Chapter 6 Chapter Six
After some road tricks, I was angry, curious, and eager for a drink.At this time, I remembered that since I drank at Wangfutai Restaurant that night, I have not touched a drop of alcohol.So as soon as I got home, I parked the car and headed towards the town pier.In the center of town, there are a few good bars: the Bay State Pub (we all call it the Borrig), the Poop Deck Pub, and the Fish and Bait Pub (aka the Blood Bucket in honor of the brawl that took place there, of course The name is unofficial), these are good bars, but not fancy bars.As before, the bar is dark and dirty enough to make you feel comfortable.You can squat down and drink as comfortably as a fetus in a well-conditioned and secure womb.A few fluorescent lights hung overhead, and an old jukebox spun limply but not harshly.Of course, in the summer, bars like Borrig have more customers than there are during rush hour in the New York subway.It is said that one summer there was a contest between the bar and the restaurant at the Bad Weiser Brewery or Schaefer Brewery or one of those horse urine breweries, to see where in Massachusetts Home beer sells the most.It turns out that in July, a bar called the Bay State in Provincetown sells the most beer.Of this, I am sure.On a weekend morning in August, several senior staff flew in in light summer suits, accompanied by a television crew preparing to tape the award ceremony.They wanted to visit a lobster and fish and chips place the size of a National Guard training range.You can find this kind of place in Hyannis.But all they saw was the dim, foul-smelling Borrig.The customers there could only afford beer, and two hundred people crowded together and drank standing up.The distance between Borrig's front door and the stinking dumpster in the back was probably as long as a covered van.For food, you can get a "hero" sandwich with ham, cheese or linguine and sausage.As the TV cameras roll, the hippies stand up and say, "Ah, it's this beer. Fucking quality. What's that red light on your TV recorder for? I'm talking too much, haven't I? Don't say it." It's gone! Isn't it?"
In winter, there are not many people here, but you can find a place to sit and learn about everything that happened today.At noon, many commercial fishing boats will dock.The crew would come here for a few drinks.Carpenters, drug dealers, drug dealers, a couple of odd jobs at the summer cottage, unmarried young mothers with relief checks on Fridays and others shuffling off to beg for a meal or get a drink with a friend , all drinking our good horse piss.I knew most of them, to varying degrees.If they were involved in the thing that concerns me now, I could tell about them, because no matter how much they look alike, they are unique.But in winter, as I say, we seem to be made of the same mould.We were gray and yellow, all in leftover uniforms from the army.
One story is enough.I live in a small town where Portuguese people live.In this story, there are no locals except Studi.Studi has completely embarrassed the Portuguese.On a winter afternoon, the Borrigs were unnaturally small.A Portuguese fisherman in his eighties sits at the counter.Because of years of hard work, his body was bent like a cypress tree growing out of the cracks in the big rocks on the seashore.At this time, another fisherman walked in. He had severe arthritis.They grew up together, played football together, graduated high school together, worked on the same boat, got drunk together and probably seduced each other's wives.But now, at eighty, they hated each other as much as they did when they were young in puddle fights.The one sitting on the stool stood up and yelled in a hoarse voice like the March wind: "I thought you were dead!" The other stopped and looked back, like a seagull. "Dead? I'll be at your funeral," replied shrilly. They drank their beers together.It's just another way to get rid of ghosts.The Portuguese know how to shout when they speak.
We all learn from them.Elsewhere, they measure the concentration of acid rain or the index of air pollution or the amount of oxides in the soil.Here we have no industry other than fishing and renting houses, and no agriculture.The air and sand are clean.But days are rare when you don't feel the weight of alcohol in a bar.As I walked hand in hand with the elves in the ghost town in the sleepless nights, I felt noticed.I could be a bottle of pen water spilled in the sink.I was welcomed by the crowd like a rotten log on a smoldering fire.
Also, every pub, like every family, has its own idiosyncratic habits, as I have seen in my previous pub work.The log that was smoking in one furnace was ablaze in another.My gloomy mood, and the adrenaline that came with it, combined with the frantic and anxious mood shown by my hair (no doubt about it) did not take long to change the mood of Borrig, and the laughter continued. , everyone was beaming.The one who had been drinking at his own table stood up and walked towards other tables.The well-dressed and their old women had been silent just now, and now they were beginning to feel dazed and sweet.And at this point, I was talking to my ghastly secrets, not to anyone present—every winter in Provincetown could be named after the most popular person that winter.In my own opinion, I was the one who lit the fire, even though all I did was nod to people and get mobbed at the liquor counter.Pete Pole was the first to come up to me, and we had a few words that nearly broke my neck. "Well," he said, "I've been talking to your wife for a while."
"today?"
He was bored for a long time before answering.My throat was dry and I had a hard time forcing the question out as he had just taken a sip of beer.Besides, he couldn't remember.At Borrig, this is commonplace.People in Borrig would chat, but their thoughts, especially when they drank a few more glasses of morphine and cocaine, would swim away like water bugs.
"Today," Pete said, "no, no, a few days ago."
"when?"
He shook his head. "It was a few days ago." He might also say, "It was a few weeks ago." I noticed that in winter, people's concept of time is not clear.Something might have happened two weeks ago or two nights ago, but if you have a habit of saying "five days ago," you might remember that it happened five days ago.So, I didn't think about it any more.I return to that subject again.
"What did Patty want to tell you?"
"Oh, yes. I said. She wanted me to look after that big house on the west hill."
"The one she wants to buy?"
"That's what she said."
"Let you take care of it?"
"Me and my brother."
It still makes sense.His brother is a good carpenter.In fact, Pete was saying that his brother was going to look after the place.Patty might have asked Pete to get in touch with his brother.
I knew it wasn't wise for Patty to do that, but I snapped and asked, "Do you remember, did you talk to Patty before the Patriots game, or after?"
"Oh, that ball game." He nodded deeply.Morphine cocaine was taking him elsewhere.He thought carefully—what was it—was it a ball game, some day, or the money in his butt pocket.Then, shaking his head, he said, "About two days ago."
"Well," I said, "that's right."
Beth Neeson came quietly.She drank too much.For her, this is rare.She was excited, which was even more unusual.
"What did you do to the spider?" she asked me.
"Hey, baby," Pete said, "let it go. I have to change places." He leaned down and kissed the sweater where her breasts protruded, and then raised his glass to a piece of paper. The table goes.
"Spiders really got into a fight with someone?" I asked.
"Who knows?" Her eyes lit up. "The spider is crazy."
"We're all crazy," I said.
"Don't you think we're both out of order in some particular way?" she said.
"How to say?"
"We've never had sex before."
This is the state of mind in winter.I smiled intentionally and put my arms around her waist.There was a faint gleam in her dull eyes through the lenses of her spectacles.
"Spider lost the knife," said Beth, "and insisted you stole it." She giggled, as if a spider would be like any other man without trousers if he didn't have the knife. "He lost his motorcycle, too," she said. "You tell him, can the Patriots win?"
"In the middle of the kick, say so."
"They did win," said Beth, "and in the middle of the kick he decided to change the bets, saying he was trying to annoy you. Now he says it's all your fault he lost that motorcycle."
"Tell the spider to guard the woman thing!"
She giggled. "In the Midwest," she said, "we used to say 'pussy.' I thought, I'm going to have to write a letter to my parents and tell them that their daughter can no longer tell what's a woman thing from what's Pussy." She hiccupped, "I don't want to say anything to the spider," she said, "he's in a bad mood. But what if I tell him?" she asked. "'The worst people are the most affectionate.' Don't you?" She gave me an overly obscene glance.
"Is Studi okay?" I asked.
"Oh," she said, "you gotta watch out for Studdy."
"Why?" I asked.
"Oh," she said, "I tell everybody I see, watch out for Studdy."
I don't know if it's because the blond head in the dark plastic bag is always on my mind, but everything I hear seems to have something to do with my situation.Is there a real mania in the air?Only I—and I sincerely hope someone else—knows what's buried in that marijuana field.There were screams of that thought in the sound of every table call.Ghosts, I think, are tearing at the spongy, beer-filled brains of everyone in the bar.
Beth saw I didn't look at her, and said, "Patty Laren hasn't changed her mind yet?"
I shrugged. "I heard she's nearby."
"I think so. Bolo's back in town." "Did you see him?" Bolo was the Mr. Black, but his name was Green Joseph, "Bolo" Green.
He got the name Bolo the first day he went drinking in a bar here. "There's a lot of bad niggers out there," he said to our table of ten, "but I'm a really bad nigger." Nobody said anything, just sat there quietly, As if saying goodbye to his remains - we are the "Wild West" of the East!But Patti Lahren laughed and said, "Stop wielding that bolo machete of yours, nobody's gonna steal your black." I could tell by the ecstatic look in her eyes that the next Mr. Hei has been chosen according to the will of God.
"I see," said Beth, and she drew me out of my contemplation to hers again—my thoughts, too, swimming about like water bugs—"Borlow was indeed back in town. He was ten minutes been here before."
"Have you spoken to him?"
"He flirted with me just now."
Seeing her happy look, I can be sure she is not lying.
The waiter waved to me, then pointed to the phone behind the desk.This time my inspiration didn't work.I thought I could hear Patty's voice, but it was Harper on the line.
"Mike," he said, "I've been trying to find you. I'm making myself call you."
"why?"
"Because I sold you out."
"How did you betray me?"
"I'm scared. I wanted to tell you in advance."
There was a metallic anxiety in Harpo's tone that sounded like it was coming from a mechanical membrane.I was trying to figure out what drugs were doing him this way.There must be a lot of chemicals in his brain.
"It's Laurel," he said now.
"Tattoo pattern?"
"That woman. Laurel. I called Police Chief Rejesh and told him about her and the tattoo."
That didn't matter much to Rejessie, I suppose, unless Patty Laren, accompanied by Rejessie, called Madeleine Laurel herself.
"Great," I said, "Alvin now knows I have a tattoo. So what did you sell?"
"I told him Laurel was waiting for you downstairs in the car."
"But why do you think that name is Laurel?"
"You talked to her. Through my window."
"Did I tell you?"
"You're saying, 'I'm going to win this bet, Laurel.' That's what you're saying."
"I probably meant Lonny. I think I'm shouting at a man."
"No, it's Laurel. I heard the name. I believe Laurel is dead."
"Who told you that?"
"I was standing on the roof that day. I heard it. That's why I hung up on the police chief. I knew I shouldn't have got that tattoo on you. People do horrible things when they're tattooed here."
"What else did you tell Rejesse?"
"I said, I think you killed Laurel." He began to cry.
"How can you believe this?" I asked.
"I saw Laurel dead. I was on the roof that night and I saw her on the horizon. She said you did it." I heard him blowing his nose on the phone. "I struggled with my conscience for a while before I hung up on Rejesse. This is not the right thing to do. I should have said hello to you first."
"What did Regis say?"
"He's a complete bastard, an idiot, a big bureaucrat. He says he wants to think about it. Mike, I don't believe him."
"Well," I said, "you should trust me."
"I don't think you've done anything. You can hear it in Rejesh's voice. I didn't do it right."
"I'm glad to hear that."
His breathing became rapid.On the phone, I could feel him starting to lose his mind. "I may not have the right to say who killed her," he added, "but now I know who."
"It's Neeson," I said.
"I hate that spider knife," Harper said, "a wicked tool." With that, he put the phone down.
A hand lightly patted my shoulder.As soon as I turned around, I saw Boluo's golden brown eyes, those lion-like eyes were fixed on me.His skin was dark and purplish, something of an African, so his eyes were an uncomfortably golden color.I knew from the first time I met him that he would be a dark cloud over my marriage.I guessed right.Before Mr. Green came into my life, there were three other Negroes, but he proved himself to be an undisputed Mr. Negro.Patti Lahren had never left me before, after all.
Worse, now I don't hate him, or even resent myself for being such a bleak, bastard.When I was on the phone, he was able to walk up to me and even patted me on the shoulder with his hand.As for me, I could only nod in return.Here is the proof.
Of course, I'd be better off letting a helicopter take me from one hill to another.I don't need to go down from the bottom of the mountain to the bottom of the valley, and then climb up another mountain.No need, I jumped straight into Bolo's gaze from Harper's words (every one of which blew my head off).By now, I'm probably full of cocaine, and I feel like I'm no longer connected to these overdoses—indeed, anything.But I, the only candidate, who can only call myself Mr. Marble Eye, have been numb tonight by the sharp turn in the runway.Except this time, when Mr. Green put his hand on my shoulder again, dug his fingers in viciously—I tell you—and said, “Where the hell is Patty Lahren now?” The anger spread all over me.After he said this, I suddenly came to my senses and shook his hand aside with the same violence, "Take away your dirty paws for grabbing lunch." This is what middle school students use when they quarrel.For the first time in my life I wasn't afraid of him.I don't care if the two of us go out and fight in the street.The thought of being knocked unconscious on the ground is like a painkiller, a painkiller as good as forget-me-down pills.
Let me tell you, I don't doubt what he's going to do to me.If you've ever been in an interesting prison, you know that there are only blacks there, and there aren't many of them that you haven't quarreled with.Mr. Green can't be in that classy house, or I'll be dead.But he belongs to the second layer: he rarely quarrels with others.Now, his eyes are fixed on mine.I didn't care and stared at him too.It seemed to both of us that the light in the room turned red - I mean, it really turned red - and I don't know if it's because he was so angry seeing me that it reflected the color to the brain My nerves were hurt by the passing voltage, or because the torches in the ghost town rushed towards us in unison.But what I'm dealing with now is the sum total of all the rage he's had in the past twenty-five years (from his first punch in the cradle); crystallization.I think we'd both be dizzy if we persisted for a while under this hellish red light.We both stood there looking at each other for a long time, long enough for me to recall the tragic story of his own life.That's what he told Patti Lahren and me the night we first met.That story tells how he lost his boxing career.
It's unbelievable that I can recall such a story while his crazy stare is shooting into my eyes, even I can't believe it myself.Maybe I wasn't that brave, so I clung to the story, hoping it would ease his anger.You can't hit someone who sympathizes with you.
The story goes like this: he was an illegitimate child.His mother denied he was her child, saying that at the hospital, they got the name tags mixed up.In the past, she beat him every day.When he was older, in the Golden Gloves, he would fight whoever he saw.He was a candidate for Team USA at the Pan American Boxing Championship.But he went to find his father in Georgia.But he couldn't find it, so he got drunk.Walk into a white bar.They wouldn't sell him alcohol and called the state troopers.Two state troopers come in and tell him to get out.
"You have no choice," he told them, "sell me wine, or I will be rude."
Some state trooper hit him on the head with a baton, and he was disqualified for the Pan Am on the spot.But, he didn't know this, he was just happy because he bled like he was slaughtered.He was not intimidated.In fact, he was quite sober.One by one he beat the two troopers down.All the people in the bar stretched out their hands to stop him.They tied him up and sent him to prison.Among other injuries, his skull was fractured.As a result, he could no longer compete in boxing matches.
This is the sad story he tells.He believes that all the stupid things he has done are related to this story.But that cracked skull had little to do with his heroism (although it had the opposite effect on Patty).Later, when we got to know him better, we realized that he was a very funny man.He often imitated the actions of black whores to make us laugh.We see Mr. Green often, and I have lent him money to spend.
This time you may know how close I am to the destruction of soul and body.Now I realize Bolo was nice to me, not like I was to Wadley.It made me feel pretty comfortable (after living a life of rats).The anger in my heart began to die down, and peaceful eyes replaced it.I don't know what Mr. Green thinks.As my anger faded, so did the anger in his chest. "Oh," I offer to break the quiet deadlock, "what do you want to say, fuck?"
"I've never had a mother to fuck," he replied.
He held out his hand miserably.I also patted his hand lightly with the same mood.
"I don't know where Patty Laren is," I said.
"You didn't go to her?"
"No."
"I was looking for her, but I couldn't find her."
"When did she leave you?"
He frowned. "We were together for three weeks. Then she got restless and ran away."
"Where were you at that time?"
"In Tampa."
"Have you seen her former husband?"
"Wadley, is that the boy?"
I nod.
"We saw him. He invited the two of us to dinner in the street one night. After that she went to see him alone. That was all right. He doesn't do anything scary. I think she It was for the benefit. But the next day, she ran away." He looked like he was about to cry. "She's been nice to me. She's the only bitch who's been that nice to me." He looked sad. "I've worked so hard to talk to her." He looked into my eyes. "Do you know where she is? I have to find her."
"She might be in town."
"That's true."
"How did you know?"
"A kid called me up and said Patti Laren told him to call me. She wanted me to know she and Wadley were back in Provincetown. She missed me, the guy said."
"Who is that guy?"
"Didn't tell me the name. Oh, he told me, but no one called that name. When he told me, I knew it was useless. He put a handkerchief into the microphone."
"What's his name?"
"Healy, Austin Healy."
A small flaw in the town's oral lore found its way.A few years ago, a few of us got tired of hearing the name Studdy and started calling him Austin Healy.We called Studdy Austin Healy, and it didn't take long for us to stop calling him.Nobody ever told Studdy about our new name for him.The guy on the phone must be a spider.
"This Healy said Patti Laren was in the Provincetown Inn," Bolo said. "I hung up there. Damn, she never went anywhere like that."
"When did you come back?"
"Three days ago."
"When did she leave you?"
"A week ago, it might have been."
"Seven days surely?"
"Eight days, I counted them."
Yes, he is counting on his fingers, and so am I.
"I'd have to kill her," he said. "She kicked me off."
"There's no one she doesn't kick," I said. "She's of humble origins. It's a crime to her."
"I'm from as low a family as she is," he said, "and when I see her, I'm going to do something sensational." He squinted at me as if to say, "You can lie, but boy, believe me Me." My eyes dispelled his doubts.He said, "Austin Healy said Patty Lahren's coming to you again. When I heard that, I thought I'd give you a taste of popularity." He paused for a moment to let me weigh it The weight of the thought, "But, I know, I can't do that."
"why?"
"Because you treat me like a gentleman."
I wondered how much of that statement was true, and seemed to agree with him. "But," he said, "Patty Lahren will never like you again."
"That may not be true."
"She said that she married you because you lied to her."
I started laughing.
"What are you laughing at, white man?"
"Mr. Green, there is an old Jewish saying: 'Life, wife.'"
He also started laughing.
We just talked and laughed.Borrig could go down in history tonight.Having fun with bastards and brunette adulterers.
"See you later, Joseph," I said to Borrow Green.
"Good luck."
I have to go back a long way.My head was so full that I couldn't figure it out.
It is raining lightly.I was walking down High Street with my hands in my pockets and my head tucked into the hood of my raincoat so far in that I didn't even feel a car following me.It wasn't until the headlight beams hit my back that I noticed that behind me was a police patrol car with a person in it. "Come in," he said.Regis is at my service.
We hadn't gone fifty feet before he said, "I recognize you woman, Jessica," he said.He pointed to a piece of paper on the front seat. "Look," he told me, taking a penlight from his coat pocket and handing it to me.
I took a close look at the telephotocopied photographs.Clearly, it was Jessica. "I said, it's her."
"I said, we don't need you to tell us, man. There's no doubt about it. The waitress and the proprietor at the Watcher's Terrace recognized her."
"Nice job," I said. "How did you find her?"
"It wasn't much of a stretch. We got in touch with the Pangborn office in Santa Barbara. There he socialized and business with a couple of blonde women. Her son called while we were investigating. He knew, She came to Provincetown with Pangborn—as you might have guessed from Don Long's love letters."
"You mean that son is Lonnie's lover?"
"Exactly," Rejesse said. "The kid with the cordless blade." He opened the window and yelled in a husky voice. "I don't think I'll ever watch TV commercials again."
"You better not look."
"I say, Madden. Odd thing the soup got the spoon all over it. Looks like her name isn't Jessica."
"What's her real name?"
"Laurel Oakwood. She has a weird spelling of her last name: wode, pronounced wood."
Then I remembered what I had said to Harper before the séance that ended with Neeson yelling. "Harper," I said, "tell everybody we're trying to get in touch with Mary Hardwood, my mother's cousin. But it's a woman named Laurel that I really want to talk to."
Such a coincidence even the signal transmitter can't do it.I shivered involuntarily.Sitting in the police car with Rejece, patrolling the High Street at fifteen miles an hour, I began to visibly shake.
"You need something to drink," said Alvin Luther.
"Nothing." I said.
"Maybe you'd be better off if you didn't have 'Laurel' in that tattoo," he suggested."
"Do you want to stop the car?"
"no problem."
We are at the end of Commercial Street.We come to the place where the Puritan settlers landed.But now it's raining lightly and I can't see anything.
"Okay," he said, "get out."
I feel less panicked.The thought of walking the two-and-a-half miles home with this guy who had been chiseled by a stonemason gave me courage to try it.
"I don't know what you're referring to," I said, "but it doesn't matter to me. I drank a few more drinks and then drove to Harper to get me a tattoo. Maybe Jessica told Me, her real name is Laurel, but I don't remember."
"Was she with you at the time?"
I have to think about how to answer this. "Happ said she was with me."
"Are you saying you can't remember?"
"I don't remember exactly."
"So, you might kill her and forget about it?"
"Are you accusing me?"
"We should think of it this way. I'm sketching the outlines of a scene. I think I'm a writer, too." He couldn't help himself anymore.The wild horse neighed loudly.
"I don't like the way you talk."
"Hey, man," said Rejesse, "just kidding, but don't keep your ass on my pillow. I can arrest you in no time."
"Why? I didn't commit any crime. That woman probably went back to Santa Barbara. You don't want to ruin your reputation by arresting the wrong man."
"Let me tell you another way," he said. "I'm arresting you now as a suspect in the murder of Leonard Pangborn."
"Didn't you say that he committed suicide?"
"That's what I thought. But first a criminal investigation. They came here from Boston at our request. Super coroners, they like to be called. But behind my back I call them super big-hearted." He hissed again at his own joke. "They'll break your heart with what they find."
"What did they find?"
"Let me tell you. It won't be long before it becomes public. Pangborn may have committed suicide, but if he did, who was driving?"
"You told me he got in the trunk of the car, put the lid back on, and shot himself."
"The blood at the bottom of the trunk of the car is congealed, and there is a layer of folds on it. It seems that someone drove the car when the blood was just about to congeal. It drove from the place where the crime was committed to Wangfutai Restaurant."
"Didn't the staff at the restaurant hear the car coming back?"
"If it's three o'clock in the morning, they can't hear it. They're all off work. I said, let's stop arguing. The car was taken away by someone else. The traces on the blood prove it." He shrugged, "Ma Deng, apparently someone drove the car to the Watchman's Terrace after Lonnie killed himself."
"Could it be Jessica?"
"Yes, it could have been Laurel Oakwood. Let me ask you: did you have sex with her?"
"I think I fucked her."
He whistles. "My God, do you have a bucket of glutinous rice in your head? Why can't you even think of such a thing?"
"What troubles me is that I think I fucked Jessica in front of Lonnie Pangborn."
"I hate to quote niggers, but Cassius Clay said: 'You're not as dumb as you look.'"
"what do you mean?"
"Don't keep my compliments on your lips." He lit a cigar and exhaled on it like it was a blaster. "Madden, you haven't told me your story yet. One, you make love to Jessica in front of Lonnie. Two, you pull up your pants and leave. Third, Jessica comforts Lonnie. 4th, he started whining! Us gay men can't handle the competition. He's hiding in the trunk of the car. Bang! Left him a gift - his dead body. These gays may be vicious .But she's a respectable bitch, and she didn't want the public to know about it. So, she drove the car back to the Beaver's Terrace, left it there, and headed home to Santa Barbara." He nodded. "It's a matter of course. If, number one, you can find out where she slept last night, though I could tell you upfront to save part of the cost of a lawyer, you can always say she's back at your In the house, sleeping on the sofa with tears all over your face. Unless you give her your own bed." He opened the car window and threw the cigarette butt out. "Second, when she reappears, she must be alive to confirm everything you have heard. You have to pray that her body will not come out of the sand dunes and woods."
"You've thought about it."
I wanted to comfort him.He just nodded.
"Let me tell you another story. You, she, and Pangborn went to Wellfleet in your car together. On the way back, Lonnie couldn't bear the pain of losing her any longer, so he threatened you with a pistol. You stop the car and start a fight with him, knocking his gun aside. During the quarrel, she gets shot. A fatal shot. You leave her in the woods and drive him to his next to your car and force him into the trunk of the car - at this point he's limp as a worm. Then you drive to a secluded spot, open the trunk lid and put the barrel of the gun at his throat , in a moving voice, 'I'm not going to hurt you, Lonny, it's just a fun game. I always take the kids out this way. Kiss the muzzle of my gun, Lonny.' Then, you Pull the trigger and wipe it off a little, lest your fingerprints be left on it. Then, you drive back to Wangfutai Restaurant, drive your car back to the woods, and leave her body there. Kid, you Everything went well. The catch is, you forgot to wipe the front seat of your car. As my wife says, 'No one is perfect.' I have my flaws too. I let you slip, car The blood on the seat is wiped out. I'm a redneck and trust my friends. It's true," he said. "You better hope her body isn't found. I'm the next one to die after you, because I believed your nosebleed."
"Oh," I said, "then why don't you arrest me now?"
"Think about it."
"You have no proof. If she had been killed in my car, her blood would have splattered him."
"Maybe you're right. Let's go have a drink."
It never gets more annoying than that.The last thing I want is to drink with him.可他猛踩了一下油门，吹着《星辰》小曲，车后扬起一团沙土和一股橡胶味。
我想，我们可能会到参加国外战争的退伍军人的酒吧去，因为那是他最喜欢去的地方。他却把车开到市政大厅，带我沿着地下室的走廊来到他办公室。他用手指了指一把椅子，随手拿出一瓶波旁威士忌。我琢磨我们到这儿，是来为他桌上那些录音设备服务的。
“我寻思，我得先让你看看这个地方的礼仪，”雷杰西说，“然后再享受享受我们的监狱。”
“我们能不能谈些别的？”
他咧嘴一笑，“你说吧。”
“我妻子在哪儿？”
“我正希望你能告诉我。”
“我同和她一块跑了的那个家伙谈过。她八天前就把他甩了。我相信他说的话。”
雷杰西说：“那得核对一下。”
“核对什么？”
“据劳雷尔·奥克伍德的儿子说——顺便说一下，他的儿子也叫伦纳德，可他们管他叫桑尼，桑尼·奥克伍德——帕蒂·拉伦七个晚上以前在圣巴巴拉。”
“这我可不知道。”
“你当然不会知道。她在那儿与沃德利这家伙在一起。”
我以前从来就不清楚“无言以对”这句话是什么意思。现在，我明白了。
“波旁酒味道如何？”
我只点了一下头。
“是这样，她在圣巴巴拉与沃德利在一起。他们俩在朗尼的海滩俱乐部里与劳雷尔·奥克伍德和伦纳德·潘伯恩一块吃饭。他们四个人坐在同一张桌旁。后来桑尼和他们一起喝咖啡。”
我仍然说不出话来。
“想知道他们谈些什么吗？”
I nod.
“过一会儿你得给我讲讲。”
I nod.
“好啦。据桑尼告诉我……”他接着说，“顺便说一下，从电话里听不出来桑尼是个搞同性恋的人。你不认为潘伯恩在那封信里撒谎吗？”
他用手指画个问号。
“可你认为潘伯恩看上去不像同性恋者？”
I shake my head.
“我真是难以相信，”他说，“在同性恋窝里究竟有多少玩头。上帝，不是你就是我可能是女性化的爷们儿。”
“你怎么说都行，亲爱的。”我口齿不清地说。
他听了后，哈哈大笑起来。我很高兴，我能发声了。说不出话来是叫人感到震惊的，谁都会想方设法排除它。
我们每人呷了一口波旁酒。
“想抽口大麻烟吗？”雷杰西问。
"In no mood."
“那我抽，你介意吗？”
“难道你不怕在你的办公室里给抓住？”
“谁抓我？我想抓谁就抓谁。就这么回事。”他真的掏出了一支大麻烟，点着了。
“真棒。”我说。
“是不错。”他吐出一股烟，“哪口大麻里都有个笑话。”
“是的，警察先生。”
“马登，桑尼告诉我说，潘伯恩和劳雷尔是坐飞机到的波士顿，然后开车到普罗文斯敦，并装成喜欢帕拉米塞兹房地产的游客。”
“那幢房子叫那个名儿吗？”
“是的，几年前有个希腊人为掩护阿拉伯人，买下了这幢房子。现在沃德利想把它买下来送给帕蒂。这就是他们在饭桌上谈的。”
他又抽了口大麻。
“他们说要复婚。”他说。
“真是妙极了。”我想我也受了大麻烟的影响。
“你知道帕蒂为什么想要那个地方？”雷杰西问。
“她从没告诉过我。”
“据桑尼说，她一年前就盯上那幢房子了。沃德利想把它买下来送给她，就像理查德·伯顿为伊丽莎白·泰勒买钻石那样。”
“这种消息一定会叫你不高兴吧？”我问道。
"what do you mean?"
“你和帕蒂·拉伦没用手指头同时伸在一瓶果酱里？”
如果我们是拳击家的话，这句话我只能对我自己说。这是他不得不承认的第一拳。他眨眨眼，一脸怒气烟消云散。我只能这么形容它——好像宇宙被什么捅了一下，产生了一场雷电风暴。
“我说，我说，”他说，“告诉你吧，老兄。别问我你妻子的事，我也不问我妻子的事。”
大麻烟在他指节边上冒着青烟。“我想来一口。”我说。
他把那支烟屁股递给我，我在快要灭的烟蒂上猛吸了一口。
“好啦，”他说，“告诉我今天下午你和沃德利都谈了些什么。”
“你怎么会知道我们见过面？”
“你能想得出镇上有多少人向我告密吗？这部电话，”他敲敲它，吹嘘说，“就是个市场。”
“你卖什么？”我问。
“我卖警察档案里删除的名字，”他说，“我卖废除不重要的起诉。马登，你他妈的好好琢磨琢磨。等你琢磨出味来就直接到这儿，告诉你的朋友阿尔文，今天沃德利在海滩上都说了什么。”
“我要是不说呢？”
“那比坦帕的社会离婚还要糟。”
“你认为你能较量过我吗？”
"I will try my best."
我觉得我想告诉他。这并不是因为我害怕了（大麻烟告诉我，你不会再怕别人），而是因为我感到好奇。我想知道，他寻思出什么了。“沃德利，”我说，“告诉我说，他和帕蒂·拉伦争着想买那幢房子。”
雷杰西吹了个口哨。“沃德利计划欺骗帕蒂·拉伦或是你。他以最快的速度反复琢磨着这种选择，就像一台里面嘎嘎响的计算机。他可能想骗你们俩。”他说。
“他是有理由的。”
“你愿不愿意告诉我为什么？”
“几年前，我们在坦帕住时，帕蒂·拉伦想让我把他干掉。”
“你没说过。”
“你害羞什么？”我问，“她没告诉过你吗？”
这是他的弱点。毫无疑问，他不知道如何回答有关帕蒂的话。“我不清楚你指的什么。”最后他说了一句。
“说别的吧。”我说。
这可是个错误。他马上抓住时机。“你和沃德利还说了些什么？”
我不知道该不该告诉他。这时，我一下子想起来了，沃德利可能把我们在海滩上谈的都录下来了。经过一番巧妙的编辑，我看上去就像是个廉价的杀手。“沃德利担心，”我说，“潘伯恩死了。他感到奇怪的是，杰西卡为什么失踪了。他总是说，他应该直截了当地出个价买下那幢房子，但这么干会抬高价钱的。”
“他没对你透露帕蒂·拉伦在哪儿吗？”
“他想让我设法找到她。”
“他怎么酬谢你？”
“钱。”
"How many?"
我为什么要保护沃德利呢？我寻思着。这是不是我家那种已经退化了的偏见？我家人都不愿意和警察交谈。这时，我想到那个信号装置。“两百万。”我说。
"Do you believe what he says?"
"Do not believe."
“他给你那么多钱是想让你杀她？”
"good."
“你能为此作证吗？”
"No."
"why?"
“我不能肯定他是不是诚心要做这件事。无论如何，我是不会同意的。我在坦帕时就发现，一到商定做件惊人的大事时，我就成了一支受了潮的爆竹。”
“我能在哪儿找到沃德利？”
I smiled. “你怎么不问问你那几个向你告密的呢？”
“哪几个？”
“开棕色大面包车的。”
他点点头，好像我走了一步好棋似的。
“告诉你吧，”他说，“他们不知道。他只是偶尔和他们碰头。”
“他想干吗？”
“他是通过私人无线电步话机与他们交谈，然后再碰头。他只是走到他们跟前，马上又扭身走开。”
“这你相信？”
“我还没给他们点儿颜色看看。”
"why?"
“要是打伤了告密者的话，你可就会声名狼藉了。除此之外，我相信他们。沃德利会那么干的。他想让人们相信他是个自命不凡的人。”
“可能你并不十分着急在哪儿能找到帕蒂。”
他左右搪塞，高声嚷了一阵，装出很镇静的样子。他用大手指头把那个烟屁股弄灭，然后卷成一个球，扔进嘴里。没有证据，他脸上的笑容暗示到。
“我没错，”他说，“你妻子会平安无事地回来的。”
“你肯定？我可怀疑。”
“咱们等着瞧吧。”他温和地说。
我不知道他说的有多少是真的，他说的假话里胡编的程度有多大。但是在他脸上除了一丝空虚的表情外，什么也看不出来。我又呷了口波旁酒。大麻和波旁酒混在一起不是味儿。
看上去他喜欢这种结合。他又拿出一支点着了。“杀人犯真该死，”他说，“有时你会遇到这样的案子，它会把根扎在你心上。”
我不明白他指的是什么。我接过他递给我的大麻烟，抽了几口，又递给他。
“有这么个案子。”他说，“有一个长得很漂亮的单身汉。他顺便弄个姑娘，把她带到汽车旅馆。他和这个姑娘做爱，并说服她把大腿分开，同时用一次成像快速照相机把这个场面拍下来。然后，他就把她杀了。然后，他又拍一张，死前和死后对比一下。拍完第二张后，他就溜掉了，把那姑娘丢在床上。你知道他是怎样被抓起来的吗？他常常把照片收藏在一个影集里。一个姑娘一页。他母亲是头戒备心很重的看家狗，她把影集的锁头砸开了。当她看到里面的照片时，她昏倒了。醒来后，她立刻向警方报了案。”
“你干吗给我讲这样的事？”
“因为我对这个案子很感兴趣。我是个执法人员，它对我很有吸引力。每个心理分析学家在内心深处都有点精神变态。要是你在灵魂中没有潜在的邪恶的话，那你绝对当不好警察。我讲的你感兴趣吗？”
“你讲得不怎么样。”
“噢，噢。好的地方检察官是不会让你坐到证人席上的。”
“我想走了。”我说。
“我开车送你回家好吗？”
“谢谢，我走着回去。”
“我并不想惹你不高兴。”
"you have not."
“我得告诉你。我对那个有快速照相机的小子很感兴趣。他的所作所为与某种事实很相似。”
“这我肯定。”我说。
“沙扬娜拉。”雷杰西说。
到了街上，我又开始哆嗦起来。但这是种解脱，因为刚才我险些碰到我所说的一切。我说的话都连在了一块。离开他办公室后感到宽慰是很自然的。但我恨那个家伙，他脑袋瓜子真灵。他讲的那件事的确叫我感兴趣，让我心里直发痒。
他究竟想告诉我什么呢？几年前，我用一次快速成像照相机，给玛蒂琳拍了不少裸体照片，并一一收藏起来。不久前，我又照了许多帕蒂·拉伦的裸体照。这些照片就像在暗礁中寻食的鱼似的藏在我的书房里，一想到这些照片在我这儿，我心里就不是滋味，好像我有一把打开地牢的钥匙。我又一次问自己：我是那个惨无人道的杀人犯吗？
我很难用语言来描述当时我有多难受。我真的病了。这回大麻烟发挥了作用。我的喉咙开始抽搐起来，一会儿整个胸部、腹部都跟着上下扭动。从我食管里先冒出一股胆汁，波旁酒，然后是肚里的一切东西。我靠着一个篱笆墙，把这种痛苦丢在邻居的草坪上。谁都会希望大雨能宽恕我的过失。
不错，我就像个半截身子压在大石头底下的人，用了吃奶的劲儿，咬紧牙忍住疼，好不容易才抽出身子。可那块巨石又压在了身上。
我知道，我为什么呕吐。我不得不到地洞那儿去一趟。
“噢，不行，”我轻声自言自语道，“空着的！”可是，我不知道。我的直觉和鬼城都那样有劲儿，催我回去看看。如果杀人犯，正如我们常说的那样，总要回到犯罪现场，那么他一定会留下痕迹，因为我确信不疑，为了另一个夜晚证明我没杀人的唯一办法是回到森林那儿。如果我不回去，我可就有罪了。That's logic.这个逻辑越来越有说服力，以至于开门进屋时，我最急迫的任务就是去拿波其车的钥匙。就像以前那样，我开始琢磨起这趟旅行的精神陪伴：公路、乡间大道、中间高两头低的沙路。我提前看到了这场雨在低洼地上汪成的水坑，然后是那条羊肠小道和洞口那块盖着青苔的石头。我甚至看见了，当然是凭想象，在我手电筒光下的塑料袋。我左思右想，一直走到了思路的尽头。在我准备好后想走时，那条狗突然舔起我的手指来。四天来它第一次对我表示亲热，所以我把它也带上了。它那片扁平的大舌头一触到我手心，我马上想到一些实用的理由：它可能有用。因为要是洞里没东西，那谁敢说洞边上也没埋什么呢？它的鼻子会把我引到那儿。
但是，我得承认，我娇嫩的肚子受不了狗身上那股味，我真想不带它去。但它已经跳进车里，严肃得就像一名即将奔赴前线的战士，一条黑色的拉布拉多大狗（顺便说一下，它名叫“呆子”，因为它干什么都呆头呆脑的，什么也学不会）。
我们出发了。它坐在我身边的凹背座椅上，鼻子冲着车窗，我们俩都十分严肃地开着车。车子开到离特普罗那个拐弯处还不到一半路程时，我突然想到那个发送信号装置。一想到有人仍在跟踪我，我心里就扇起了一股火。我把车停在公路边上，把那个小盒子摘下来，丢在里程碑下面的浅沟里。然后，我们又上路了。
我认为没必要把走完后半截旅途的经过讲述一遍。
我和前几次一样，犹豫不决。离目的地越近，就越不敢踩油门。后来我把车子停下，后来又停了一次。最后那次是停在水坑里。我害怕，真像见了鬼一样，我害怕我不能把车发动起来。殖民地时期，这片林子里有块空地，空地上有个绞台。透过濛濛雨水，每个大树杈看上去都吊着个人。我不知道这个场面的效果使谁更加精神错乱，是我还是那条狗。它总是不停地低声哀嚎着，好像爪子被夹子夹住了。
我拿着手电简，深一脚浅一脚地走在小路上。林中的雾很浓，我的脸湿得像是刚刚用水洗了一遍。大黑狗的肩头紧靠着我的大腿，但离那根歪了吧唧的树只有几码远时，它猛地窜上前去，狂叫起来，声音听上去又高兴又害怕，就像跟我们一样，也要把内心深处的两部分呼唤出来。确实，在兴奋与恐惧混杂的声音中，它听起来更有人情味了，这在以前是从没有过的。我不得不把它叫回来，要不然，它会把洞边石头上的青苔扒下来。
但当我移开石头时，它呻吟了一声。这声音就像我发出来的一样，因为我不想看。然后我再也忍不住了，在电筒的光下出现了一个黑色的、软而滑的塑料袋，上面爬满了虫子。我浑身是汗，手哆嗦着就像被鬼怪碰了一下，慢慢地伸进洞里——摸到了！——再往里伸一点，把袋子拖了出来。袋子比原来想的要沉些。我不想占用更多的时间来讲述我解绳结所用的时间，可我不敢直接把袋子撕开，好像鬼城里的小河会从口子那儿一下子流出来。
绳结终于解开了。我把手电筒举起来，看到了我妻子的脸。子弹从一千个晚间的夜幕里射出来。惊恐的神色凝固在我妻子脸上，脖子根那儿血淋淋的，都给砍乱了。我只看了一眼，连第二眼都没敢看，就把袋子系上了。就在那时，我感到了灵魂的存在。在我解袋子绳结时，就感到它在我心中翻动。
我站起身来，准备离开，两条腿一步一步往前挪，像灌了铅一样。我不知道我还能不能走。我也没拿定主意是把她带回去呢，还是让她在这个该死的地方安息。我正迷迷糊糊地不知道该做什么好时，大黑狗停止了哀嚎，把头和肩伸到洞里，用前爪扒拉几下。忽然，它又向后退了出来，嘴里叼着个绿塑料袋。现在我看见了杰西卡·庞德的脑袋。我不能管她叫劳雷尔·奥克伍德。
我双手拎起两颗人头，把它们拿到车里。这件事，听上去是不是有些奇怪？我一只手拎一个塑料袋，把它们放到车后行李箱里，很小心，生怕混淆了死神的面纱——塑料袋，多可怜的盖尸布呀！黑狗跟我一起走着，就像个送葬者似的。小路两旁，大树静静地站在那儿。波其车的马达起动时的轰鸣声，在这墓穴般的寂静中就像炸弹爆炸一样响。
我们把车开出林子。因为我并不知道我在做些什么，我把车停下来，去找那个发射信号装置。我正找时，斯都迪和尼森赶来想害我们。你听这些是不是合情合理？
后来，我仔细琢磨过这件事。我想，在我把发射信号装置卸下来之前，他们一直在跟踪我。他们肯定是等了一会儿，然后驱车赶到他们认为我会停车的那个地方，但既没发现汽车，也没看见房子，只有愚弄他们的那个盒子发出来的声音。那个声音不是从公路上发出来的，但是他们不知道具体地点。于是他俩停下车，等了起来。
当我手拿信号发送器，从里程碑前的壕坑里站起来时，我才看到他俩往这边来。这时，他们开始往我这边跑。我记得，当时我认为，他们是想知道我从洞里偷了些什么——这证实了我当时是怎样的疯狂。疯狂的特征是这样的：你浑身的血从一个超验时刻流到另一个超验时刻，根本没感到害怕。既然考虑到这件事，我想，他们当时一定气坏了，在大雨中足足等上该死的三十分钟，只是为了他们那个发声的小盒子。所以，他们准备好要收拾掉我，因为我没有很好地使用他们那台精致的仪器。
他们朝我和狗扑过来。尼森手里拿着把刀，斯都迪拎着个轮箍。我和那条狗从没有在死在一块的条约上签字，但这时，它却不离开我半步。
我说不出来我们是从哪来的劲儿。车后行李箱里有两个金发女人的头在保护着我们。那两颗人头，如果再加上我的这颗，就是二百年的化身了。这给了我反抗的力量。我疯狂的行为又给了我更大的力量，因为通过提高其逻辑的表现力，我正在把我那两个女人从肮脏丑陋的坟墓中移到高雅舒适的安息场所。
所以，我气得简直要发疯了。在过去的五天里，愤怒像火药似的一下子塞满了我的脑袋和四肢。看到蜘蛛、斯都迪杀气腾腾地扑过来，我就好像勾动了扳机一样。我记得大黑狗是怎样蹲在我的身边，它的毛像钢钉一样直竖着。就在那一瞬间，发生了一件事，从而结束了它的生命。我不知道这一切是不是仅仅用了还不到十秒钟的时间。大黑狗猛地向尼森扑去，一口咬住蜘蛛的脸和脖子，但同时蜘蛛的刀尖深深地刺进了它的心脏。它死时还趴在蜘蛛身上。蜘蛛一边尖叫一边跑，双手捂着脸。斯都迪和我打得时间稍长一些。
他兜着圈子，找时机抢那个铁器。我躲开他，时刻准备把手中的信号发送器朝他脑袋扔过去——现在，这是我的信号发送器了。可那件东西并不比一块石头沉多少。
无论在气头上还是平时，我根本不是块打架的料。我的心跳得不行。我不是那块铁器的对手。我必须看准时机，朝他下巴上狠狠来一家伙——我的左手打架不行，所以我只好等他抡那个铁箍时再进攻。和铁箍交手没别的打法。你得让对方先动手，等武器抡过去以后，再扑过去。斯都迪懂这个。他左右挥舞铁箍，但从不大甩。他在等着，让我自己因高度紧张，而不打自垮。斯都迪等着，我们来回兜圈子。我能听见，我的呼吸声比他大。这时，我把信号发送器朝他扔去，砸在他脑袋上，随后用右手朝他脸上打去，可只打在了鼻子上，不是下巴。铁箍落到了我的左胳膊上。他没站稳，所以没使出全身力气，但我的胳膊算是交待了。我疼得差一点被他第二次抡起的铁箍打中。他挥动着铁箍尽扑空，因为从鼻子流出来的血已淌到嘴里，他感到他脸上的骨头被打碎了。
他又扑上来，我一低头，随手抓了两把路边的碎石子，朝他脸上扔过去。他什么也看不着，用尽全身的力量把铁箍朝我抡过来。我轻轻往边上一跳，抡起右拳用尽全身力气照着他猛地砸去，顿时我胳膊像被电击了一样。他和他那个铁箍一起倒下去。然后，我朝他的脑袋猛踢了一脚。这可是个错误。那一脚把我大脚指头弄断了。疼得我无法用铁箍砸他的脑袋。我捡起铁箍，一蹦一跳地朝他们那辆车走去。蜘蛛手捂着脑袋，靠在车上哼哼着。我体验到了发疯的喜悦。我抡起铁箍，把车窗、前灯、后灯砸了个稀巴烂，然后还不满足，又想把车门砸下来，但没成功，只把折页弄断了。
蜘蛛在一边瞅着，等我砸完时他说：“喂，伙计，发发善心。我需要包扎一下。”
“那你为什么说我偷了你的刀？”我回答说。
“那是别人偷的。我弄到一把，但屁也不顶。”
“它在我那条狗的肚子里。”
“真抱歉，伙计，我原来并不想害它。”
这回他可告饶了。我没理睬他，小心地绕过斯都迪，这样我就不会用那个铁箍砸他的脑袋了，我跪在呆子身边，它就躺在波其车附近。波其车是它最喜欢的战车。我用那只好胳膊把它架到车的前座上。
然后，我开车回家了。
用得着我给你讲述一下这种战争的优点吗？我剩下的勇气使我把两个塑料袋子拎到了地下室，把它们放到一个纸箱里。（我还没对你讲这件事呢，二十四小时后，这两颗人头发出的味儿简直让人受不了。）然后，我在院子里挖了个坑，把狗埋了。我是用一只好胳膊，一只好脚干的——地面在雾雨中变得很松软——然后我冲了个澡，上床睡觉。要不是在路边上打了一仗，我绝不能睡着，早晨起来可能就得上精神病院，晚上我睡得像死人一样，第二天早上一睁眼，就看见我父亲在我屋里。
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Notes: