Chapter 8 chapter Five

At last the pilgrims all left. The Bliss Sisters sat upright on the bed in pink, lace-trimmed knit morning wisps.His long, dark blue curly wig fell over his shoulders.On her old face, the skin shriveled, dry and tough like a monkey, the corneas were a strange transparent blue, almost like the surface of enamel paint; and the faded ocher pupils were white.She also wore rows of close-fitting dentures that were unbelievably white and gleaming. The dark skin of her youth had faded to the color of pigskin after more than fifty years of daily use of whitening creams.The toothpick-like arms protruding from the pink shirt, the upper arms are purple-toned, and gradually become parchment-colored down, and the thin and fragile hands are almost transparent.

She held a cup of hot sassafras tea in one hand, and raised her little finger politely; in the other hand, she held a long curved handle, a small and exquisite meerschaum pipe with carvings on the burner mouth.She was smoking the shreds of marijuana leaves, her only vice. Pinkie was sitting on the green leather ottoman next to the bed, wringing his fat milky hands. The only source of light in the room was the pink light from the other side of the bed.Under the soft pastel light, the bruised white skin of the pink boy transforms into the exotic complexion of some unknown tropical sea monster.

"Why do you think they are going to kill him?" Sister Bliss asked, her voice low and sweet, slightly hoarse. "To snatch his stuff, that's why," Pinkie said mournfully. "For his farm in Ghana." "Garner's farm?" she said contemptuously. "If Gus had a farm in Ghana, I'd have a palace in heaven." "But he really does. I've seen the files." "If he has a farm at all—what a wonder he is, how are they going to get him if he's killed?" "She's his wife, and he left the farm to her in his will."

"His wife! She's no more his wife than you are his son. If they kill him, the farm will go to his relatives—if he has any." "She is really his wife. I have seen the marriage certificate." "You've seen everything. Assuming they did kill him, they wouldn't be living on that farm, because that's the first place the police would come after them." He knew she didn't believe anything about the farm, so he put it another way. "Then it's for his money. They'll take it and slip away." "His money! I'm too old to listen to your bullshit. Gus has never had a dime jingle around him in his life."

"He's really rich, a lot of money." He averted his eyes and his voice changed. "He had another wife in Fayeville, North Carolina. She died and left him a house." Big Tobacco, he sold it for a lot of money." She took a deep draw on her pipe, then put it down to sip hot tea.Faded old eyes watched him over the rim of the cup with ironic interest.Finally, when she slowly exhaled the smoke from her lungs, she said, "What are you trying to bluff me to death?" "I'm not trying to bluff you." "So what's his other wife, another farm, and his money, and what's up with that? You must have seen his avatar."

"I swear to God this is true," he said, avoiding her gaze, "I swear." "These are all your words. I have known Gus for not a day or two, and he will never let any woman put a marriage lock on him. So, if you think that any woman knows his virtue, But you are stupid enough to leave an inheritance to him after death, then you don't understand women too much." "He does have something," he insisted eagerly. "I promised he would keep it a secret, but I know that's what they want." She smiled maliciously. "If it's a valuable thing, why don't you get it—especially if you're poor?" Her voice was slightly sarcastic.

"I can't rob Gus, he's the only one who treats me well." "You just take that thing and let them rob you and kill you, since you insist on protecting him." He changed his face, showing a look of despair.Sweat trickled down his hairline, and tears welled up in his eyes. "He'd probably be dead while you were sitting here laughing at me," he complained in a whimpering voice. She slowly put the cup on the bedside table, put the pipe on her belly, and looked at him carefully.She could see that something was really bothering him, and was a little surprised that he was serious.

"Haven't I always been nice to you, too? Treated you like my own son—if I had one," she coaxed. "Yes," he replied obediently, "but he adopted me and said I was his son." "Didn't I tell you again and again that you are my heir?" She still insisted, "Didn't I tell you that after I die, you will inherit everything?" "Yes, but you won't help me now." "You shouldn't hide something from me like this, God wouldn't like it," she said. "I didn't hide it," he whimpered, hesitant to speak, "it's just that I promised not to tell."

She leaned forward and gazed at him hypnotically. "Is that thing in the trunk?" Her eyes approached him aggressively like two balls of colored fire. "Not when I saw it." "Is that in a sack?" He felt that he was gradually unable to resist her questioning. "It wasn't in the sack when I saw it." "Is that hidden in the house?" He shook his head. "In the closet? Under the floor... or behind the wall?" He felt dizzy more and more dizzy, and his eyes stared at Venus. "It's not hidden like that," he admits.

"He carries it with him," she said triumphantly. He had been exhausted by her stare, and he was powerless to resist anymore. "Yes, in his pocket." She was thinking seriously, her face wrinkled like a prunes. "Jewelry," she concluded. "He stole some jewellery. Diamonds?" His willpower finally broke.He leaned forward dejectedly, and sighed. "It's a treasure map," he said earnestly. "That's how to find a lot of buried treasure in Africa." Her eyes widened suddenly, as if her eyelids were split open. "Treasure map!" she called. "The lost treasure! How old are you, what lost treasure do you still believe in?"

"I know it sounds unbelievable, but it's true," he said stubbornly. She stared at him suspiciously until he began to feel uneasy. "Did you ever see it?" she asked finally. "Yes. There is a river and sea drawn on it, and the treasure is buried on the bank." "A river!" Her eyes flickered, and her mind raced like lightning. "Where did he get it?" "He just has that thing." She narrowed her eyes. "When did he show it to you?" He hesitated for a moment before answering: "Yesterday night." "Who else knows that he has a treasure map besides you?" "His wife and the African know it too. He's going to hand it over to the courier guy who came to pick up the suitcase this morning and they'll deliver it to his farm in Ghana so that before he gets there , no one will be able to take the map from him. But I know that woman and the African are going to kill him, and take it before the courier comes—if they don’t do it now." "Why don't you follow him and protect him?" "He wouldn't let me stay. He said he had things to do and left suddenly, and I didn't know where he was. That's why I went to ring the fire alarm." "When is the courier scheduled to come?" "six o'clock." From under her robes she took out an old-fashioned pocket watch with a fine gold chain.It said five twenty-seven. She jumped out of bed and started dressing.She quickly took off her black wig and put on a gray one. "You'll find a green thing in that drawer," she said. "You give yourself a shot, and that calms you down. That cocaine is driving you crazy." She was dressing quickly and ignoring him as he filled the syringe and injected himself. She wore a flowing black gown over multiple petticoats, low-heeled black shoes, and elbow-length black silk gloves.Then use a long steel hatpin to fasten the little black straw hat to her gray wig. "Go start the car," she said. It wasn't until she heard him walk out the back door that she picked up a large handbag adorned with black beads, took out a black and white striped parasol from the closet, and walked into the kitchen.Saint Peter is already dressed.Now he was wearing a black driver's uniform and cap a few sizes too big, in the fashion of the 1920s. "You know everything?" She asked succinctly. "I heard everything he said," he said bluntly. "If Gus' share is enough to buy a farm, it's not petty money—whatever it is." "Whatever it is, I know it," she said. "As long as we don't arrive too late." "Then let's go." She walks out of the house.St. Peter picked up the shotgun leaning against the door and followed, closing and locking the door.His spirits were high.In the gray dawn, although they could already see things vaguely, they didn't see Pink Boy.However, they heard his voice.He was kneeling on the hard, dirty floor of the garage, clutching the doorpost with both hands, trying to get up, breathing heavily and harshly.The muscles in his neck, arms, and torso tensed; blood vessels bulged like ropes. "He's as big as a bull," said St. Peter. "Hush," Sister Bliss warned him, "he can still hear." His hearing was unbearably keen, and every word they spoke came to him with uncanny clarity, like a yell.He's sane.She gave me strong narcotics, he thought.But he felt that his consciousness was gradually blurring, like a shipwreck slowly sinking into the sea.Finally, his muscles gave way completely, and he fell face down between the goalposts.As the Blissful Sisters and St. Peter approached, he was out of hearing.St. Peter reached into the garage to turn on the light, and a 1937 black Lincoln limousine came into view impressively. Without saying a word, they stepped over Pinky and left him lying on the ground.The Blissful Sisters sat in the backseat.St. Peter kept his shotgun within easy reach on the floor of the front seat before he opened the two doors and drove forward. He sped up to fifty miles on a dirt road that ran through a barren field, bumping over stones and ruts, kicking up clouds of dust.A gardener in sweatshirt and straw hat milks goats tied to a tree.He paid no attention to the black limousine; it was so common.But the morning workers, the milkmen, and the garbage collectors all turned their heads and stared as St. Peter rolled onto the gravel-pavement and increased his speed to seventy or seventy-five miles an hour.