sidneysheldon.astrangerinthemirror-第5部分

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wiftly　mechanical　now；　the　result　of　long　years　of　practice。　Gauzed　fingers　cleared　the　back　of　the　infant's　pharynx　so　air　could　get　into　the　laryngcal　opening。　Dr。　Wilson　placed　the　baby　flat　on　its　back。　The　maternity　nurse　handed　him　a　smallsize　laryngoscope　connecting　with　an　electric　suction　apparatus。　He　set　it　in　place　and　nodded；　and　the　nurse　clicked　a　switch。　The　rhythmic　sucking　sound　of　the　machine　began。　Dr。　Wilson　looked　up　at　the　dock。　Twenty　seconds　left　to　go。　Heartbeat　negative。　Fifteen　。。。　fourteen。。。　Heartbeat　negative。　The　moment　of　decision　was　at　hand。　It　might　already　be　too　late　to　prevent　brain　damage。　No　one　could　ever　be　really　sure　about　these　things。　He　had　seen　hospital　wards　filled　with　pathetic　creatures　with　the　bodies　of　adults　and　the　minds　of　children；　or　worse。　Ten　seconds。　And　no　pulse；　not　even　a　thread　to　give　him　hope。　Five　seconds。　He　made　his　decision　then；　and　hoped　that　God　would　understand　and　forgive　him。　He　was　going　to　pull　the　plug；　say　that　the　baby　could　not　be　saved。　No　one　would　question　his　action。　He　felt　the　baby's　skin　once　more。　It　was　cold　and　clammy。　Three　seconds。　He　looked　down　at　the　infant　and　he　wanted　to　weep。　It　was　such　a　pity。　She　was　a　pretty　baby。　She　would　have　grown　up　to　be　a　beautiful　woman。　He　wondered　what　her　life　would　have　been　like。　Would　she　have　gotten　married　and　had　children？　Or　perhaps　bee　an　artist　or　a　teacher　or　a　business　executive？　Would　she　have　been　rich　or　poor？　Happy　or　unhappy？　One　second。　Negative　heartbeat。　Zero。　He　reached　his　hand　toward　the　switch；　and　at　that　instant　the　baby's　heart　began　to　beat。　It　was　a　tentative；　irregular　spasm；　and　then　another　and　then　it　steadied　down　in　a　strong；　regular　beat。　There　was　a　spontaneous　cheer　in　the　room　and　cries　of　congratulation。　Dr。　Wilson　was　not　listening。　He　was　staring　up　at　the　clock　on　the　wall。
　
　　in　Krakow。　A　middle　name　would　have　been　pretentious　for　the　daughter　of　a　Polish　seamstress　in　Odessa；　Texas。　For　reasons　that　Mrs。　Czinski　did　not　understand；　Dr。　Wilson　insisted　that　Josephine　be　brought　back　to　the　hospiral　for　an　examination　every　six　weeks。　The　conclusions　each　time　were　the　same：　she　seemed　normal。　Only　time　would　tell。　
　
　On　Labor　Day；　the　summer　season　in　the　Catskills　was　over　and　the　Great　Merlin　was　out　of　a　job；　and　along　with　him；　Toby。　Toby　was　free　to　go。　But　where？　He　was　homeless；　jobless　and　penniless。　Toby's　decision　was　made　for　him　when　a　guest　offered　him　twenty…five　dollars　to　drive　her　and　her　three　young　children　from　the　Catskills　to　Chicago。　Toby　left　without　saying　good…bye　to　the　Great　Merlin　or　his　smelly　props。　
　Chicago；　in　1939；　was　a　prosperous；　wide…open　city。　It　was　a　city　with　a　price；　and　those　who　knew　their　way　around　could　buy　anything　from　women　to　dope　to　politicians。　There　were　hundreds　of　nightclubs　that　catered　to　every　taste。　Toby　made　the　rounds　of　all　of　them；　from　the　big；　brassy　Chez　Paree　to　the　little　bars　on　Rush　Street。　The　answer　was　always　the　same。　No　one　wanted　to　hire　a　young　punk　as　a　ic。　The　sands　were　running　out　for　Toby。　It　was　time　he　started　to　fulfill　his　mother's　dream。　He　was　almost　nineteen　years　old。　
　One　of　the　clubs　Toby　hung　around　was　the　Knee　High；　where　the　entertainment　consisted　of　a　dread　three…piece　bo；　a　broken…down；　middle…aged　drunken　ic　and　two　strippers；　Meri　and　Jeri；　who　were　billed　as　the　Perry　Sisters　and　were；　improbably　enough；　really　sisters。　They　were　in　their　twenties；　and　attractive　in　a　cheap；　blowsy　way。　Jeri　came　up　to　the　bar　one　evening　and　sat　next　to　Toby。　He　smiled　and　said　politely；　〃I　like　your　act。〃　Jeri　turned　to　look　at　him　and　saw　a　naive；　baby…faced　kid；　too　young　and　too　poorly　dressed　to　be　a　mark。　She　nodded　indifferently　and　started　to　turn　away；　when　Toby　stood　up。　Jeri　stared　at　the　telltale　bulge　in　his　pants；　then　turned　to　look　up　at　the　innocent　young　face　again。　〃Jesus　Christ；〃　she　said。　〃Is　that　all　you？〃　He　smiled。　〃There's　only　one　way　to　find　out。〃　At　three　o'clock　that　morning；　Toby　was　in　bed　with　both　of　the　Perry　Sisters。　
　Everything　had　been　meticulously　planned。　One　hour　before　showtime；　Jeri　had　taken　the　club　ic；　a　pulsive　gambler；　to　an　apartment　on　Diversey　Avenue　where　a　crap　game　was　in　progress。　When　he　saw　the　action；　he　licked　his　lips　and　said；　〃We　can　stay　only　a　minute。〃　Thirty　minutes　later；　when　Jeri　slipped　away；　the　ic　was　rolling　the　dice；　screaming　like　a　maniac；　〃An　eighter　from　Decatur；　you　son　of　a　bitch！〃　lost　in　some　fantasy　world　where　success　and　stardom　and　riches　all　hung　on　each　roll　of　the　dice。　At　the　Knee　High；　Toby　sat　at　the　bar；　neat　and　tidy；　waiting。　When　showtime　came　and　the　ic　had　not　appeared；　the　owner　of　the　club　began　to　rage　and　curse。　〃That　bastard's　through　this　time；　you　hear？　I　won't　have　him　near　my　club　again。〃　〃I　don't　blame　you；〃　Meri　said。　〃But　you're　in　luck。　There's　a　new　ic　sitting　at　the　bar。　He　just　got　in　from　New　York。〃　〃What？　Where？〃　The　owner　took　one　look　at　Toby。　〃For　chrissakes；　where's　his　nanny？　He's　a　baby'''　〃He's　great！　〃　Jeri　said。　And　she　meant　it。　〃Try　him；〃　Meri　added。　〃What　can　you　lose？〃　〃My　fuckin'　customers！〃　But　he　shrugged　and　walked　over　to　where　Toby　was　sitting。　〃So　you're　a　ic；　huh？〃　〃Yeah；〃　Toby　said　casually。　〃I　just　finished　doing　a　gig　in　the　Catskills。〃　　
　The　owner　studied　him　a　moment。　〃How　old　are　you？''　〃Twenty…two；〃　Toby　lied。　〃Horseshit。　All　right。　Get　out　there。　And　if　you　lay　an　egg；　you　won't　live　to　see　twenty…two。〃　And　there　it　was。　Toby　Temple's　dream　had　finally　e　true。　He　was　standing　in　the　spotlight　while　the　band　played　a　fanfare　for　him；　and　the　audience；　his　audience；　sat　there　waiting　to　discover　him；　to　adore　him。　He　felt　a　surge　of　affection　so　strong　that　the　feeling　brought　a　lump　to　his　throat。　It　was　as　though　he　and　the　audience　were　one；　bound　together　by　some　wonderful；　magical　cord。　For　an　instant　he　thought　of　his　mother　and　hoped　that　wherever　she　was；　she　could　see　him　now。　The　fanfare　stopped。　Toby　went　into　his　routine。　〃Good　evening；　you　lucky　people。　My　name　is　Toby　Temple。　I　guess　you　all　know　your　names。〃　Silence。　He　went　on。　〃Did　you　hear　about　the　new　head　of　the　Mafia　in　Chicago？　He's　a　queer。　From　now　on；　the　Kiss　of　Death　includes　dinner　and　dancing。〃　There　was　no　laughter。　They　were　staring　at　him；　cold　and　hostile；　and　Toby　began　to　feel　the　sharp　claws　of　fear　tearing　at　his　stomach。　His　body　was　suddenly　soaked　in　perspiration。　That　wonderful　bond　with　the　audience　had　vanished。　He　kept　going。　〃I　just　played　an　engagement　in　a　theater　up　in　Maine。　The　theater　was　so　far　back　in　the　woods　that　the　manager　was　a　bear。〃　Silence。　They　hated　him。　〃Nobody　told　me　this　was　a　deaf…mute　convention。　I　feel　like　the　social　director　on　the　Titanic。　Being　here　is　like　walking　up　the　gangplank　and　there's　no　ship。〃　They　began　to　boo。　Two　minutes　after　Toby　had　begun；　the　owner　frantically　signaled　to　the　musicians；　who　started　to　play　loudly；　drowning　out　Toby's　voice。　He　stood　there；　a　big　smile　on　his　face；　his　eyes　stinging　with　tears。　He　wanted　to　scream　at　them。　
　
　It　was　the　screams　that　awakened　Mrs。　Csinski。　They　were　high…pitched　and　feral；　eerie　in　the　stillness　of　the　night；　and　it　was　not　until　she　sat　up　in　bed　that　she　realized　it　was　the　baby　screaming。　She　hurried　into　the　other　room　where　she　had　fixed　up　a　nursery。　Josephine　was　rolling　from　side　to　side；　her　face　blue　from　convulsions。　At　the　hospital；　an　intern　gave　the　baby　an　intravenous　sedative；　and　she　fell　into　a　peaceful　sleep。　Dr。　Wilsons　who　had　delivered　Josephine；　gave　her　a　thorough　examination。　He　could　find　nothing　wrong　with　her。　But　he　was　uneasy。　He　could　not　forget　the　clock　on　the　wall。　
　
　Vaudeville　had　flourished　in　America　from　1881　until　its　final　demise　when　the　Palace　Theatre　closed　its　doors　in　1932。　Vaudeville　had　been　the　training　ground　for　all　the　aspiring　young　ics；　the　battlefield　where　they　sharpened　their　wits　against　hostile；　jeering　audiences。　However；　the　ics　who　won　out　went　on　to　fame　and　fortune。　Eddie　Cantor　and　W。　C。　Fields；　Jolson　and　Benny；　Abbott　and　Costello；　and　Jessel　and　Burns　and　the　Marx　Brothers；　and　dozens　more。　Vaudeville　was　a　haven；　a　steady　paycheck；　but　with　vaudeville　dead；　ics　had　to　turn　to　other　fields。　The　big　names　were　booked　for　radio　shows　and　personal　appearances；　and　they　also　played　the　important　nightclubs　around　the　country。　
　For　the　struggling　young　ics　like　Toby；　however；　it　was　another　story。　They　played　nightclubs；　too；　but　it　was　a　different　world。　It　was　called　the　Toilet　Circuit；　and　the　name　was　a　euphemism。　It　consisted　of　dirty　saloons　all　over　the　country　where　the　great　unwashed　public　gathered　to　guzzle　beer　and　belch　at　the　strippers　and　destroy　the　ics　for　sport。　The　dressing　rooms　were　stinking　toilets；　smelling　of　stale　food　and　spilled　drinks　and　urine　and　cheap　perfume　and；　overlaying　it　all；　the　rancid　odor　of　fear：　flop　sweat。　The　toilets　were　so　filthy　that　the　female　performers　squatted　over　the　dressing　room　sinks　to　urinate。　Payment　varied　from　an　indigestible　meal　to　five；　ten　or　sometimes　as　much　as　fifteen　dollars　a　night；　depending　on　the　audience　reaction。　Toby　Temple　played　them　all；　and　they　became　his　school。　The　names　of　the　towns　were　different；　but　the　places　were　all　the　same；　and　the　smells　were　the　same；　and　the　hostile　audiences　were　the　same。　If　they　did　not　like　a　performer；　they　threw　beer　bottles　at　him　and　heckled　him　throughout　his　performance　and　whistled　him　off。　It　was　a　tough　school；　but　it　was　a　good　one；　because　it　taught　Toby　all　the　tricks　of　survival。　He　learned　to　deal　with　drunken　tourists　and　sober　hoodlums；　and　never　to　confuse　the　two。　He　learned　how　to　spot　a　potential　heckler　and　quiet　him　by　asking　him　for　a　sip　of　his　drink　or　borrowing　his　napkin　to　mop　his　brow。　Toby　talked　himself　into　jobs　at　places　with　names　like　Lake　Kiamesha　and　Shawanga　Lodge　and　the　Avon。　He　played　Wildwood；　New　Jersey；　and　the　B'nai　B'rith　and　the　Sons　of　Italy　and　Moose　halls。　And　he　kept　learning。　
　Toby's　act　consisted　of　parodies　of　popular　songs；　imitations　of　Gable　and　Grant　and　Bogart　and　Cagney；　and　material　stolen　from　the　big…name　ics　who　could　afford　expensive　writers。　All　the　struggling　ics　stol