pzb.lostsouls-第48部分

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ng　thin　hand　was　another　can　of　Budweiser；　cold　and　frosty　and　waiting　for　Steve　to　grab　it。
　　
　　Ghost　prowled　around　the　club　for　maybe　fifteen　minutes；　staying　in　the　shadows；　saying　hello　to　people　he　knew　but　not　stopping　to　talk　to　them。　Instead；　he　watched　Nothing。　Right　after　the　show　he　had　found　himself　wanting　to　talk　to　Nothing；　though　he　wasn't　sure　what　he　wished　to　say。　Maybe　only　to　offer　a　word　of　kinship。　To　say　I　can't　heal　your　pain；　but　I　can　see　it。　And　you　don't　have　to　be　lost。　Not　forever。　So　he　waited　and　hoped　that　Nothing　would　move　away　from　his　three　friends；　if　only　to　go　to　the　restroom　or　something。　But　they　huddled　in　a　tight　little　knot　passing　a　flask　with　a　Grateful　Dead　sticker　on　its　sideGhost　could　just　make　out　the　roses　and　the　grinning　skull。
　　The　two　larger　friends　laughed　a　lot　and　sloshed　the　liquor　in　their　mouths　before　they　swallowed　it。　But　Nothing　and　Zillah　were　quiet。　Zillah　always　seemed　to　have　his　hands　on　Nothing；　touching　the　sleeve　of　Nothing's　raincoat；　speaking　occasionally　（with　his　soft；　untorn　lips…but　Ghost　would　not　think　about　that；　not　now）　into　Nothing's　ear。　Leaning　in　close；　protective　or　predatory　or　both。　Zillah　probably　would　have　followed　Nothing　into　the　restroom。　Nothing　stood　silently；　looking　very　young　and　a　little　nervous；　his　face　lit　orange　by　the　glowing　eye　of　his　cigarette。
　　After　a　while　the　air　inside　the　club　began　to　press　on　Ghost's　face。　It　was　heavy　with　smoke　and　the　neon…bright　energy　of　the　kids。　A　girl　in　black　silk　shimmied　to　the　music　piping　over　the　PA　system。　A　boy　with　long　unruly　hair　played　air…guitar　furiously；　miming　a　Steve　Finn　lick　for　his　friends。　Other　kids　shouted　back　and　forth；　fluttering　hands　stamped　in　ink　with　the　many…boughed　Yggdrasilian　logo　of　the　club。　Ghost　passed　them　on　his　way　to　the　door。　His　head　swarmed　with　their　conversation　and　their　stray　thoughts。
　　Outside；　in　the　night；　the　air　felt　as　clear　and　hard…edged　as　slivers　of　ice。　Ghost　breathed　it　in　deep　and　blew　it　out。　Pale　steam　plumed　from　his　mouth　and　his　nostrils。　For　a　minute　he　stood　on　the　sidewalk　in　front　of　the　club；　his　hands　deep　in　the　pockets　of　his　army　jacket　fumbling　with　the　objects　he　found　there。　Rose　petals。　An　old　ace　of　spades　he　had　found　in　the　dead　grass　at　the　end　of　their　driveway；　water…marked　and　crusted　with　dirt。　A　guitar　pick；　the　lucky　one　Steve　had　given　him。　Then；　his　hands　still　in　his　pockets；　he　crossed　the　street　and　stood　in　the　middle　of　the　empty　block。
　　Missing　Mile　was　not　a　large　town；　but　it　was　big　enough　to　have　a　couple　of　run…down　areas。　The　Sacred　Yew　was　right　in　the　middle　of　one。　The　kids　didn't　care；　and　Kinsey　liked　the　cheap　rent。　Some　of　the　shop　windows　were　boarded　up　or　broken。　Ghost　stood　in　front　of　a　building　that　had　last　been　a　dress　shop。　Magic　Marker　signs　in　the　display　window　still　announced　GOING　OUT　OF　BUSINESS！　and　ALL　STOCK　75％　OFF！　and；　optimistically；　BEAT　XMAS　RUSH！
　　But　between　the　signs　the　window　was　soaped　in　great　cakey　swashes。　Looking　through　one　of　the　gaps；　Ghost　saw　a　pink　torso　splashed　with　moonlight　and　shadow。　Above　it；　a　smooth；　featureless　oval　of　a　head　gazed　back　into　the　dark　recesses　of　the　building。　A　mannequin；　left　behind　to　preside　over　ruin。
　　He　did　not　turn　when　Ann　came　silently　out　of　the　club；　her　hair　flying　like　a　banner　behind　her；　cold　tears　dripping　off　her　chin。　He　stood　looking　through　the　window　of　the　abandoned　dress　shop　for　a　long　time。　The　only　voice　in　his　head　was　his　own；　and　his　thoughts　drifted　like　the　clouds　up　by　the　moon。　Then；　sometime　later；　he　sensed　a　presence　behind　him。
　　When　he　turned；　Zillah　and　Nothing　were　across　the　street；　standing　by　the　club　door。　Zillah　was　still　for　a　moment　seeming　to　scent　the　cold　night　air。　Then　he　started　down　the　street；　walking　fast；　not　looking　back　at　Nothing。　Nothing　hurried　to　catch　up。
　　After　a　moment；　Ghost　followed　too。
　　
　　Christian　turned　away　from　the　rangy　guitarist　without　asking　him　to　pay　for　his　beer。　He　had　learned　to　know　when　a　customer　needed　a　drink　on　the　house。　The　boy　nodded　his　thanks　and　walked　away；　already　raising　the　beer　to　his　lips。
　　As　Christian　pulled　the　Michelob　tap　forward　and　began　drawing　another　beer；　he　glanced　up　at　the　bar　clock…and　his　breath　caught　in　his　throat。　The　glass　clockface　was　reflecting　three　lights　at　once：　the　purple　glow　of　the　ancient　TV　set　that　flickered　all　night　up　in　the　corner；　the　green　luminescence　of　a　beer　sign　across　the　room；　and　the　yellow　of　someone's　striking　a　match。　That　was　all；　but　for　a　second　those　three　colors　flared　together；　and　in　that　circle　of　glass　Christian　saw　the　tawdry　splendor　of　a　hundred　Mardi　Gras　nights…the　fire；　the　liquor；　the　beads；　the　burning　glow　of　Chartreuse…all　up　there　in　the　dusty　clockface。
　　A　wave　of　homesickness　such　as　he　had　never　known　shuddered　through　him。　It　did　not　matter　that　his　bar　had　been　way　down　Chartres；　far　from　the　heart　of　the　Quarter。　In　that　moment　he　saw　only　Bourbon　Street；　the　neon　carnival　going　on　all　night；　the　glitter　that　lit　up　the　dawn。　And　he　thought　suddenly　that　New　Orleans　was　his　home　as　no　place　had　ever　been…not　in　all　his　years。　He　must　go　back。　Better　to　face　the　dry　danger　of　Wallace　Creech　than　to　stay　in　this　dark　little　town　serving　endless　cups　of　bad　draft　beer　through　every　endless　night。
　　Then；　with　an　effort；　he　stifled　his　thoughts。　Of　course　he　could　not　go　back。　He　had　abandoned　his　bar。　When　no　rent　check　was　sent　to　the　owner；　the　bar　and　supplies　would　be　seized；　would　no　longer　belong　to　him。　And　did　he　wish　to　die　at　the　hands　of　one　such　as　Wallace；　to　die　for　the　dogged　obsessions　of　a　sick　old　man；　or　to　have　to　kill　him　and　his　endless　string　of　true　believers？
　　No。　He　would　stay　here；　where　fate　and　the　highways　had　brought　him。　He　would　serve　beer　and　sell　roses　as　long　as　they　grew。　He　would　put　away　money。　Someday；　when　he　knew　Wallace　had　to　he　dead；　he　could　return　to　New　Orleans。　But　for　the　present；　as　soon　as　he　had　enough　money；　he　would　go　north　to　look　for　the　others。
　　He　drew　another　beer。　Above　the　noise　in　the　bar　a　loud　voice　said；　〃Hey；　Count　Dracula；　can　we　get　a　drink？〃
　　Christian　turned；　his　shoulders　stiff；　his　eyes　frigid。　But　the　two　faces　before　him　were　familiar　and　as　ically　surprised　as　he　must　look。　The　ridiculous　smudges　of　kohl　around　the　eyes。　The　masses　of　ratted　hair　framing　pallid　cheeks。　One　of　them　held　a　sticky　red　lollipop　in　his　hand。　They　had　let　their　hair　grow　longer　and　wilder；　and　their　style　of　dress　was　now　tinged　with　punk。　One　wore　a　studded　leather　collar　around　his　neck；　the　other's　black　denim　jacket　seemed　to　he　held　together　chiefly　by　hundreds　of　safety　pins。　Otherwise　Molochai　and　Twig　had　changed　not　at　all　since　Christian　last　saw　them；　waving　goodbye　from　the　windows　of　their　van　on　that　Ash　Wednesday　night　fifteen　years　ago。
　　His　first　clear　thought　was　What　happened　to　Zillah？　beautiful　green…eyed　Zillah？　he　must　be　safe。　He　blocked　that　thought；　and　his　second　one　was　They　are　here；　they　are　really　here；　the　time　passed　as　if　I　were　asleep　and　they　have　found　me　again。
　　Then　Christian　did　something　he　had　never　done　before；　not　once　during　a　long；　long　bartending　career。　He　dropped　the　cup　of　beer　he　was　holding。　It　foamed　around　his　boots　and　made　a　huge　puddle　on　the　floor。　Kinsey　came　out　from　the　back　and　saw　it　and　glared　at　him；　and　Christian　could　not　have　cared　less。
　　
　　Nothing　gazed　around　at　the　kids　in　the　club。　They　were　all　so　beautiful。　He　loved　their　choppy　hairstyles；　their　costume　jewelry；　their　ragged　black　or　multicolored　clothes。　He　loved　the　way　they　all　somehow　looked　like　him；　and　he　wished　he　could　make　friends　with　every　one　of　them。　Most　of　them　smiled　at　him；　and　a　few　said　〃hey〃…they　all　seemed　to　say　that　instead　of　〃hi〃　or　〃hello〃…but　he　didn't　dare　talk　to　any　of　them。　He　couldn't　make　friends　now。　Not　when　they　might　end　up　like　Laine；　alone　in　a　culvert　with　rainwater　washing　through　their　hair。
　　Not　yet。
　　He　was　content　just　to　be　among　them；　watching　them　talk；　smoke；　dance。　Zillah　was　beside　him；　and　the　others；　so　he　wasn't　alone。　An