　to　kiss　their　dyed　hair。　They　wandered　through　the　shops　putting　their　delicate　fingerprints　on　the　window　glass　and　china；　touching　anything　colorful　or　sweet；　pinching　things　between　thumb　and　forefinger　as　if　to　grasp　the　town　in　both　hands　would　dirty　them。　Sully　them。〃　Ghost　rolled　〃sully〃　over　his　tongue　as　if　it　were　scuppernong　wine；　in　his　thick　Carolina　voice　the　word　took　on　a　dark；　rich　flavor。　〃Sully　them。　The　big　boys。　at　their　school　shouted　things　at　them；　black　dirty　things　that　stank　of　toilet…wall　scrawls　and　smeared　basins。　But　those　boys　never　fought　them　because　they　knew　the　twins　were　magic。　Everyone　knew　the　twins　would　go　away　to　the　city　someday；　where　they　could　pick　rhinestones　out　of　the　cigarette　sludge　in　the　gutter；　and　the　moon　would　be　as　aching　and　vivid　as　neon　cheese　in　blue　velvet　sky。　And　they　did。　They　went　to　New　Orleans。〃
　　Ghost　stopped；　looked　away　down　the　train　track　they　were　crossing。　Tiny　colored　lights　shone　far　down　the　line；　fairy　lights；　Christmas　lights；　though　it　was　only　the　middle　of　September。
　　Steve　closed　his　eyes；　remembered　the　road；　opened　them　again。　〃Go　on；〃　he　said。　〃What　happened　to　them　in　the　city？〃
　　〃Artists　put　them　in　films。　They　were　twins；　and　the　hip　crowd　loved　the　perversity　of　that。　Their　mirror…image　pornography　was　art。　They　were　Donatello　Davids；　skinny　and　beautiful；　not　heavyset　like　Michelangelo's。　Androgynous　striplings　who　outlined　each　other's　bones　in　lipstick。　And　they　were　allowed　every　art　and　luxury　and　perversion　the　city　held　because　of　their　overrouged　lips　and　their　sluts'　eyes　and　the　poetry　of　their　hands。
　　〃They　grew　jaded；　tired；　but　still　insatiable　on　their　own　mattress。　They　lived　and　lived　and　saw　the　first　lines　appear　around　their　eyes。　They　saw　years　of　liquor；　expensive　cigarettes；　drugs　and　passion　etch　themselves　on　their　movie…starlet　faces。　They　watched　the　mirror　as　they　would　have　watched　a　quicksilver　film　of　their　death；　in　a　cold　heat　of　fascination；　dread；　clutching　each　other。　They　bit　at　each　other's　throats　in　desperation；　thinking　to　regain　beauty　in　blood；　to　drink　the　pulse　of　life。　But　their　blood　was　thin；　grainy；　mixed　with　other　substances…no　longer　the　rich　purple　fountain　they　had　once　known。　They　went　out　less；　spending　whole　days　flat　on　the　mattress　like　two　dry　sticks　side　by　side；　forgetting　to　eat；　watching　the　cobweb　cracks　in　the　ceiling　plaster　widen；　spread　like　the　tracery　on　their　faces。　They…〃
　　The　high　stupid　scream　of　a　siren　split　the　night　open。　Ghost's　voice　trailed　off。　Blue　light　pulsated　in　the　rearview　mirror；　turned　Ghost's　face　pallid；　made　the　litter　of　beer　cans　seem　to　whirl　and　dance。
　　〃Shit；〃　said　Steve；　trying　to　decide　whether　to　pull　over。　His　mind　spun　with　the　blue　light：　the　store　and　the　Pepsi　machine　were　forty　fucking　miles　behind！　No　one　had　seen　him　jimmy　the　machine；　no　one。　Would　he　go　to　jail？　Would　Ghost　go　too；　as　an　accessory　to　the　crime　he　had　slept　through？　Ghost　would　lie；　say　he'd　planned　it；　trying　to　take　some　of　the　heat　off　Steve。　Ghost　was　only　twenty…two；　Steve　a　year　older。　They　had　their　whole　lives　ahead　of　them　and　an　open　bottle　of　whiskey　in　their　hands　。　。　。　Fuck！　Fuck！　Fuck！　Steve's　mind　raced；　and　the　radio　got　louder；　and　the　siren　ripped　the　night　apart；　and　he　heard　Jimmy　Page　wafting　on　guitar　and　then　Ghost's　voice；　not　at　all　panicky；　saying；　〃Pull　over；　Steve；　pull　over；　you　dumb　fuck！〃
　　Steve　wrenched　the　wheel　to　the　right；　braked　hard；　and　they　skidded　on　the　surface　of　the　dark　road　and　slowed　。　。　。　slowed　。　。　。　stopped；　gravel　spraying　from　the　tires；　a　thin　trail　of　black　rubber　behind　them。　But　they　were　whole　and　safe；　and　so　was　the　car；　and　most　blessedly　of　all；　the　police　car　was　passing　them；　siren　still　screaming；　light　still　whirling　like　a　cold　blue　dervish。
　　〃Jesus　fuckin'　Christ；〃　said　Steve；　and　let　his　hands　drop　from　the　steering　wheel；　his　head　fall　back　against　the　seat。　He　was　aware　of　Ghost　reaching　over　to　kill　the　ignition；　putting　his　hand　on　Steve's　shoulder；　moving　closer　across　the　seat。　No　questions　（why　are　you　so　paranoid　about　the　cops　tonight；　Steve？　just　carrying　a　couple　of　joints？　or　maybe　jimmying　Pepsi　machines　again？　or　hiding　the　raped　and　gutted　corpse　of　your　ex…girlfriend　in　the　trunk？）；　no　accusations　（we　coulda　been　KILLED！）；　just　the　gentle；　wordless　fort　of　Ghost's　hand　on　the　back　of　his　neck；　Ghost's　thoughts　inside　his　head。
　　For　a　few　moments　Steve　accepted　the　fort　gratefully；　thirstily。　Then　he　remembered　who　he　was　（Steve　Finn　don't　need　nothin'　from　nobody！　No；　not　much；　not　much）；　straightened　up；　and　shook　Ghost　off。　Ghost　withdrew；　understanding　all　too　well。　Understanding　maddeningly。　Steve　wanted　to　hurt　Ghost；　to　stop　the　waves　of　placent　sympathy　pouring　from　the　passenger　seat。　But　Steve　could　not　find　the　words　to　hurt　Ghost；　and　if　he　had　found　them；　he　could　not　have　made　himself　use　them。　The　best　he　could　e　up　with　was　〃Don't　you　call　me　a　dumb　fuck。〃
　　〃Okay；〃　said　Ghost；　so　soft　that　Steve　could　barely　hear　him。
　　Up　ahead　was　a　riot　of　lights　and　movement。　Red　lights；　blue　lights；　someone　standing　in　the　road　flagging　the　T…bird　down。　Steve　stopped；　and　the　flagman　motioned　him　forward。　Slow；　he　signalled。　An　ambulance。　Two　police　cars。　An　officer　talking　to　a　tired　country　woman　in　a　torn　bathrobe　and　curlers。　The　woman　held　the　collar　of　a　Doberman；　restraining　it。　The　dog　snarled　at　the　police；　strained　toward　the　T…bird　as　it　passed　at　five　miles　per　hour。　A　brick　ranch　house　built　close　to　the　road；　its　scrubby　yard　littered　with　broken　toys　and　car　parts；　on　the　porch　the　woman's　family；　a　man　holding　four　small　children　back；　apparently　telling　them　not　to　look。　The　man　was　small　and　red　and　scrawny　as　a　chicken　neck。　The　children　craned　their　necks；　pointing；　curious。
　　There　was　something　else　in　the　yard；　near　the　roadside；　something　that　had　excited　the　dog；　something　the　children　were　trying　to　see。　Something　naked；　dry；　withered。　A　child　…but　what　could　have　shrivelled　it　so；　leached　its　life　away？　Steve　saw　a　backpack　lying　nearby；　spilling　the　kid's　life。　Clothes。　A　couple　of　toy　robots。　Transformers；　Steve　knew　from　watching　the　Saturday…morning　mercials。　The　kid　must　be　a　runaway。　Flecks　of　gravel　were　embedded　in　the　soft　skin　of　his　face；　his　head　lolled　back；　half　severed；　the　dark　red　cavern　of　his　throat　glistening…but　there　was　so　little　blood；　and　the　raw　tissues　within　looked　wasted；　parched。　A　gray　blanket　settled　over　the　planes　and　angles　of　the　little