emb.seethemdie-第1部分

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　July。
　Heat。
　In　the　city；　they　are　synonymous；　they　are　identical；　they　mean　one　and　the　same　thing。　In　the　87th　Precinct；　they　strut　the　streets　with　a　vengeance；　these　twin　bitches　who　wear　their　bleached　blond　hair　and　their　bright…red　lipstick　slashes；　who　sway　on　glittering　rhinestone　slippers；　who　flaunt　their　saffron　silk。　Heat　and　July；　they　are　identical　twins　who　were　born　to　make　you　suffer。
　The　air　is　tangible。　You　can　reach　out　to　touch　it。　It　is　sticky　and　clinging；　you　can　wrap　it　around　you　like　a　viscous　overcoat。　The　asphalt　in　the　gutters　has　turned　to　gum；　and　your　heels　clutch　at　it　when　you　try　to　navigate　the　streets。　The　pavements　glow　with　a　flat　off…white　brilliance；　contrasting　with　the　running　black　of　the　gutter；　creating　an　alternating　pattern　of　shade　and　light　that　is　dizzying。　The　sun　sits　low　on　a　still　sky；　a　sky　as　pale　as　faded　dungarees。　There　is　only　a　hint　of　blue　in　this　sky　for　it　has　been　washed　out　by　the　intensity　of　the　sun；　and　there　is　a　shimmer　over　everything；　the　shimmer　of　heat　ready　to　explode　in　rain。
　The　buildings　bear　the　heat　with　the　solemnity　of　Orthodox　Jews　in　long；　black　frock　coats。　They　have　known　this　heat。　Some　of　them　have　withstood　it　for　close　to　a　century；　and　so　their　suffering　is　a　silent　one；　they　face　the　heat　with　the　intolerant　blankness　of　stoics。
　Scrawled　onto　the　pavement　in　white　chalk　are　the　words：　JES&S　VIENE；　PREPARENSE　FOR　NUESTRA　REDENCION！
　The　buildings　crowd　the　sidewalks　and　prepare　neither　for　their　redemption　nor　their　perdition。
　There　is　not　much　sky　on　this　street。
　There　are　places　in　the　world　where　the　sky　is　big；　where　it　stretches　from　horizon　to　horizon　like　a　gaudy　blue　tent；　but　such　is　not　the　case　on　this　street。　The　sky　here　seems　to　have　been　wedged　down　over　the　uneven　silhouette　of　the　buildings；　crammed　into　place　because　it　would　not　fit　properly；　battered　with　a　grimy　fist　until　it　tightly　capped　the　street　and　contained　the　heat　there。
　The　street　is　quiet。
　It　is　only　8：40　in　the　morning；　and　it　is　Sunday。
　There　are　unfluttering　scraps　of　newspapers　in　the　gutters；　they　share　the　gummy　asphalt　with　empty　tin　cans　and　broken　bottles　and　sticks　ripped　from　orange　crates。　In　the　empty　lot　on　one　corner；　there　are　the　charred　remains　of　bonfires；　a　torn　and　soiled　crib　mattress；　the　trailing　white　snakes　of　used　condoms。　The　fire　escapes　are　hung　with　the　trivia　of　life：　blankets；　pillows；　beer　cases；　potted　plants；　and　here　and　there　a　guitar。　A　man　sleeping　on　one　of　the　fire　escapes　moves　his　arm；　and　it　dangles　down　through　the　iron　bars　for　a　moment；　swings　idly；　and　then　es　to　a　rest。
　This　is　the　only　movement　on　the　street。
　The　air　is　fetidly　still。　The　heat　is　a　self…contained；　lifeless　unit　which　does　not　stir　and　which　discourages　the　motion　of　anything　it　embraces。　It　has　baked　itself　into　the　brick　fronts　of　the　tenements；　and　the　asphalt；　and　the　pavements；　and　the　sky。　It　has　baked　itself　into　these　things　and　onto　these　things　like　orange　enamel　on　copper。
　Somewhere　in　the　distance；　the　church　bells　toll；　for　this　is　Sunday　morning；　but　even　the　bells　ring　qut　on　the　air　with　a　harsh　flatness；　a　metallic　unevenness　that　must　force　its　way　through　layers　and　layers　of　heat。　Beneath　that；　like　a　rushing　counterpoint；　the　elevated　train　roars　past　two　blocks　south；　and　then　the　train　sound　dies；　and　the　bell　sound　dissipates　in　the　sticky　silence　of　the　air；　and　the　street　is　still　once　more。
　Two　people　will　die　on　this　street　today。
　The　boy's　name　was　Zip。
　He　was　seventeen　years　old　and　he　erupted　from　the　mouth　of　the　tenement　like　a　hand…grenade　explosion。　He　came　onto　the　stoop　lightly；　and　then　almost　danced　down　the　steps。　He　looked　up　at　the　waking　man　on　the　fire　escape；　waved　nonchalantly；　and　then　glanced　up　the　street。　He　was　tall　and　thin；　good…looking　in　a　craggy　way；　with　a　light　plexion　and　black　hair　which　he　wore　in　a　high　crown　off　his　forehead。　He　was　wearing　tight　black　slacks　and　high…topped　bat　boots　and　a　bright　silk　purple　jacket　with　his　name　embroidered　in　yellow　on　the　left　breast。
　He　looked　at　his　watch。
　It　was　8：45；　and　he　noted　the　time　and　then　nodded；　as　if　he　had　correctly　estimated　the　exact　duration　of　each　of　his　movements　up　to　this　moment；　as　if　he　and　the　universe　were　meshing　gears　correctly。　He　looked　up　the　street　again。　There　was　an　air　of　restless　urgency　about　him；　the　air　a　business　magnate　wears　when　he　is　expecting　to　close　a　deal　for　the　purchase　of　a　new　pany。　The　attitude　was　curious　on　a　seventeen…year…old。　And　yet；　he　looked　at　his　watch　again；　a　person　captured　by　the　intricacies　of　time；　the　mind　of　a　fifty…year…old　banker　seemingly　ensnared　in　the　body　of　an　adolescent。
　He　lighted　a　cigarette；　took　several　puffs　on　it；　and　then　stamped　it　out　under　one　booted　foot。　He　looked　at　his　watch　again；　stepped　into　the　center　of　the　street；　and　then　started　for　the　luncheonette　on　the　corner。　A　huge　sign　traveled　the　corner　of　the　building　over　the　luncheonette　like　the　marching　electric　letters　of　the　Times　Building　in　New　York。　These　letters；　however；　were　painted　in　red　on　a　white　field　and　they　did　not　announce　world…shattering　events。　They　simply　stated：　LUIS　LUNCHEONETTE。　The　luncheonette　occupied　a　space　in　the　corner　of　the　building。　When　the　doors　were　rolled　back；　the　luncheonette　became　an　extension　of　the　sidewalk；　open　on　both　sides；　the　avenue　and　the　street。　The　doors　were　closed　now。　The　corrugated　iron　presented　the　impregnable　look　of　a　fortress。　The　boy　went　to　the　door　on　the　street　side；　tried　it；　found　it　locked；　and　kicked　it　in　anger。
　〃What　are　you　doing　there？〃　a　voice　said。　〃Get　away　from　there！〃
　The　man　who　came　up　the　street　had　spoken　with　a　slight　Spanish　accent；　a　gentle　accent　which　seemed　molded　exactly　to　his　appearance。　He　was　a　stoop…shouldered　man　wearing　a　small　black　mustache；　a　man　who　seemed　older　than　his　fifty…odd　years；　who　moved　with　an　economy　that　somehow　seemed　tortured。
　〃Don't　tell　me　you're　finally　gonna　open　this　dump！〃　Zip　said。
　Luis　Amandez　walked　to　the　huge　iron　door　and　said；　〃What　are　you　doing？　Trying　to　break　in　here；　hah？　That　what　you　were　trying　to　do？〃
　He　reached　into　his　pocket　for　the　key　to　the　padlock；　inserted　it；　took　off　the　lock；　and　prepared　to　roll　the　door　back　into　its　overhead　tracks。
　〃Don't　flatter　the　dump；〃　Zip　said。　〃e　on；　e　on；　get　the　lead　out。　Open　the　goddamn　doors。〃
　〃This　is　my　place；　and　I'll　open　them　as　slow　or　as　fast　as　I　want　to。　You　snotnoses。。。〃
　Zip　grinned　suddenly。　〃e　on；　man；〃　he　said；　and　there　was　infectious　warmth　in　his　voice　now。　〃You　got　to　move！　You　want　to　get　any　place；　you　got　to　move。〃
　Luis　rolled　back　the　first　of　the　doors。　〃I　wish　you　would　move；〃　he　said。　〃To　California。〃
　〃Dig　the　old　bird；〃　Zip　said。　〃He's　got　humor。〃　And　he　walked　into　the　luncheonette　and　directly　to　the　wall　phone　near　the　jukebox。　Luis　went　around　to　the　avenue　side　and　took　the　padlock　off　the　door　there；　rolling　the　door　back；　allowing　the　sunshine　to　rip　through　the　corner　stone　like　crossfire。　Zip　had　taken　the　phone　from　its　hook；　reached　into　his　pocket　for　a　coin；　and　discovered　that　the　smallest　change　he　had　was　a　quarter。　He　slammed　the　receiver　onto　the　hook　and　went　to　meet　Luis　as　he　entered　the　shop。
　〃Listen；　break　a　quarter　for　me；〃　he　said。
　〃What　for？〃　Luis　asked。　〃For　the　jukebox？〃
　〃What's　all　the　time　'What　for？'　Don't　I　buy　enough　in　this　crumby　joint？　I　ask　you　for　change；　don't　give　me　a　Dragnet　routine。〃
　〃It's　too　early　to　play　the　juke；〃　Luis　said　calmly；　going　behind　the　counter　and　taking　a　white　apron　from　a　hook。　〃There　are　still　people　sleeping。〃
　〃In　the　first　place；　I　don't　care　who's　sleeping。　It's　time　they　were　hustling。　In　the　second　place；　I　ain't　gonna　play　the　juke；　I'm　gonna　make　a　phone　call。　And　in　the　third　and　last　place；　you　don't　change　this　two　bits　for　me；　and　one　day　you're　liable　to　e　in　and　find　all　your　coffeepots　busted。〃
　〃You　threaten　me？〃　Luis　said。　〃I　am　a　friend　of　the　police。　I　tell　them。。。〃
　〃e　on；　e　on；〃　Zip　said；　and　again　the　warm　grin　flashed　on　his　face。　〃You　can　sue　me　later。　Right　now；　give　me　the　change；　huh？　e　on。〃
　Luis　shook　his　head；　picked　up　the　quarter；　and　reached　into　his　pocket。　He　made　the　change；　and　Zip　picked　it　up　and　started　for　the　telephone。　He　began　dialing。　Luis；　since　money　matters　had　been　brought　to　mind；　walked　to　the　cash　register；　reached　into　his　pocket；　and　put　in　his　day's　starting　money；　laying　the　bills　into　the　register　drawer。　He　was　about　to　break　open　a　roll　of　dimes　when　Zip　yelled；　〃Hey！　Hey；　Cooch！　Over　here！〃
　Luis　turned。　The　second　boy　was　also　from　the　neighborhood；　also　wearing　one　of　the　purple　silk　jackets；　but　he　was　younger　than　Zip。　Luis　studied　him　from　the　distance　of　age；　and　wondered　if　he　too　had　sported　such　a　ridiculously　thin　and　boyish…looking　mustache　when　he　was　sixteen。　He　decided　that　he　had　not。　The　boy　was　short　and　squat；　with　thick　powerful　hands。　His　plexion　was　dark。　He　spotted　Zip　from　the　middle　of　the　street　and　shouted；　〃Hey；　Zipboy！〃　and　then　broke　into　a　trot　for　the　luncheonette。　Luis　sighed　and　cracked　the　roll　of　dimes　on　the　edge　of　the　cash　drawer。
　〃What　the　hell　kept　you？〃　Zip　asked。　〃I　was　just　calling　your　house。〃
　〃Oh；　man；　don't　ask；〃　Cooch　said。　He　spoke；　as　did　Zip；　without　a　trace　of　an　accent。　Both　were　total　products　of　the　city　and　the　neighborhood；　as　far　removed　from　Puerto　Rico　as　was　Mongolia。　Studying　them；　Luis　felt　suddenly　old；　suddenly　foreign。　He　shrugged；　went　to　his　stove；　and　began　putting　up　his　pots　of　coffee。
　〃My　people　are　the　eeriest；　you　know　that；　man？〃　Cooch　said。　He　had　large　brown　eyes；　and　he　used　his　face　expressively　when　he　spoke；　like　a　television　ic　going　through　a　famous　routine。　〃I　think　my　old　man　must　be　on　the　Chamber　of　merce；　I　swear　to　God。〃
　〃What's　your　old　man　got　to　do　with　your　being　late？　I　said　a　quarter　to　nine；　so　here　it　is。。。〃
　〃He　gets　a　letter　from　Puerto　Rico；〃　Cooch　went　on　blithely；　〃and　right　away　he　flips。　'e　stay　with　us；'　he　writes。　'e　live　with　us。　Bring　all　your　kids；　and　your　grandma；　and　your　police　dog。　We'll　take　care　of　you。'〃　Cooch　slapped　his　forehead　drama