Chapter 5 Nobody
Things started in Boston.It was one afternoon in 1917, and I was walking on the sidewalk of Rue Tremont, next to the Tourena Hotel, when I ran into Lou Maher.We just stopped in the snow and chatted for a few minutes.
I was talking to him when he interrupted me: "Look at the kid coming up the street, the one with the dark hat."
I looked in that direction and saw a skinny young man, about eighteen years old.He was very pale and acne-prone, with a sullen mouth, hazel eyes, somewhat dull, and a large, oddly shaped nose.He casually walked past the official detective and me.His ears caught my attention, they weren't folded and drooping like a pug, and they weren't obviously defective, but they were oddly creased around the edges.
He disappeared round the corner, turned onto Boston Street, and then on to Washington Street.
"If no one catches or kills that kid soon, he's going to make a name for himself," Lu predicted. "You'd better call him 'Nobody', and one day you'll catch him. .”
"What does he do?"
"Rooting, being a shooter, he can do everything. He's good at shooting, and he's a complete madman. He doesn't think about accidents, or is not afraid of accidents. I really hope he has scruples, because careful and sensible gangsters are the best. Easy to catch. I swear this guy was involved in a few cases in Brooklyn in the last month, but I don't have any proof yet. But I'll call him a good one someday—I mean what I say."
Lu broke his promise.A month later, he was killed by nocturnal thieves from a housing estate on Audubon Road.
A week or two after chatting with Lou, I left the Boston bureau of the Continental Detective Agency to enlist in the army.After the war I returned to the Chicago bureau, where I was transferred to San Francisco after two years.So, all in all, it's been almost eight years since I found myself sitting behind that wrinkled-eared nobodies in the Dreamland ring.
Friday night kicks off at the Steiner Street Boxing Arena.For the first time in weeks, I had nothing to do on a Friday night.So I went to the arena, picked a hardwood chair not far from the ring, sat in it, and calmed down to watch the boys fight back and forth with gloves on.About a quarter of the way through the race, I noticed something familiar about those weird ears two rows ahead of me.
I didn't recognize him right away.I couldn't see the owner of the ear, he was watching Cipriani vs Bonnie Keoh - I missed more than half of that match.But within a few minutes of waiting for the next pair of lads to come on, the nameless boy turned his head and said something to the man next to him.I saw his face and recognized who he was.
He hasn't changed, he hasn't improved.His eyes were duller, and his mouth was darker than I remembered; his face was still fair, though perhaps less acne-prone.
He was right between me and the ring, so recognizing him didn't stop me from watching the show.I could look over his head at the boys on the stage without him slipping out of my sight.
As far as I know, the unknown boy is not wanted, at least not by the mainland detective agency.And if he's just a pickpocket, a liar, or just one of those petty crimes that interest us occasionally, I'll let him go.But robbery cannot be let go.The most important customers of our agency are insurance companies of various names, and these days, robbery of insurance policies is the highlight of the insurance industry.
Halfway through the game, Nobody left, as did nearly half the audience.The two muscular heavyweights schmoozed on stage like roommates, and no one cared what the outcome was.So I followed suit.
He is alone, and this kind of tracking is the easiest way.The streets are full of boxing fans who are leaving.The nameless boy walked down Fillmore Street, ate a few slices of toasted wholemeal bread with bacon at a small shop, drank a cup of coffee, and boarded the No. 22.
He—and I, too—changed the No. 5 train at McAllister Street, got off at Polk Street, walked one block north, turned back west and walked a little more, and then entered the south side of Golden Gate Avenue A repair shop between Van Ness and Franklin Avenues, upstairs.The second and third floors are dark and tidy rooms.
I frowned.If he had gotten off at Van Ness or Franklin Avenue, he could have saved an intersection, but he sat on Polk Street and walked back.Maybe it's for exercise.
I wandered across the street for a little while, trying to see if anything was going on in the front window.The place that was dark before the nameless boy went in is still dark now.Obviously his room wasn't at the front, or he was a particularly cautious person.I knew there was no way he didn't notice I was watching, I had the right time and place.
There wasn't much to see from the front of the building, so I just strolled down Van Ness Avenue to look at the back.The building extends to Redwood Street, a narrow back street that cuts the block in half.There were four windows lit in the back, but that still didn't provide any information.There was a back door there that looked like it belonged to a repair shop, and I doubt the upstairs tenants were allowed to use it.
I decided to go home and set my alarm and go to bed.On the way, I stopped by the club and left a note for the old man:
At eight o'clock the next morning, I was waiting for the boy a block away from the building he had entered.It rained non-stop, but I didn't care, I had a black coupe to keep out the rain.It's a vehicle that looks commanding without being ostentatious, perfect for inner-city work.There are car repair shops and used car shops on both sides of Golden Gate Avenue. There are always dozens of cars going around there, so even if you stay there all day, you don't have to worry about being noticed.
In fact, it doesn't matter.For nine hours I sat in the car, listening to the rain on the roof, waiting for Nobody to come out, but I never saw him.I have nothing to eat, only Fatima smoke.I'm not quite sure if he dumped me.Does he live in this place I'm staring at?Or did he go back to his real place after I got home?In the detective business, pessimistic speculation always disturbs your mind.Still I parked the car, staring unblinkingly at the dirty door through which my quarry had entered the night before.
A little after five o'clock that night, Tommy Howard, our snub-nosed office boy, found me and handed me a note from the old man:
I handed the note back to the lad when I finished reading it - loitering around with a bag full of work-related stuff is no joke.Then I asked him, "Could you call the old man? Tell him to send someone over for me. I need to get something to eat. I've been hungry since breakfast."
"Nice idea!" said Tommy. "Everybody's been so busy they haven't seen a single detective all day. I don't understand you people, you can't have a few chocolates in your pocket—"
"Have you read too many arctic adventure stories?" I reprimanded, "Of course people who are dying of starvation will eat anything, but if they are just ordinary hungry, who would keep stuffing sugar into their stomachs? Can't buy me two sandwiches and a bottle of milk."
He looked at me sullenly, and then his fourteen-year-old face turned sly.
"Let's see," he suggested, "you might as well tell me what that guy looks like and which building he lives in. I'll keep an eye on it for you. How about you go and have a good meal? Steak, French fries, pie, Coffee, whatever you want."
Tommy had always had this daydream that someday, in a situation like this, he'd go shirtless and single-handedly bring down a bunch of desperadoes.I don't think he has a chance, although I'd like to let him try, but if the old man finds out that I threw a child into the hooligans, he will kill me.
So I shake my head.
"That fellow has four guns and an axe, Tommy, and he'll eat you alive."
"Hmph, just lie to the children! You detectives always say that others can't do your job, and those gangsters are not that good. Otherwise, how could you catch me!"
That was true, so I got Tommy out of the car and into the rain.
"A ox tongue sandwich, a ham sandwich, and a bottle of milk. Hurry up!"
But when he bought it back, I wasn't there anymore.Before he completely disappeared, the unknown boy came out from the door of the house he rented.He turned up the collar of his coat to keep out the rain, which was pouring heavily.
He walked south on Van Ness Avenue.
By the time I rounded the corner in the sports car, he was gone.He couldn't have gotten to McAllister Street so quickly unless he'd run into a building somewhere.I bet on Redwood Street—it's a narrow back street that cuts through the block.I drove onto Golden Gate Avenue, crossed an intersection, and continued south, at the intersection of Franklin Avenue and Redwood Street, just in time to see my fellow enter the back door of a building facing McAllister Street.
I drove the car very slowly, thinking while driving.
The back door of the building where the unknown boy stayed last night and the building he just entered opened to the same back street. The two buildings faced each other across the street, and the distance between them was only more than half a block.If Nobody's room was at the back of his building, and he had binoculars, he could clearly see the windows of all the rooms at the back of the building on McAllister Street, and possibly the interior. most cases.
Last night he took an extra car at the intersection, and now I saw him sneaking through the back door, so I guess he didn't want to get off the car last night where the building could see it.The two stations closest to his apartment are within sight of the building.It looked like the kid was keeping an eye on someone in the building, but wanted to avoid detection.
He has now gone through the back door to find someone.This is easy to explain: the front door is locked, but the back door may be open all day, like many buildings.If you don't bump into someone like the administrator, the unknown boy can easily get in.Whether the person he was looking for was at home or not, the kid looked sneaky when he entered the door.
I don't know what's going on, but it doesn't matter, the most urgent problem is to find the best place to wait for him to come out.If he came out the back door, the next intersection along Redwood Street—between Franklin Avenue and Goff Street—was where the sports car and I would be.But he didn't promise me he'd use the back door, the front door was much more likely: swaggering out the front door of the building was far more evasive than sneaking out the back door.My best bet was the corner of McAllister Street and Van Ness Avenue, where I could keep my eyes on the front door and the end of Redwood Street at the same time.
I drove the sports car slowly around the corner and waited for him to come out.
Half an hour passed; forty-five minutes passed.
Nobody came down the front steps and came towards me.As he walked, he fastened his coat, turned up his collar, and shrank his head to avoid the rain that was pouring down his head.
A black Cadillac station wagon with its curtains drawn drives up behind me.When I parked at this location just now, I thought it was parked near the city hall.
The Cadillac skirted my sports car, carelessly rolled up the curb, and slid down again.On such a wet road, it somehow managed to accelerate.
In the rain, one of Cadillac's curtains suddenly lifted with a bang.
There was a stream of fire snakes fired from the open window, and it was the sound of small-caliber pistols full of complaints, seven times in total.
The wet hat of the unknown boy floated away from his head, rose slowly like a balloon, and disappeared.
But the speed of this kid's movements is not slow at all.The hem of his coat flapped and he jumped forward, onto the front porch of a store.
The Cadillac drove to the next corner, made a sharp turn quickly, and headed for Franklin Avenue.I aimed the front of the sports car in the same direction.
I took one look at him as I passed the porch the kid had flung himself in.He knelt on the ground, still trying to get out the black pistol that was jammed by his coat.Excited faces appeared in the door behind him, but there was no commotion in the street.Now that everyone is used to the noise of cars, no one cares about the firepower of a gun under six inches.
By the time I reached Franklin Avenue, the Cadillac had passed me by an intersection.It turned sharply left onto Eddy Street.
I paralleled it on Turkey Street.By the time I got to Jefferson Square, two blocks across, I saw it again, slowing down.After another five or six intersections, the car passed in front of me on Steiner Street, close enough that I could see the license plate number.It was driving neither fast nor slow, and the people in the car were sure they could get away, so they didn't want to get into trouble for speeding again.I followed them three blocks away.
I didn't show my face when they fled the first few intersections, so I'm not at all worried that they will suspect me at the moment.
On Haight Street near the park, the Cadillac stopped and a passenger got out.He was a short, thin man with a creamy white face, dark eyes, and a small black mustache.The cut of his dark coat and the shape of his gray hat are exotic, and he carries a cane in his hand.
The Cadillac continued on Haight Street, and I saw no other passengers.I tossed a coin in my head to make a decision, and followed the walkers.Tracking down a suspicious vehicle based on its license plate number is usually fruitless, but there is always a silver lining.
The guy I was talking to went into a haberdashery around the corner to make a phone call.I don't know if he did anything else in there.After a while, a taxi drove up.He got into the car, and the taxi took him to the Marquis Hotel.A staff member gave him the key to Room 761, and I stopped him when he entered the elevator.
I have many friends at the Marquis Hotel.
I found Duran, the security director, on the mezzanine between the second floor and the ground floor, and asked him, "Who lives in Room 761?"
Duran is an old man with gray hair.No matter how he looks, speaks, or acts like a strong bank chairman.He used to be the head of a detective team in a big city in the Midwest.Once he tortured a thief who specialize in breaking a safe to extract a confession, and accidentally killed him.The media didn't like Duran in the first place, and they took this opportunity to oust him.
"Seven six one?" he repeated in a grandpa tone, "I think it's Mr. Moloya, are you interested in him?"
"Hopefully so," I admitted. "Do you know what happened to him?"
"Not much is known. He lived here for about two weeks. Let's go downstairs and check."
We asked the front desk, the switchboard, the head waiter, and went upstairs to the maids who cleaned the rooms.The tenant of 761 moved in two weeks ago, and the registered name is Édouard Moloya, from Dijon, France; there are quite a lot of calls, but there are no letters or visits.He works irregular hours and tips generously.No one at the hotel knew what he was doing.
"May I ask, why are you interested in him?" Duran asked after digging out these facts.This is his speaking style.
"I'm not sure yet," I said honestly. "He's just connected to a guy with a problem, but he's probably fine. I'll get back to you as soon as I get the details."
I couldn't afford to tell Duran that I saw one of his guests shoot a gunman near City Hall in broad daylight.The Marquis Hotel is supposed to be an elegant place, and they would throw the Frenchman out into the street, and it would do me no good to startle him prematurely.
"Please tell us. You know we have helped you and you owe us favors, so if there is any news that can save us from getting a bad name, please tell us." Dulan said.
"Sure, sure." I promised, "Can I ask you for another favor? I haven't been wet since 7:30 this morning. Could you please keep an eye on the elevator and wait for Moloya to go out?" Tell me when? I'll go to the barbecue restaurant, which is the one next door."
"no problem."
On the way to the barbecue restaurant, I found a phone booth and called the agency, and told the night shift staff the Cadillac's license plate number.
"Look up the list and see whose it is."
The answer: HJ Peterson, San Pablo, registered as a Buick convertible.
That's pretty much the end of the license plate number trail.We could check on Peterson, but I bet it's more likely to go nowhere.As long as the license plate number is used by bad guys, the difficulty of tracking is comparable to that of Liberty Bonds.
I have been hungry all day, and now I entered the barbecue restaurant, and my hunger can finally be indulged.As I munch on meat, I turn the events of the day around in my head.I didn't think too hard about it, I didn't want to spoil my appetite, and there wasn't really that much to think about.
Some of the houses on McAllister Street could be seen where the Nobody lived.He sneaked into one of them.As he was leaving, a car that must have been waiting nearby opened fire on him.The Cadillac has a Frenchie in it, maybe one, maybe more than one.Were they the occupants of the house that Nobody went to?Did they wait for him to pass, or did they trick him into going there, planning to shoot him as he left?Or are they looking forward and Nobody is looking behind?If so, does one of the parties know that the other is watching?Also, who the hell lives there?
I can't answer a single mystery, except that the Frenchman and his gang don't seem to like Nobodies.
No matter how much I ordered so hungry, I ended up eating it.Then I went back to the hotel lobby.
As I passed the switchboard, one of the switchboard girls—the one with the red hair in what looked like big stiff waves— nodded at me.
I stopped, wondering what she meant.
"Your friend just answered the phone," she told me.
"Did you hear that?"
"Well, there's a man waiting for him at the corner of Broadway and Kenny Street, telling him to hurry."
"When did this happen?"
"Just now."
"Did you say your name?"
"No."
"thanks."
I walked over to where Duran was staring at the elevator.
"Come out yet?" I asked.
"not yet."
"Very well, the red-haired switchboard just told me he had a phone call to meet at the corner of Caney and Broadway. I've got to get there before him."
Out of the hotel, I rounded the corner, climbed into the sports car, and drove to the corner where the Frenchman was meeting.
The Cadillac he was in that afternoon was already there, but with a different license plate.I glanced at the passenger inside as I passed—a very stocky man in his forties, his cap almost covering his eyes, so all I could see was a big mouth across a big chin.
I parked the car and it wasn't long before the Frenchman showed up.He walked around the corner and got into the Cadillac.The man with the big chin drove, they drove slowly up Broadway, and I followed.
We didn't drive very far.When I stopped again, the Cadillac was just outside the Viennese Café—the most gaudy of the nearby Italian restaurants. Two hours passed. I assumed it was Nobody who was eating at the Viennese Café, and as he left there would be another shootout, continuing the festivities that afternoon on McAllister Street.I hope Nobody's gun gets stuck in his jacket this time around, but I'm not going to help him in a two-on-one shootout. This gathering looks like a shootout.I think it's a private firefight.I just want to watch from the sidelines, and when the winner or loser is decided, I can help the club to pick up some bargains, such as catching one or two fugitives from the survivors. I guessed wrong about the Frenchie's prey—not a nobody, but a man and a woman.They were standing with the backlight, and I couldn't see their faces clearly.The two of them got out of the Vienna restaurant without delay and got into a taxi immediately. The man was a big man, tall and strong.Women looked small and dainty next to him—but maybe, anything less than a ton looked small next to him. As the taxi drove away from the cafe, the Cadillac followed, and I followed the Cadillac. The chase time is not long. As the taxi turned into a dark intersection on the edge of Chinatown, the Cadillac chased it and slammed it into a curb. The sound of braking, roaring, shattering glass, and women's screams was all noisy.Someone was running in the gap between the Cadillac and the taxi, both cars were shaking, and there were moans, muffled sounds, and curses. A man's voice: "Hey, you can't do this, it's okay, it's okay!" It sounds stupid. I drove the car so slowly, so slowly that it hardly seemed like I was driving toward the chaos ahead.Through the rain and the night, I tried to look ahead, trying to see something as I approached, but there was basically nothing. When I was within twenty feet of them, the road-side door of the taxi slammed open and a woman popped out, dropping to her knees on the sidewalk.Then she jumped up and ran quickly down the road. I pulled the sports car to the side of the road, opened the door, and the windows splashed with rain.When a woman passes by, I want to take a look at her.If she sees the open door as an invitation, I don't mind talking to her. She accepted the invitation and sprinted straight to the car as if she knew I was waiting for her.A small oval face peeked out from her leather collar. "Help!" she gasped. "Take me away, quick!" She spoke with a little foreign accent, but it was too soft to call it an accent. "Why not—" I shut up, she poked me with a short-bore automatic pistol. "Okay, okay, get in the car." I urged her. She bowed her head and got into the car.I wrapped my arms around her neck and pulled her into my arms.She twists and turns—a small skeleton, a fleshy and powerful body. I snatched the gun from her hand and pushed her onto the chair next to me. Her fingernails dug into my arm. "Come on, come on! Oh, please, come on! Pull me to-" "Where's your friend?" I asked. "Leave him alone! He's with them! Please, hurry up!" A man blocked the open door of the sports car, it was the big jaw that drove the Cadillac.His hands clutched the fur on the woman's collar. She wanted to scream, but the cluck sounded like her neck had been cut open.I swung the gun I had taken from her and slammed the man in the jaw. He tried to fall into the sports car, but I pushed him out. Before his head hit the pavement, I closed the door and turned back into the street. We drove off.Turning the first corner there were two gunshots, not sure if they were aimed at us.I made a few more turns and the Cadillac didn't show up again. So far so good.At first I was following the nameless boy and dumped him for Moloya; now I let Moloya go again to see who this woman is.I don't know what the mess is all about, but I seem to be starting to realize who it's for. "Where are you going?" I asked immediately. "Go home," she said, giving me an address. I drove there willingly: it was the McAllister Street apartment where the Nobody had been earlier in the evening. We didn't waste an iota of time on the road.Whether my partner knows it or not, I know that other players in this game know this address.I want to get there before Frenchies and Big Jaws. None of us spoke the whole way.She huddled against me, shivering.I stared straight ahead, trying to figure out how to get her to let me in.Too bad she didn't keep her gun - it fell out when I pushed Big Jaw out of the car.Otherwise, if she doesn't invite me in, I can use this as an excuse to visit later. I was so worried for nothing that she didn't ask me to go in - she insisted that I go in with her; she was terrified. "You won't leave me, will you?" she begged me as we drove up McAllister Street, "I'm scared to death, you can't go, if you don't come in with me, I'll go with you. " I'd love to go in, but I don't want a sports car left outside telling people I'm here. "Let's go around the corner and park, and I'll follow you in," I told her. I drove around the neighborhood, looking around for the Cadillac, but couldn't find it.I parked the sports car on Franklin Street and walked over to the McAllister Street apartment. She dragged me to run in the rain.The rain has lightened, it is now a drizzle. She took out the key and went to the front door, her hands shaking and misaligning the lock.I took the key and opened the door, took the elevator to the third floor, and saw no one.She led me to a door near the back of the building, and I unlocked it for her again. She took my arm with one hand, reached in with the other and slapped on the hallway light. I didn't know what she was waiting for until she started barking. "Farna! Farna! Oh, Farna!" A small dog answered with a muffled bark, but there was no sign of the dog. She threw her arms around me, trying to get into my wet arms. "Here they are!" she cried, in a dry thin voice, terrified of terror, "here they are!" "Should someone be here?" I asked, pulling her sideways so she wouldn't be between me and the two doors across the corridor. "No, just my dog Franna, but—" I pulled my gun halfway out of my pocket and pushed it back, just to make sure it wouldn't jam when I wanted to use it.At the same time I swung the woman's arm away with my other hand. "Stay here and don't move. I'll go and see if you have any guests." I headed for the nearest door, and a voice from seven years ago—Lou Mayer's—came in my head: "He's a good shot, and he's a complete lunatic who doesn't think about what might happen, or isn't afraid of it. " I reached out with my left hand to unscrew the handle of the first door, and kicked it open with my left foot. Nothing happened. I reached out and felt around the door frame, found the switch, and turned on the light. A neat and clean living room. From behind an open door at the other end of the room came Franna's muffled cry.Now it's high-pitched and excited.I walked towards the door, and I could see the next room through the light of this room. I felt quite peaceful and there was no one there.I went in and turned on the light. A dog barked from behind a closed door.I went over and opened the door.A dark shaggy dog jumped on my lap, barking.I grabbed it by the thickest part of its fur and lifted it up. It screamed and struggled.The light fell on it and it was purple—purple like grapes!A dog dyed purple! With my left hand I pushed the barking, struggling artificially-dyed retriever a little away from me, and continued on to the next room—the bedroom, empty, and no one was hiding in the closet.I went to the kitchen and toilet again, also empty.No one in the house, the purple dog was locked up by Nobody earlier today. I hugged the puppy and went back to the woman with my report.As I passed through the next room, I saw an open letter thrown face down on the table.I turned the letter over. The envelope and stationery were stylish. It was addressed to Ms. Ines Ammon. The party seems to be starting to go international.Moloya is French, Nobody is from Boston, the dog has a Bohemian name (I caught a Czech who made counterfeit money a few months ago, and I remember her name was Franna), and Ines, I think it's either a Spanish or a Portuguese name.I don't know what country Amon's surname is, but there is no doubt that she is a foreigner, and I don't think she is French. I went back to her and she didn't move. "Looks all right," I told her, "the puppy is locked in the closet." "Is there no one here?" "no one." She embraced the dog with both hands, held its hairy and dirty head, and talked to it affectionately in a language I couldn't understand. "Do your friends—the people you're fighting with tonight, know that you live here?" I asked. I know they know, but I want to see what she knows. She dropped the dog, frowning as if she had forgotten about it. "I don't know that," she said slowly, "but it's possible, if they knew—" She shivered for a moment, the heels of her shoes touched the ground, and she pushed the living room door hard. "They might have been here this afternoon," she went on. "Farana has shut herself up before, but I'm still worried. I'm timid. No one here now?" "Nobody." I assured her again. I took a good look at her for the first time as we entered the drawing room and she took off her hat and dark cloak. She was below average height, dark skinned, about thirty years old, and wore an orange dress.She had an Indian complexion, with round, sloping brown shoulders that were exposed; her hands and feet were small, and her fingers were covered with rings.Her nose was thin and curved, her lips were full and red, her eyelashes were long and thick, and her eyes were extremely slender.Her eyes were dark, but there was no color to be seen through the narrow slits, except for two streaks of dark light from the thick and thick eyelashes.Her silky black hair was disheveled at the moment, a string of pearl necklaces hung on her dark chest, and the earrings were black iron, designed as special strips, dangling around her face. Overall, she's an odd bitch, but I don't want it to be thought that I mean she's not pretty.She's beautiful, but a little weird. She threw aside her hat and cloak, and shivered, her white teeth biting her lower lip.While she was going across the room to turn on the electric heater, I shifted the gun from my coat pocket to my trousers and took off my coat. She went out for a second and returned with a bronze tray of brown quart wine bottles and two tumblers.She put the tray on the small coffee table by the heater. The first glass of wine she poured was less than half an inch from the rim.I stopped her as she nearly filled the other glass. "Enough," I said. It's brandy, and it's easy to drink.She downed her glass in one gulp, shook her bare shoulders, and sighed contentedly. "You must think I'm a lunatic," she said to me with a smile. "I've never met you before, but I love you on the street. It not only takes up your time, but also gets you into trouble." "No," I lied without blushing, "I think as a woman who has never experienced such a thing, you are still very calm." She pulled a short, covered bench towards the radiator so she could reach the table with the brandy.She sat down and nodded for me to sit beside her. The purple dog jumped into her arms, she pushed him off, and he jumped back.She kicked it hard in the stomach with the tip of her slipper.The dog whined and crawled under a chair across the room. In order to avoid the window, I walked around the room before going to sit down.The curtains were drawn, but they were not thick enough. If one happened to sit by the window and had a pair of binoculars, the unknown boy could still see the whole room. "I'm super easy to lose my cool, really," the woman said when I sat down next to her. "I'm a coward, worried, and habitual. It's my man—ex-husband. I should tell You, you have drawn your sword to help, I should explain to you, and I don't want you to misunderstand." I put on a foolish look of believing her, but I didn't intend to believe a word she said. "He's almost mad with jealousy," she went on in a low, soft voice.Her English was still a little weird, but it wasn't exactly a foreign accent. "He's getting old, and he's all wrong. God, these people he sent! There was a woman one time. That man tonight is not the first time. I don't know them—what they want ...kill me, or cripple me, or disfigure me...I don't know." "Is the guy in the taxi with you one of them too?" I asked, "I was behind you when they did it, and I saw a guy with you. Is he their gang?" ?” "That's right! I didn't know it at the time, but now that I think about it, it should be. He didn't protect me, he just pretended." "Have you ever had the police spy on your husband?" "what?" "Have you called the police?" "Yeah, but—" she shrugged her brown shoulders, "it's better to be silent, or worse. That's how it is in Buffalo, and they... they fined my husband, a thousand dollars, which is the same as What does jealousy have to do with it? And I... I couldn't stand the things that were in the papers, they were all jokes. I had to get out of Buffalo. Yes, I did get the cops to keep an eye on him once, but I never Stop doing that." "Buffalo?" I asked for more information. "I was there for a while. I lived on Crescent Avenue." "Oh, yes, it's pretty close to Delaware Park." You are right.But even if she knew about Buffalo, that didn't mean the other stories she told weren't made up. She poured some more brandy.I'm talking fast so I don't drink too much, and I have a lot on my shoulders.She drank as much as before.While drinking, she took out another lacquer box and asked me to smoke.Thin cigarettes, hand-rolled in black paper. I didn't take a few puffs.The smoke tasted, smelled, and burned like gunpowder. “你不喜欢我的烟？” “我是老派男人，”我在青铜盘上把烟捻灭，抱歉地对她说，然后把手伸进兜里摸我自己的那包，“烟草对我来说已经足够了。你在这些鞭炮里放了什么？” 她笑起来，笑得很乖巧，很可爱。 “实在抱歉，很多人不喜欢，我把印度香跟烟叶混在一起了。” 我没什么可说的。一个能把狗染成紫色的女人，这样做一点儿也不意外。 就在这时，狗在椅子底下动起来，爪子挠着地板。 棕色女人扑到我怀里，两只胳膊圈住我的脖子。近距离看她由于恐惧而睁开的眼睛，原来颜色一点儿也不暗，是灰绿色，黑色是她浓密睫毛的阴影。 “是狗，”我跟她保证道，把她推回到她那头的板凳上，“只是狗在椅子底下扭来扭去而已。” “噢！”她长出了一口气，放下心来。 我们又得再来一轮白兰地。 “你瞧，我真是胆小鬼，”第三杯烈酒进肚后她说，“不过，噢，我身上的麻烦实在是太多，没疯已经是万幸了。” 我可以跟她说，她离疯本来就没多远了，用不着强调。不过我只是点点头表示同情。 她又点了一根烟，刚才那根因为太激动掉到了地上。她眼睛又变成正常的黑缝了。 “真不好意思，”她那样笑的时候，棕色脸颊上酒窝若隐若现，“对一个连名字和其他什么统统都不知道的男人，我就这样投怀送抱。” “这好办，我姓杨，”我撒了个谎，“如果你想买一箱苏格兰威士忌的话，我会给你一个印象深刻的价格。叫我杰瑞就行，大部分我愿意抱在怀里的女士都这么叫我。” “杰瑞·杨，”她自言自语地重复着，“这名字好。所以你就是那个私酒贩子了？” “不是'那个'，我只是其中一个。这儿可是旧金山。”我纠正道。 后面的事情就不好办了。 这棕色皮肤的女人各方面都很可疑，但她受的惊吓是千真万确的。她确实吓傻了，肯定不想一个人待在家里。她想把我留在那儿，要是还有哪个大下巴朝她撞过来，我好帮她挡住。她肯定在想怎么对我动之以情，她这种人就是这样。所以她一定会使出浑身解数勾引我。矜持啊，清规戒律啊，对她都没用。 我也有个想法：一等结束的锣声响起，我就领着这个宝贝，还有她的几个同伙进市立监狱。所以我不能对她动情，这是我能想到的一大堆理由中最好的一个。 我很愿意在她家里待下去，等着好戏上场——那房子看起来就像是下一场戏的现场。不过我自个儿的游戏我得更上心一些。让她发现她只是戏里的一个小配角是万万不行的；我得让她以为我不走纯粹是为了保护她。换成别的男人，他们可能就把自己装成侠客了，英雄救美，而不居功自傲。但我看起来就不是那样的人，也不会装。我得保护她，还不能让她猜到我的兴趣不在她。这可真不容易。她实在太他妈的直接了，而我又灌了太多白兰地。 我不会骗自己说她这样对我是因为我长得帅或者个性迷人。我只是个长着粗壮胳膊和大拳头的男人，而她正处在危险中。在她心目中，我的名字叫做“保护伞”，没别的；我就是用来放在她和麻烦之间的那个障碍。 还有个问题：我不是小孩子，也不是老头，所以不会因为有个女人长得还不至于让人想戳瞎自己的眼睛，就对她产生激情。我是个四十岁左右的中年人，这种年纪的男人会把女人的内在美，比如亲和力等置于外表之上。这个棕色皮肤的女人让我很不自在：她太自负，做事又太没格调，想把我当成乡下人使唤。但除了这些以外，我基本还是血肉之躯。论身材，论脸蛋，这女人都是一流的。我的确不喜欢她，我想现在就把她关进牢里。但如果不承认我对她动心了，那我就是个骗子——她那样依偎着我，挑逗我，再加上我喝了那么多白兰地。 事情真难办，不是说的。 有好几次我都忍不住想夺门而逃。有一回我看了看表，两点零六分。她满是戒指的棕色小手伸向我的表，把它给推回兜里。 “拜托，杰瑞！”她声音里的真诚是真的，“你不能走，你可不能把我一个人扔在这儿。这样真的不行，你走我也走，跟着你上街。你可不能把我留在这儿任人宰割。” 我又坐下来。 几分钟以后铃声大作。 她马上散了架，瘫在我身上，两只赤裸的胳膊箍得我透不过气来。我拼命扯开她，好开口讲话。 “哪儿的铃？” “前门，别管它。” 我拍拍她的肩膀。 “乖乖去开门，看看是谁。” 她的胳膊箍得更紧了。 “不行！不行！不行！他们来了！” 铃声又响了起来。 “开门去，”我坚持道。 她的脸平贴在我的外套上，鼻子像是要扎进我胸膛里。 "No! No!" “好吧，那我去开。”我说。 我挣开她，站起来进入走廊。她跟着我。我再次想说服她应门，可是她不肯，不过也没反对我开口说话。不管谁在楼下，要是以为这女人是单独一个人，对我来说会更有利。但她死活不开口，我也无计可施。 “什么事？”我通过对讲机说。 “你他妈是谁啊？”一个粗哑低沉的声音问。 "What do you want to do?" “我要跟伊内丝讲话。” “有话跟我说，”我提议道，“我会转告她。” 女人拉住我一只胳膊，耳朵紧贴在对讲机上。 “是比利，”她小声说，“让他走。” “你走吧。”我传了话。 “什么？”声音变得更粗更沉，“你是自己开门，还是要我砸进去？” 这问题可不是开玩笑。我没征求女人的意见，伸手按了钮，开了楼门。 “欢迎。”我对着对讲机说。 “他马上上来，”我跟女人解释道，“你是要我站在门后，他一进来就揍他一顿，还是你先跟他聊聊？” “别揍他！”她失声喊道，“是比利呀。” 正合我意，我本来也没打算揍他，至少得等弄清楚了他是谁、干什么的。我只想看看她会怎么回答我。
比利不一会儿就上来了。他按门铃时我打开门，女人站在我旁边。他没等人请，门还没开一半就挤了进来，对我怒目而视。这人的块头可真大！ 大块头、红脸、红头发；不管从哪个方向量，他的数据都很惊人，可没有一个部位是胖的。他鼻子掉了皮，一边脸被抓伤，另一边肿了起来；没戴帽子的脑袋上红头发乱成一团。 他的外套有个口袋被扯掉了，一只扣子吊在六寸长的断线上。 正是和女人一起坐出租车的那个大块头。 “这浑蛋是谁？”他问道，一只大爪子向我伸过来。 我知道这女人是疯子，如果她想把我喂给这个遍体鳞伤的巨人，我不会惊讶的。但她没有；她握住他的手，安抚起来。 “别那么凶，比利，他是我们的朋友。要不是他帮忙，我今天晚上可逃不掉。” 他板起脸，又放松下来，两只手抓住她的手。 “你跑了就好，”他声音嘶哑地说，“要是在大街上，我会厉害得多，但出租车里没我活动的空间，有一个人还打了我的脑袋。” 这可太他妈的好笑了——女人自己溜走，留下他孤身奋战，可这个大号的小丑还在为保护不周而道歉。 女人把他领到客厅里，我跟在后头。他们在板凳上坐下，我挑了张椅子，避开无名小子现在一定在盯着的窗户。 “到底出了什么事，比利？”她伸手摸摸他抓痕累累的脸，“你受伤了。” 他咧嘴一笑，露出害羞又高兴的模样。我本以为他的脸肿了，原来只是含了一大块烟草。 “我也没弄清楚，”他说，“有个家伙打了我的脑袋，我就昏过去了，两个小时后才醒过来。出租车司机没帮着打架，但他是个好心人，也知道谁会给他车钱。他没大惊小怪，直接把我拉到了一个不会通风报信的医生那儿。医生把我治好了，我就到这儿来了。” “你看清那伙人里面有谁了吗？”她问。 “当然！我看到他们，摸到他们，搞不好还尝到他们了呢。” "Several people?" “就两个。大块头长了个大下巴，小个子拿了根魔术杖。” “没有其他人吗？没有一个又高又瘦的年轻人？” 那应该是无名小子，她以为他跟法国佬合作呢。 比利摇摇他乱蓬蓬、伤得很严重的脑袋。 “没有，就他们俩。” 她皱起眉，咬着嘴唇。 比利侧头看我，表情在说：“滚吧。” 女人看到了这一眼。她在板凳上扭了扭，把手放在他头上。 “可怜的比利，”她喃喃地说，“为了救我头都快给打烂了。按理说应该在家里养着，可我还把他留在这儿说话。你走吧，比利，等明天早上你可怜的头好些了，再给我打电话？” 他的红脸黑下来，对着我龇牙咧嘴。 她笑起来，轻轻拍了拍他含着烟草而鼓起来的脸颊。 “不要忌妒杰瑞嘛！杰瑞爱上了一个黄白混血的女士，很专一的。他对黑女人一点儿也不感兴趣。”她朝我挑衅地笑笑，“不是吗，杰瑞？” “不是，”我否认道，“再说了，所有女人都黑。” 比利把嘴里的烟换到抓伤的那边脸，拱起肩膀。 “你这见鬼的玩笑是啥意思？”他吼道。 “什么意思都没有，比利，”她对他笑着说，“只是说着玩儿。” “是吗？”酸酸的刻薄的味道——我开始感到他不喜欢我，“呃，跟你这小胖朋友说，他有什么狗屁笑话就留在自己肚子里好了，我不想听。” 事情很明显，比利想打架。女人本想把他抓得紧紧的，打发掉就好了，但这会儿她只是笑笑。要想了解她这么做的理由会是白费工夫，她疯了。也许她觉得我们两个男人不够友好，不能一起听命于她，所以她就打算让我们打一架，看谁有能耐干掉对方，谁赢了她就跟谁。 打一场架看起来是在所难免。一般情况下我是喜欢和平的，为了好玩而打架的日子已经过去了。我现在经历得太多，没有新鲜感了，即使打输了也没什么大不了的。不过我可不会因为大块头的肌肉比我多就打退堂鼓。和大块头打架这方面，我一直运气很好。他今晚已经被恶揍过一顿，估计火力会小一些。如果可以的话，我想在这间房里多待一会儿。要是比利想来场肉搏战——他看起来的确想这么做——我也不反对。 要惹他发火很简单：不管我说什么，他都会挑毛病的。 我朝他的红脸咧嘴一笑，然后对女人庄严地建议道： “你要是把他浸到蓝色里，我看他会变得跟那只小狗一样紫。” 这话听起来很蠢，不过肯定能达到目的。比利跳起脚来，大手攥成拳头。 “我要跟你散个步，”他下定决心，“外头地方大。” 我站起来，用脚把椅子踢回去，然后引用“红头”伯恩斯的话对他说：“只要离得够近，就会有地方。” 他这种人不用说太多话，我们开始你来我往。 先是拳头。他用右拳打我脑袋，我低下头左一拳右一拳地打他的肚子。他咽下了正在嚼着的烟，不过没弯腰。大块头很少像他们看起来那么壮，但比利是名副其实。 他根本不知道怎么打架；他以为打架就是站在那儿，对着别人脑袋出拳——左、右、左、右。他的拳头跟字纸篓一样大，在空气里嗖嗖地响。不过他一直瞄准头部，而那是最容易避开的部位。 我的地方足够我冲向他再撤回来。我就那么办了。我先是猛捶他的肚子，再击打他的心脏，然后再擂他的肚子。我每揍到他一下，他就高一寸，重一磅，同时多加了一个马力。我打人的本领可不是儿戏，可这座人山不管怎么被我揍，即使被逼得咽下那么一大口烟草，肉眼看起来他都没什么事。 我对自己打架的本事还是有着合理的自信的，可令我失望的是，这个大块头任凭我使尽看家本领也没哼一声。不过我不气馁，他不可能一直撑下去。我定下心来，一拳接一拳稳稳当当地揍他。 他打到我两次。一次是在肩膀上，那记重拳打得我转了半个圈。他不知道接下来该怎么办，往错误的方向进攻，结果失了手，被我躲开了。另一次他捶到我脑门上，幸亏有椅子挡着我才没倒下。我很疼，不过他一定更疼——脑袋的痛觉总比手指头要迟钝。他再次包抄过来时，我闪开了，顺便给他脖子上留了点儿纪念品。 比利站起来，女人微黑的脸出现在他肩膀后方。她的眼睛在浓浓的睫毛后面闪闪发光，嘴巴张开，一口雪白的牙齿也闪闪发光。 后来比利不耐烦打拳击了，开始转向摔跤，还使些小花招。我是宁可继续用拳头，但也没办法，他是这出戏的主角。他攥住我的手腕，猛扯一下，我们就胸对胸撞上了。 他对摔跤知道的不比拳击多多少，但他不需要知道，他的大块头足够跟我玩下去了。 我们滚在地上时，我被压在了下面。我使出了全身力气，可还是弄不开他。我用了三次剪刀腿，但他个头实在太大，我的短腿根本没法夹住他。他逗小孩似的把我甩开。想在他腿上耍什么花招是没用的，人类所有的制伏术全都应付不了他，他的胳膊跟我的腿一样壮。最后我决定放弃尝试。 所有招数在这怪物身上都不起作用，他超过了我的能力范围。能用剩下来的所有力气防止他把我弄瘸，我就很满意了。我唯一的机会只能是智取。 他把我扔出去了很多次，然后我的机会来了。 我平躺在地上，除了身体正中央的一两根肠子外，全身都给挤扁了。他跪骑在我身上，两只大手紧紧箍住我的脖子。 这下他可错了！ 掐人不是这种掐法，特别是在对方的手没被绑住，而且还知道手的力量要比手指大的时候。 我对着他的紫脸笑，并抬起手来，两手各抓住他一根小拇指。这可不是做梦。我累垮了，他没有，不过任谁的小拇指都没有别人的手劲大。我把两根小拇指往后扳，它们一起断了。 他怪叫起来。我又抓住下面两根——无名指。 其中一根啪地断了，另外一根在他松手时也会断掉。 一转身，我朝他脸上打去，挣扎着从他两膝底下钻出来。我们两个同时站起身。 Doorbell rang. 女人脸上观战的兴致被恐惧取代了，她用手指堵住嘴。 “问问是谁。”我跟她说。 “是——是谁啊？” 她的声音又平又干。 “凯尔太太。”声音从走廊传来，字字尖锐而又义愤填膺，“你必须马上停止折腾！房客都在抱怨，这也难怪！什么时候了还这么闹腾！” “是房东太太。”棕色皮肤的女人小声说，接着放开嗓门，“对不起，凯尔太太，我们不会再吵了。” 隔着门传来两声不屑的哼声，然后是逐渐走远的脚步声。 伊内丝·亚蒙皱起眉看着比利。 “都是你。”她怪他道。 他看起来很不好意思，先看看门，又看看我。看着我时，紫色又回到了他脸上。 “对不起，”他嘟囔道，“我跟这家伙说了出去解决。我们现在就出去，不在这儿闹了。” “比利！”她的声音尖起来，似乎她的话就是圣旨，“你现在就走，出去找人治好你的伤。我可不想因为你没打赢就一个人留在这儿送死！” 大块头来来回回地踱着步子，不敢看她，一副凄惨至极的模样，不过他还是倔犟地摇了摇头。 “伊内丝，不行，”他说，“我跟这家伙没完。他弄断了我的手指头，我得打烂他的下巴才行。” “比利！” 她的小脚在地上跺了一下，蛮横地看着他。他看起来想马上求饶，但他坚持住了。 “没法子，”他重复道，“没别的法子。” 她不再生气了，温柔地对他笑起来。 “亲爱的老比利。”她嘟囔着，然后穿过房间走到角落里的一张书桌前。 她转过身时，手里多了一把自动手枪，枪口对着比利。 “猪头，”她像猫一样吐了口气，“马上给我出去！” 红脸男人脑筋迟钝，他花了整整一分钟才意识到他爱的女人正拿着枪在逼他走人。这个大块头傀儡早该知道他那三根断指已经把他废了。他又花了一分钟才让脚动起来，迷惑不解地慢慢向门走去，对正在发生的事还是半信半疑。 女人亦步亦趋地跟着他。我抢过去开门。 我拧开门把手，门猛地向里推进来，把我撞到对面的墙上。 门口站着爱德华·莫洛亚和那个被我打中下巴的男人，两人都拿着枪。 我看着伊内丝·亚蒙，不知道面对这种情况她会多疯狂。她没我想的那么疯狂。她的尖叫声跟她手枪撞到地板的声音同时发出。 “啊！”法国佬说，“两位绅士要走啊？我们能有幸留下他们吗？” 大下巴男人就没那么礼貌了，他那下巴这会儿因为我那一拳而显得更大了。 “退后，混账！”他命令道，弯腰拾起女人掉了的手枪。 我还握着门把手，缩手以前轻轻扭了一下。要是我需要帮助而帮助的人也来了的话，我希望他跟我中间的锁越少越好。 然后比利、那女人和我鱼贯退入客厅。莫洛亚和大下巴都因为出租车战役而挂了彩。法国佬一只眼睛睁不开，眼圈肿得发亮。他的衣服又脏又皱，不过他还是穿得趾高气扬的，手里也还拎着手杖，夹在没拿枪的那条胳膊下面。 莫洛亚伸出手来搜比利和我是否带着武器时，大下巴用他自己的枪和女人的那把指着我们。莫洛亚发现了我的枪，拿去装进了他兜里。比利没武器。 “能否麻烦你们后退到墙边，贴着站好吗？”搜完身后，莫洛亚问道。 我们顺从地往后退。我发现我的肩膀碰到了窗帘，于是我压住窗帘，贴在窗框上，转身时把窗帘拉开一些，露出一尺左右的窗户来。 如果无名小子在监视的话，他应该可以清清楚楚地看到法国佬——今晚上早些时候朝他开枪的男人。我就把这事儿交给那小子了。走廊门的锁已经打开，要是小子能进到楼里，费不了多大力气就可以一路进屋了。我不知道他扮演的是什么角色，不过我希望他会帮我们，不让我失望。如果所有的当事人都在这间屋子里聚齐，也许谜底很快就会揭晓了。 同时我也尽可能躲开窗户，无名小子有可能决定从马路对面开火。 莫洛亚看着伊内丝。大下巴的两把枪指着我和比利。 “我英文不太好，”法国佬嘲弄地对女人说，“所以当初你说要见面，我以为你说的是新奥尔良，没听出来你说的是旧金山。对不起，我犯了个低级错误；对不起，让你等了这么长时间。不过现在我来了，我那份儿你准备好了吗？” “没有，”她伸手做两手空空状，“被无名小子拿走了，从我身上全拿走了。” “什么？”莫洛亚收起了嘲弄的笑容，也不用杂技团的口音说话了，能睁开的那只眼睛气得发亮，“怎么可能呢，除非——” “他怀疑我们，爱德华。”女人的嘴恳切地哆嗦起来，眼睛在恳求信任，而她正在撒谎，“他跟踪我，我到那儿的第二天他也到了。他把所有东西都拿走了，我不敢等着见你，怕你不相信，你不会——” “不可思议！”莫洛亚非常吃惊，“我们——我们演了那些戏以后，我坐第一班火车南下，无名小子会神不知鬼不觉地也上了那班车？不可能！再说他怎么能在我之前跟你见面？你耍我呢，我的小伊内丝。你跟无名小子是见面了，这我信，不过不是在新奥尔良，你没去那儿，你来旧金山了。” “爱德华！”她抗议道，伸出棕色手指拉拉他的袖子，另一只手放在喉咙上，仿佛说话很困难，“你不能这么想！波士顿那几个星期还没证明这是不可能的吗？我会为无名小子那样的人——或者任何其他人——背叛你吗？你应该知道我的为人，不是吗？” 她是个演员，姿态动人，楚楚可怜——你还可以用任何你喜欢的词来形容，包括“危险”。 法国佬把袖子从她手里拽出来，往后退了一步。他小小的八字胡底下，嘴巴外侧一圈变白了，下巴肌肉鼓了起来，那只好眼睛露出担忧的神色。她已经打动了他的心，只是还没完全征服。不过好戏才刚刚开始。 “我不知道该怎么想，”他慢慢地说，“要是我弄错了的话——我必须先找到无名小子，才能弄清真相。” “用不着费事了，兄弟，我来了！” 无名小子站在走廊门口，两手各攥一把黑色左轮手枪，两把枪的保险都打开了。
一个挺美的画面。 无名小子站在门口。他是个二十出头的瘦小子，面孔浮肿，下巴松松垮垮的，眼神呆滞，这让他看起来更邪恶。他手里待发的枪指着所有人，或者一个人也没指，看你怎么认为了。 棕色皮肤的女人两手捂着脸，眼睛大睁，连灰绿色都显出来了。先前我在她脸上看到的恐惧跟现在比起来根本不算什么。 还有法国佬。无名小子一说话，他马上转向门，枪指着小子，手杖还夹在腋下，脸紧张得发白。 还有大下巴，身体半侧着，扭过头去看门，一把枪跟着转了过去。 还有比利——伤痕累累的大号塑像。自从伊内丝·亚蒙开始拿枪逼他出门，就再没说过一句话。 最后就是我了。我不像躺在家里床上那么舒服，不过也不至于歇斯底里。我对目前的发展还是挺满意的。房间里风雨欲来，但我跟在场的人都不熟，所以也不在乎哪个会出事。就我本人来说，我希望能毫发无损地逃出去。其实很少有人是被别人杀死的，突然死亡的人大多数都是自找的。不管经历了什么火爆场面，我应该都是生还者之一，而且我还希望可以把大部分没死的人都送进牢里。 不过目前看来是有枪的人在控制一切——无名小子、莫洛亚跟大下巴。 无名小子先开口了，声音好像哀鸣，从他厚厚的鼻子里传出来，很难听。 “这里可不像芝加哥啊，不过我们终于聚齐了。” “芝加哥！”莫洛亚大叫，“你没去芝加哥！” 无名小子对着他冷笑。 “你去了？她去了？我去那儿干什么？你以为我跟她背着你跑了，对不对？要是她没对我像对你一样捣鬼——就像咱们三个对那傻子一样——我们俩是会一块儿逃跑的。” “也许吧，”法国佬说，“不过你可别指望我相信你和伊内丝不是朋友。今天下午我不是还看到你从这儿离开吗？” “你看到我了，没错。”无名小子同意道，“要是我的枪没卡
We didn't drive very far.When I stopped again, the Cadillac was just outside the Viennese Café—the most gaudy of the nearby Italian restaurants. Two hours passed. I assumed it was Nobody who was eating at the Viennese Café, and as he left there would be another shootout, continuing the festivities that afternoon on McAllister Street.I hope Nobody's gun gets stuck in his jacket this time around, but I'm not going to help him in a two-on-one shootout. This gathering looks like a shootout.I think it's a private firefight.I just want to watch from the sidelines, and when the winner or loser is decided, I can help the club to pick up some bargains, such as catching one or two fugitives from the survivors. I guessed wrong about the Frenchie's prey—not a nobody, but a man and a woman.They were standing with the backlight, and I couldn't see their faces clearly.The two of them got out of the Vienna restaurant without delay and got into a taxi immediately. The man was a big man, tall and strong.Women looked small and dainty next to him—but maybe, anything less than a ton looked small next to him. As the taxi drove away from the cafe, the Cadillac followed, and I followed the Cadillac. The chase time is not long. As the taxi turned into a dark intersection on the edge of Chinatown, the Cadillac chased it and slammed it into a curb. The sound of braking, roaring, shattering glass, and women's screams was all noisy.Someone was running in the gap between the Cadillac and the taxi, both cars were shaking, and there were moans, muffled sounds, and curses. A man's voice: "Hey, you can't do this, it's okay, it's okay!" It sounds stupid. I drove the car so slowly, so slowly that it hardly seemed like I was driving toward the chaos ahead.Through the rain and the night, I tried to look ahead, trying to see something as I approached, but there was basically nothing. When I was within twenty feet of them, the road-side door of the taxi slammed open and a woman popped out, dropping to her knees on the sidewalk.Then she jumped up and ran quickly down the road. I pulled the sports car to the side of the road, opened the door, and the windows splashed with rain.When a woman passes by, I want to take a look at her.If she sees the open door as an invitation, I don't mind talking to her. She accepted the invitation and sprinted straight to the car as if she knew I was waiting for her.A small oval face peeked out from her leather collar. "Help!" she gasped. "Take me away, quick!" She spoke with a little foreign accent, but it was too soft to call it an accent. "Why not—" I shut up, she poked me with a short-bore automatic pistol. "Okay, okay, get in the car." I urged her. She bowed her head and got into the car.I wrapped my arms around her neck and pulled her into my arms.She twists and turns—a small skeleton, a fleshy and powerful body. I snatched the gun from her hand and pushed her onto the chair next to me. Her fingernails dug into my arm. "Come on, come on! Oh, please, come on! Pull me to-" "Where's your friend?" I asked. "Leave him alone! He's with them! Please, hurry up!" A man blocked the open door of the sports car, it was the big jaw that drove the Cadillac.His hands clutched the fur on the woman's collar. She wanted to scream, but the cluck sounded like her neck had been cut open.I swung the gun I had taken from her and slammed the man in the jaw. He tried to fall into the sports car, but I pushed him out. Before his head hit the pavement, I closed the door and turned back into the street. We drove off.Turning the first corner there were two gunshots, not sure if they were aimed at us.I made a few more turns and the Cadillac didn't show up again. So far so good.At first I was following the nameless boy and dumped him for Moloya; now I let Moloya go again to see who this woman is.I don't know what the mess is all about, but I seem to be starting to realize who it's for. "Where are you going?" I asked immediately. "Go home," she said, giving me an address. I drove there willingly: it was the McAllister Street apartment where the Nobody had been earlier in the evening. We didn't waste an iota of time on the road.Whether my partner knows it or not, I know that other players in this game know this address.I want to get there before Frenchies and Big Jaws. None of us spoke the whole way.She huddled against me, shivering.I stared straight ahead, trying to figure out how to get her to let me in.Too bad she didn't keep her gun - it fell out when I pushed Big Jaw out of the car.Otherwise, if she doesn't invite me in, I can use this as an excuse to visit later. I was so worried for nothing that she didn't ask me to go in - she insisted that I go in with her; she was terrified. "You won't leave me, will you?" she begged me as we drove up McAllister Street, "I'm scared to death, you can't go, if you don't come in with me, I'll go with you. " I'd love to go in, but I don't want a sports car left outside telling people I'm here. "Let's go around the corner and park, and I'll follow you in," I told her. I drove around the neighborhood, looking around for the Cadillac, but couldn't find it.I parked the sports car on Franklin Street and walked over to the McAllister Street apartment. She dragged me to run in the rain.The rain has lightened, it is now a drizzle. She took out the key and went to the front door, her hands shaking and misaligning the lock.I took the key and opened the door, took the elevator to the third floor, and saw no one.She led me to a door near the back of the building, and I unlocked it for her again. She took my arm with one hand, reached in with the other and slapped on the hallway light. I didn't know what she was waiting for until she started barking. "Farna! Farna! Oh, Farna!" A small dog answered with a muffled bark, but there was no sign of the dog. She threw her arms around me, trying to get into my wet arms. "Here they are!" she cried, in a dry thin voice, terrified of terror, "here they are!" "Should someone be here?" I asked, pulling her sideways so she wouldn't be between me and the two doors across the corridor. "No, just my dog Franna, but—" I pulled my gun halfway out of my pocket and pushed it back, just to make sure it wouldn't jam when I wanted to use it.At the same time I swung the woman's arm away with my other hand. "Stay here and don't move. I'll go and see if you have any guests." I headed for the nearest door, and a voice from seven years ago—Lou Mayer's—came in my head: "He's a good shot, and he's a complete lunatic who doesn't think about what might happen, or isn't afraid of it. " I reached out with my left hand to unscrew the handle of the first door, and kicked it open with my left foot. Nothing happened. I reached out and felt around the door frame, found the switch, and turned on the light. A neat and clean living room. From behind an open door at the other end of the room came Franna's muffled cry.Now it's high-pitched and excited.I walked towards the door, and I could see the next room through the light of this room. I felt quite peaceful and there was no one there.I went in and turned on the light. A dog barked from behind a closed door.I went over and opened the door.A dark shaggy dog jumped on my lap, barking.I grabbed it by the thickest part of its fur and lifted it up. It screamed and struggled.The light fell on it and it was purple—purple like grapes!A dog dyed purple! With my left hand I pushed the barking, struggling artificially-dyed retriever a little away from me, and continued on to the next room—the bedroom, empty, and no one was hiding in the closet.I went to the kitchen and toilet again, also empty.No one in the house, the purple dog was locked up by Nobody earlier today. I hugged the puppy and went back to the woman with my report.As I passed through the next room, I saw an open letter thrown face down on the table.I turned the letter over. The envelope and stationery were stylish. It was addressed to Ms. Ines Ammon. The party seems to be starting to go international.Moloya is French, Nobody is from Boston, the dog has a Bohemian name (I caught a Czech who made counterfeit money a few months ago, and I remember her name was Franna), and Ines, I think it's either a Spanish or a Portuguese name.I don't know what country Amon's surname is, but there is no doubt that she is a foreigner, and I don't think she is French. I went back to her and she didn't move. "Looks all right," I told her, "the puppy is locked in the closet." "Is there no one here?" "no one." She embraced the dog with both hands, held its hairy and dirty head, and talked to it affectionately in a language I couldn't understand. "Do your friends—the people you're fighting with tonight, know that you live here?" I asked. I know they know, but I want to see what she knows. She dropped the dog, frowning as if she had forgotten about it. "I don't know that," she said slowly, "but it's possible, if they knew—" She shivered for a moment, the heels of her shoes touched the ground, and she pushed the living room door hard. "They might have been here this afternoon," she went on. "Farana has shut herself up before, but I'm still worried. I'm timid. No one here now?" "Nobody." I assured her again. I took a good look at her for the first time as we entered the drawing room and she took off her hat and dark cloak. She was below average height, dark skinned, about thirty years old, and wore an orange dress.She had an Indian complexion, with round, sloping brown shoulders that were exposed; her hands and feet were small, and her fingers were covered with rings.Her nose was thin and curved, her lips were full and red, her eyelashes were long and thick, and her eyes were extremely slender.Her eyes were dark, but there was no color to be seen through the narrow slits, except for two streaks of dark light from the thick and thick eyelashes.Her silky black hair was disheveled at the moment, a string of pearl necklaces hung on her dark chest, and the earrings were black iron, designed as special strips, dangling around her face. Overall, she's an odd bitch, but I don't want it to be thought that I mean she's not pretty.She's beautiful, but a little weird. She threw aside her hat and cloak, and shivered, her white teeth biting her lower lip.While she was going across the room to turn on the electric heater, I shifted the gun from my coat pocket to my trousers and took off my coat. She went out for a second and returned with a bronze tray of brown quart wine bottles and two tumblers.She put the tray on the small coffee table by the heater. The first glass of wine she poured was less than half an inch from the rim.I stopped her as she nearly filled the other glass. "Enough," I said. It's brandy, and it's easy to drink.She downed her glass in one gulp, shook her bare shoulders, and sighed contentedly. "You must think I'm a lunatic," she said to me with a smile. "I've never met you before, but I love you on the street. It not only takes up your time, but also gets you into trouble." "No," I lied without blushing, "I think as a woman who has never experienced such a thing, you are still very calm." She pulled a short, covered bench towards the radiator so she could reach the table with the brandy.She sat down and nodded for me to sit beside her. The purple dog jumped into her arms, she pushed him off, and he jumped back.She kicked it hard in the stomach with the tip of her slipper.The dog whined and crawled under a chair across the room. In order to avoid the window, I walked around the room before going to sit down.The curtains were drawn, but they were not thick enough. If one happened to sit by the window and had a pair of binoculars, the unknown boy could still see the whole room. "I'm super easy to lose my cool, really," the woman said when I sat down next to her. "I'm a coward, worried, and habitual. It's my man—ex-husband. I should tell You, you have drawn your sword to help, I should explain to you, and I don't want you to misunderstand." I put on a foolish look of believing her, but I didn't intend to believe a word she said. "He's almost mad with jealousy," she went on in a low, soft voice.Her English was still a little weird, but it wasn't exactly a foreign accent. "He's getting old, and he's all wrong. God, these people he sent! There was a woman one time. That man tonight is not the first time. I don't know them—what they want ...kill me, or cripple me, or disfigure me...I don't know." "Is the guy in the taxi with you one of them too?" I asked, "I was behind you when they did it, and I saw a guy with you. Is he their gang?" ?” "That's right! I didn't know it at the time, but now that I think about it, it should be. He didn't protect me, he just pretended." "Have you ever had the police spy on your husband?" "what?" "Have you called the police?" "Yeah, but—" she shrugged her brown shoulders, "it's better to be silent, or worse. That's how it is in Buffalo, and they... they fined my husband, a thousand dollars, which is the same as What does jealousy have to do with it? And I... I couldn't stand the things that were in the papers, they were all jokes. I had to get out of Buffalo. Yes, I did get the cops to keep an eye on him once, but I never Stop doing that." "Buffalo?" I asked for more information. "I was there for a while. I lived on Crescent Avenue." "Oh, yes, it's pretty close to Delaware Park." You are right.But even if she knew about Buffalo, that didn't mean the other stories she told weren't made up. She poured some more brandy.I'm talking fast so I don't drink too much, and I have a lot on my shoulders.She drank as much as before.While drinking, she took out another lacquer box and asked me to smoke.Thin cigarettes, hand-rolled in black paper. I didn't take a few puffs.The smoke tasted, smelled, and burned like gunpowder. “你不喜欢我的烟？” “我是老派男人，”我在青铜盘上把烟捻灭，抱歉地对她说，然后把手伸进兜里摸我自己的那包，“烟草对我来说已经足够了。你在这些鞭炮里放了什么？” 她笑起来，笑得很乖巧，很可爱。 “实在抱歉，很多人不喜欢，我把印度香跟烟叶混在一起了。” 我没什么可说的。一个能把狗染成紫色的女人，这样做一点儿也不意外。 就在这时，狗在椅子底下动起来，爪子挠着地板。 棕色女人扑到我怀里，两只胳膊圈住我的脖子。近距离看她由于恐惧而睁开的眼睛，原来颜色一点儿也不暗，是灰绿色，黑色是她浓密睫毛的阴影。 “是狗，”我跟她保证道，把她推回到她那头的板凳上，“只是狗在椅子底下扭来扭去而已。” “噢！”她长出了一口气，放下心来。 我们又得再来一轮白兰地。 “你瞧，我真是胆小鬼，”第三杯烈酒进肚后她说，“不过，噢，我身上的麻烦实在是太多，没疯已经是万幸了。” 我可以跟她说，她离疯本来就没多远了，用不着强调。不过我只是点点头表示同情。 她又点了一根烟，刚才那根因为太激动掉到了地上。她眼睛又变成正常的黑缝了。 “真不好意思，”她那样笑的时候，棕色脸颊上酒窝若隐若现，“对一个连名字和其他什么统统都不知道的男人，我就这样投怀送抱。” “这好办，我姓杨，”我撒了个谎，“如果你想买一箱苏格兰威士忌的话，我会给你一个印象深刻的价格。叫我杰瑞就行，大部分我愿意抱在怀里的女士都这么叫我。” “杰瑞·杨，”她自言自语地重复着，“这名字好。所以你就是那个私酒贩子了？” “不是'那个'，我只是其中一个。这儿可是旧金山。”我纠正道。 后面的事情就不好办了。 这棕色皮肤的女人各方面都很可疑，但她受的惊吓是千真万确的。她确实吓傻了，肯定不想一个人待在家里。她想把我留在那儿，要是还有哪个大下巴朝她撞过来，我好帮她挡住。她肯定在想怎么对我动之以情，她这种人就是这样。所以她一定会使出浑身解数勾引我。矜持啊，清规戒律啊，对她都没用。 我也有个想法：一等结束的锣声响起，我就领着这个宝贝，还有她的几个同伙进市立监狱。所以我不能对她动情，这是我能想到的一大堆理由中最好的一个。 我很愿意在她家里待下去，等着好戏上场——那房子看起来就像是下一场戏的现场。不过我自个儿的游戏我得更上心一些。让她发现她只是戏里的一个小配角是万万不行的；我得让她以为我不走纯粹是为了保护她。换成别的男人，他们可能就把自己装成侠客了，英雄救美，而不居功自傲。但我看起来就不是那样的人，也不会装。我得保护她，还不能让她猜到我的兴趣不在她。这可真不容易。她实在太他妈的直接了，而我又灌了太多白兰地。 我不会骗自己说她这样对我是因为我长得帅或者个性迷人。我只是个长着粗壮胳膊和大拳头的男人，而她正处在危险中。在她心目中，我的名字叫做“保护伞”，没别的；我就是用来放在她和麻烦之间的那个障碍。 还有个问题：我不是小孩子，也不是老头，所以不会因为有个女人长得还不至于让人想戳瞎自己的眼睛，就对她产生激情。我是个四十岁左右的中年人，这种年纪的男人会把女人的内在美，比如亲和力等置于外表之上。这个棕色皮肤的女人让我很不自在：她太自负，做事又太没格调，想把我当成乡下人使唤。但除了这些以外，我基本还是血肉之躯。论身材，论脸蛋，这女人都是一流的。我的确不喜欢她，我想现在就把她关进牢里。但如果不承认我对她动心了，那我就是个骗子——她那样依偎着我，挑逗我，再加上我喝了那么多白兰地。 事情真难办，不是说的。 有好几次我都忍不住想夺门而逃。有一回我看了看表，两点零六分。她满是戒指的棕色小手伸向我的表，把它给推回兜里。 “拜托，杰瑞！”她声音里的真诚是真的，“你不能走，你可不能把我一个人扔在这儿。这样真的不行，你走我也走，跟着你上街。你可不能把我留在这儿任人宰割。” 我又坐下来。 几分钟以后铃声大作。 她马上散了架，瘫在我身上，两只赤裸的胳膊箍得我透不过气来。我拼命扯开她，好开口讲话。 “哪儿的铃？” “前门，别管它。” 我拍拍她的肩膀。 “乖乖去开门，看看是谁。” 她的胳膊箍得更紧了。 “不行！不行！不行！他们来了！” 铃声又响了起来。 “开门去，”我坚持道。 她的脸平贴在我的外套上，鼻子像是要扎进我胸膛里。 "No! No!" “好吧，那我去开。”我说。 我挣开她，站起来进入走廊。她跟着我。我再次想说服她应门，可是她不肯，不过也没反对我开口说话。不管谁在楼下，要是以为这女人是单独一个人，对我来说会更有利。但她死活不开口，我也无计可施。 “什么事？”我通过对讲机说。 “你他妈是谁啊？”一个粗哑低沉的声音问。 "What do you want to do?" “我要跟伊内丝讲话。” “有话跟我说，”我提议道，“我会转告她。” 女人拉住我一只胳膊，耳朵紧贴在对讲机上。 “是比利，”她小声说，“让他走。” “你走吧。”我传了话。 “什么？”声音变得更粗更沉，“你是自己开门，还是要我砸进去？” 这问题可不是开玩笑。我没征求女人的意见，伸手按了钮，开了楼门。 “欢迎。”我对着对讲机说。 “他马上上来，”我跟女人解释道，“你是要我站在门后，他一进来就揍他一顿，还是你先跟他聊聊？” “别揍他！”她失声喊道，“是比利呀。” 正合我意，我本来也没打算揍他，至少得等弄清楚了他是谁、干什么的。我只想看看她会怎么回答我。
比利不一会儿就上来了。他按门铃时我打开门，女人站在我旁边。他没等人请，门还没开一半就挤了进来，对我怒目而视。这人的块头可真大！ 大块头、红脸、红头发；不管从哪个方向量，他的数据都很惊人，可没有一个部位是胖的。他鼻子掉了皮，一边脸被抓伤，另一边肿了起来；没戴帽子的脑袋上红头发乱成一团。 他的外套有个口袋被扯掉了，一只扣子吊在六寸长的断线上。 正是和女人一起坐出租车的那个大块头。 “这浑蛋是谁？”他问道，一只大爪子向我伸过来。 我知道这女人是疯子，如果她想把我喂给这个遍体鳞伤的巨人，我不会惊讶的。但她没有；她握住他的手，安抚起来。 “别那么凶，比利，他是我们的朋友。要不是他帮忙，我今天晚上可逃不掉。” 他板起脸，又放松下来，两只手抓住她的手。 “你跑了就好，”他声音嘶哑地说，“要是在大街上，我会厉害得多，但出租车里没我活动的空间，有一个人还打了我的脑袋。” 这可太他妈的好笑了——女人自己溜走，留下他孤身奋战，可这个大号的小丑还在为保护不周而道歉。 女人把他领到客厅里，我跟在后头。他们在板凳上坐下，我挑了张椅子，避开无名小子现在一定在盯着的窗户。 “到底出了什么事，比利？”她伸手摸摸他抓痕累累的脸，“你受伤了。” 他咧嘴一笑，露出害羞又高兴的模样。我本以为他的脸肿了，原来只是含了一大块烟草。 “我也没弄清楚，”他说，“有个家伙打了我的脑袋，我就昏过去了，两个小时后才醒过来。出租车司机没帮着打架，但他是个好心人，也知道谁会给他车钱。他没大惊小怪，直接把我拉到了一个不会通风报信的医生那儿。医生把我治好了，我就到这儿来了。” “你看清那伙人里面有谁了吗？”她问。 “当然！我看到他们，摸到他们，搞不好还尝到他们了呢。” "Several people?" “就两个。大块头长了个大下巴，小个子拿了根魔术杖。” “没有其他人吗？没有一个又高又瘦的年轻人？” 那应该是无名小子，她以为他跟法国佬合作呢。 比利摇摇他乱蓬蓬、伤得很严重的脑袋。 “没有，就他们俩。” 她皱起眉，咬着嘴唇。 比利侧头看我，表情在说：“滚吧。” 女人看到了这一眼。她在板凳上扭了扭，把手放在他头上。 “可怜的比利，”她喃喃地说，“为了救我头都快给打烂了。按理说应该在家里养着，可我还把他留在这儿说话。你走吧，比利，等明天早上你可怜的头好些了，再给我打电话？” 他的红脸黑下来，对着我龇牙咧嘴。 她笑起来，轻轻拍了拍他含着烟草而鼓起来的脸颊。 “不要忌妒杰瑞嘛！杰瑞爱上了一个黄白混血的女士，很专一的。他对黑女人一点儿也不感兴趣。”她朝我挑衅地笑笑，“不是吗，杰瑞？” “不是，”我否认道，“再说了，所有女人都黑。” 比利把嘴里的烟换到抓伤的那边脸，拱起肩膀。 “你这见鬼的玩笑是啥意思？”他吼道。 “什么意思都没有，比利，”她对他笑着说，“只是说着玩儿。” “是吗？”酸酸的刻薄的味道——我开始感到他不喜欢我，“呃，跟你这小胖朋友说，他有什么狗屁笑话就留在自己肚子里好了，我不想听。” 事情很明显，比利想打架。女人本想把他抓得紧紧的，打发掉就好了，但这会儿她只是笑笑。要想了解她这么做的理由会是白费工夫，她疯了。也许她觉得我们两个男人不够友好，不能一起听命于她，所以她就打算让我们打一架，看谁有能耐干掉对方，谁赢了她就跟谁。 打一场架看起来是在所难免。一般情况下我是喜欢和平的，为了好玩而打架的日子已经过去了。我现在经历得太多，没有新鲜感了，即使打输了也没什么大不了的。不过我可不会因为大块头的肌肉比我多就打退堂鼓。和大块头打架这方面，我一直运气很好。他今晚已经被恶揍过一顿，估计火力会小一些。如果可以的话，我想在这间房里多待一会儿。要是比利想来场肉搏战——他看起来的确想这么做——我也不反对。 要惹他发火很简单：不管我说什么，他都会挑毛病的。 我朝他的红脸咧嘴一笑，然后对女人庄严地建议道： “你要是把他浸到蓝色里，我看他会变得跟那只小狗一样紫。” 这话听起来很蠢，不过肯定能达到目的。比利跳起脚来，大手攥成拳头。 “我要跟你散个步，”他下定决心，“外头地方大。” 我站起来，用脚把椅子踢回去，然后引用“红头”伯恩斯的话对他说：“只要离得够近，就会有地方。” 他这种人不用说太多话，我们开始你来我往。 先是拳头。他用右拳打我脑袋，我低下头左一拳右一拳地打他的肚子。他咽下了正在嚼着的烟，不过没弯腰。大块头很少像他们看起来那么壮，但比利是名副其实。 他根本不知道怎么打架；他以为打架就是站在那儿，对着别人脑袋出拳——左、右、左、右。他的拳头跟字纸篓一样大，在空气里嗖嗖地响。不过他一直瞄准头部，而那是最容易避开的部位。 我的地方足够我冲向他再撤回来。我就那么办了。我先是猛捶他的肚子，再击打他的心脏，然后再擂他的肚子。我每揍到他一下，他就高一寸，重一磅，同时多加了一个马力。我打人的本领可不是儿戏，可这座人山不管怎么被我揍，即使被逼得咽下那么一大口烟草，肉眼看起来他都没什么事。 我对自己打架的本事还是有着合理的自信的，可令我失望的是，这个大块头任凭我使尽看家本领也没哼一声。不过我不气馁，他不可能一直撑下去。我定下心来，一拳接一拳稳稳当当地揍他。 他打到我两次。一次是在肩膀上，那记重拳打得我转了半个圈。他不知道接下来该怎么办，往错误的方向进攻，结果失了手，被我躲开了。另一次他捶到我脑门上，幸亏有椅子挡着我才没倒下。我很疼，不过他一定更疼——脑袋的痛觉总比手指头要迟钝。他再次包抄过来时，我闪开了，顺便给他脖子上留了点儿纪念品。 比利站起来，女人微黑的脸出现在他肩膀后方。她的眼睛在浓浓的睫毛后面闪闪发光，嘴巴张开，一口雪白的牙齿也闪闪发光。 后来比利不耐烦打拳击了，开始转向摔跤，还使些小花招。我是宁可继续用拳头，但也没办法，他是这出戏的主角。他攥住我的手腕，猛扯一下，我们就胸对胸撞上了。 他对摔跤知道的不比拳击多多少，但他不需要知道，他的大块头足够跟我玩下去了。 我们滚在地上时，我被压在了下面。我使出了全身力气，可还是弄不开他。我用了三次剪刀腿，但他个头实在太大，我的短腿根本没法夹住他。他逗小孩似的把我甩开。想在他腿上耍什么花招是没用的，人类所有的制伏术全都应付不了他，他的胳膊跟我的腿一样壮。最后我决定放弃尝试。 所有招数在这怪物身上都不起作用，他超过了我的能力范围。能用剩下来的所有力气防止他把我弄瘸，我就很满意了。我唯一的机会只能是智取。 他把我扔出去了很多次，然后我的机会来了。 我平躺在地上，除了身体正中央的一两根肠子外，全身都给挤扁了。他跪骑在我身上，两只大手紧紧箍住我的脖子。 这下他可错了！ 掐人不是这种掐法，特别是在对方的手没被绑住，而且还知道手的力量要比手指大的时候。 我对着他的紫脸笑，并抬起手来，两手各抓住他一根小拇指。这可不是做梦。我累垮了，他没有，不过任谁的小拇指都没有别人的手劲大。我把两根小拇指往后扳，它们一起断了。 他怪叫起来。我又抓住下面两根——无名指。 其中一根啪地断了，另外一根在他松手时也会断掉。 一转身，我朝他脸上打去，挣扎着从他两膝底下钻出来。我们两个同时站起身。 Doorbell rang. 女人脸上观战的兴致被恐惧取代了，她用手指堵住嘴。 “问问是谁。”我跟她说。 “是——是谁啊？” 她的声音又平又干。 “凯尔太太。”声音从走廊传来，字字尖锐而又义愤填膺，“你必须马上停止折腾！房客都在抱怨，这也难怪！什么时候了还这么闹腾！” “是房东太太。”棕色皮肤的女人小声说，接着放开嗓门，“对不起，凯尔太太，我们不会再吵了。” 隔着门传来两声不屑的哼声，然后是逐渐走远的脚步声。 伊内丝·亚蒙皱起眉看着比利。 “都是你。”她怪他道。 他看起来很不好意思，先看看门，又看看我。看着我时，紫色又回到了他脸上。 “对不起，”他嘟囔道，“我跟这家伙说了出去解决。我们现在就出去，不在这儿闹了。” “比利！”她的声音尖起来，似乎她的话就是圣旨，“你现在就走，出去找人治好你的伤。我可不想因为你没打赢就一个人留在这儿送死！” 大块头来来回回地踱着步子，不敢看她，一副凄惨至极的模样，不过他还是倔犟地摇了摇头。 “伊内丝，不行，”他说，“我跟这家伙没完。他弄断了我的手指头，我得打烂他的下巴才行。” “比利！” 她的小脚在地上跺了一下，蛮横地看着他。他看起来想马上求饶，但他坚持住了。 “没法子，”他重复道，“没别的法子。” 她不再生气了，温柔地对他笑起来。 “亲爱的老比利。”她嘟囔着，然后穿过房间走到角落里的一张书桌前。 她转过身时，手里多了一把自动手枪，枪口对着比利。 “猪头，”她像猫一样吐了口气，“马上给我出去！” 红脸男人脑筋迟钝，他花了整整一分钟才意识到他爱的女人正拿着枪在逼他走人。这个大块头傀儡早该知道他那三根断指已经把他废了。他又花了一分钟才让脚动起来，迷惑不解地慢慢向门走去，对正在发生的事还是半信半疑。 女人亦步亦趋地跟着他。我抢过去开门。 我拧开门把手，门猛地向里推进来，把我撞到对面的墙上。 门口站着爱德华·莫洛亚和那个被我打中下巴的男人，两人都拿着枪。 我看着伊内丝·亚蒙，不知道面对这种情况她会多疯狂。她没我想的那么疯狂。她的尖叫声跟她手枪撞到地板的声音同时发出。 “啊！”法国佬说，“两位绅士要走啊？我们能有幸留下他们吗？” 大下巴男人就没那么礼貌了，他那下巴这会儿因为我那一拳而显得更大了。 “退后，混账！”他命令道，弯腰拾起女人掉了的手枪。 我还握着门把手，缩手以前轻轻扭了一下。要是我需要帮助而帮助的人也来了的话，我希望他跟我中间的锁越少越好。 然后比利、那女人和我鱼贯退入客厅。莫洛亚和大下巴都因为出租车战役而挂了彩。法国佬一只眼睛睁不开，眼圈肿得发亮。他的衣服又脏又皱，不过他还是穿得趾高气扬的，手里也还拎着手杖，夹在没拿枪的那条胳膊下面。 莫洛亚伸出手来搜比利和我是否带着武器时，大下巴用他自己的枪和女人的那把指着我们。莫洛亚发现了我的枪，拿去装进了他兜里。比利没武器。 “能否麻烦你们后退到墙边，贴着站好吗？”搜完身后，莫洛亚问道。 我们顺从地往后退。我发现我的肩膀碰到了窗帘，于是我压住窗帘，贴在窗框上，转身时把窗帘拉开一些，露出一尺左右的窗户来。 如果无名小子在监视的话，他应该可以清清楚楚地看到法国佬——今晚上早些时候朝他开枪的男人。我就把这事儿交给那小子了。走廊门的锁已经打开，要是小子能进到楼里，费不了多大力气就可以一路进屋了。我不知道他扮演的是什么角色，不过我希望他会帮我们，不让我失望。如果所有的当事人都在这间屋子里聚齐，也许谜底很快就会揭晓了。 同时我也尽可能躲开窗户，无名小子有可能决定从马路对面开火。 莫洛亚看着伊内丝。大下巴的两把枪指着我和比利。 “我英文不太好，”法国佬嘲弄地对女人说，“所以当初你说要见面，我以为你说的是新奥尔良，没听出来你说的是旧金山。对不起，我犯了个低级错误；对不起，让你等了这么长时间。不过现在我来了，我那份儿你准备好了吗？” “没有，”她伸手做两手空空状，“被无名小子拿走了，从我身上全拿走了。” “什么？”莫洛亚收起了嘲弄的笑容，也不用杂技团的口音说话了，能睁开的那只眼睛气得发亮，“怎么可能呢，除非——” “他怀疑我们，爱德华。”女人的嘴恳切地哆嗦起来，眼睛在恳求信任，而她正在撒谎，“他跟踪我，我到那儿的第二天他也到了。他把所有东西都拿走了，我不敢等着见你，怕你不相信，你不会——” “不可思议！”莫洛亚非常吃惊，“我们——我们演了那些戏以后，我坐第一班火车南下，无名小子会神不知鬼不觉地也上了那班车？不可能！再说他怎么能在我之前跟你见面？你耍我呢，我的小伊内丝。你跟无名小子是见面了，这我信，不过不是在新奥尔良，你没去那儿，你来旧金山了。” “爱德华！”她抗议道，伸出棕色手指拉拉他的袖子，另一只手放在喉咙上，仿佛说话很困难，“你不能这么想！波士顿那几个星期还没证明这是不可能的吗？我会为无名小子那样的人——或者任何其他人——背叛你吗？你应该知道我的为人，不是吗？” 她是个演员，姿态动人，楚楚可怜——你还可以用任何你喜欢的词来形容，包括“危险”。 法国佬把袖子从她手里拽出来，往后退了一步。他小小的八字胡底下，嘴巴外侧一圈变白了，下巴肌肉鼓了起来，那只好眼睛露出担忧的神色。她已经打动了他的心，只是还没完全征服。不过好戏才刚刚开始。 “我不知道该怎么想，”他慢慢地说，“要是我弄错了的话——我必须先找到无名小子，才能弄清真相。” “用不着费事了，兄弟，我来了！” 无名小子站在走廊门口，两手各攥一把黑色左轮手枪，两把枪的保险都打开了。
一个挺美的画面。 无名小子站在门口。他是个二十出头的瘦小子，面孔浮肿，下巴松松垮垮的，眼神呆滞，这让他看起来更邪恶。他手里待发的枪指着所有人，或者一个人也没指，看你怎么认为了。 棕色皮肤的女人两手捂着脸，眼睛大睁，连灰绿色都显出来了。先前我在她脸上看到的恐惧跟现在比起来根本不算什么。 还有法国佬。无名小子一说话，他马上转向门，枪指着小子，手杖还夹在腋下，脸紧张得发白。 还有大下巴，身体半侧着，扭过头去看门，一把枪跟着转了过去。 还有比利——伤痕累累的大号塑像。自从伊内丝·亚蒙开始拿枪逼他出门，就再没说过一句话。 最后就是我了。我不像躺在家里床上那么舒服，不过也不至于歇斯底里。我对目前的发展还是挺满意的。房间里风雨欲来，但我跟在场的人都不熟，所以也不在乎哪个会出事。就我本人来说，我希望能毫发无损地逃出去。其实很少有人是被别人杀死的，突然死亡的人大多数都是自找的。不管经历了什么火爆场面，我应该都是生还者之一，而且我还希望可以把大部分没死的人都送进牢里。 不过目前看来是有枪的人在控制一切——无名小子、莫洛亚跟大下巴。 无名小子先开口了，声音好像哀鸣，从他厚厚的鼻子里传出来，很难听。 “这里可不像芝加哥啊，不过我们终于聚齐了。” “芝加哥！”莫洛亚大叫，“你没去芝加哥！” 无名小子对着他冷笑。 “你去了？她去了？我去那儿干什么？你以为我跟她背着你跑了，对不对？要是她没对我像对你一样捣鬼——就像咱们三个对那傻子一样——我们俩是会一块儿逃跑的。” “也许吧，”法国佬说，“不过你可别指望我相信你和伊内丝不是朋友。今天下午我不是还看到你从这儿离开吗？” “你看到我了，没错。”无名小子同意道，“要是我的枪没卡