sk.theplant-第31部分

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


　born　yesterday　or　even　the　day　before；〃　as　Mr。　Keen　might　have　said　in　happier　times；　times　when　people　didn't　forget　who　was　supposed　to　win　all　the　card　games。
　　Looks；　however；　can　be　deceiving。
　　With　the　garlic…rubbed　portal　behind　him；　Carlos　can　easily　smell　the　Tibetan　kadath　ivy　he　has　sent　John　Kenton；　and　he　smells　its　true　aroma：　not　popcorn；　chocolate；　coffee；　honeysuckle；　or　Shalimar　perfume　but　a　darker　odor；　strict　and　sharp。　It　isn't　oil　of　clove；　but　perhaps　that　es　closest。　It　is　a　smell　Carlos　has　detected　emanating　from　his　own　armpits　when　he　has　been　being　strenuously　psykik。
　　He　closes　his　eyes　and　murmurs；　〃Talla。　Demeter。　Abbalah。　Great　Opoponax。〃　He　breathes　deep　and　the　smell　intensifies；　filling　his　head；　making　it　swim　with　visions　that　are　dark　and　full　of　gusty…cold　flying。　They　are　visions　of　the　land　to　which　he　will　soon　be　going；　the　place　where　he　will　make　his　transition　from　earthy　mortal　to　tulpa；　a　creature　of　the　invisible　world　fully　capable　of　returning　to　this　one　and　possessing　the　bodies　of　the　still…living。　Perhaps　he　will　use　this　power；　perhaps　he　will　not。　Right　now；　such　things　do　not　matter。
　　He　opens　his　eyes　again　and　yes；　there　is　the　kadath。　It　is　growing　all　over　the　walls　and　the　carpet；　thinning　as　it　advances　toward　the　reception　area；　thick　and　luxuriant　further　down　the　corridor。　Somewhere　down　there；　Carlos　knows；　is　the　place　where　the　original　pot　still　resides；　buried　in　billowing　drifts　of　green　which　would　be　invisible　to　all　those　who　don't　believe　in　the　plant's　power。　The　far　end　of　the　corridor　looks　as　impenetrable　as　a　rainforest　jungle；　buried　in　growth　right　up　to　the　fluorescents；　but　Carlos　knows　people　could　walk　blithely　up　and　down　that　corridor　with　absolutely　no　idea　of　what　they　were　walking　through。　。　。　unless；　of　course；　Zenith　wanted　them　to　know。　In　which　case　it　would　be　the　last　thing　they'd　ever　know。　Basically；　Zenith　House　is　now　a　large　green　bear　trap；　spring…loaded。
　　Carlos　walks　down　the　corridor；　Sakred　Sakrifice　Case　held　at　chest　level。　He　steps　over　the　first　trailing　strand　of　Zenith；　then　an　entire　clot　of　entwined　branches　and　rhizomes。　One　stirs　and　touches　his　ankle。　Carlos　stands　patiently；　and　after　a　moment　the　strand　drops　away。　Here；　on　the　left；　is　the　office　of　WADE　EDITOR　IN　CHIEF。　Carlos　glances　in　without　much　interest；　then　passes　on　to　the　next　door。　Here　the　ivy…growth　is　much　thicker；　the　strands　covering　the　lower　part　of　the　door　in　zigzag　patterns　and　twining　around　the　knob　in　a　loose　lover's　knot。　One　strand　clings　to　the　upper　panel；　which　is　glass；　and　streaks　across　the　name　like　a　stroke　of　green　lightning。
　　〃Kenton；〃　Carlos　says　in　a　low　voice。　〃You　mocker。〃
　　
　　10：44　A。　M。
　　
　　In　Herb　Porter's　office；　General　Anthony　Hecksler　opens　his　eyes。　The　thought　that　he　may　have　dreamed　the　voice　never　so　much　as　crosses　his　mind。　What　he　has　heard　is　this：　Kenton；　you　mockie。
　　Someone　else　is　in　the　Zenith　House　offices。
　　Someone　else　on　a　Saturday　morning。
　　Iron…Guts　has　a　pretty　good　idea　who　the　someone　else　must　be。
　　〃Tick…tick；〃　he　whispers；　his　lips　barely　moving。　〃Designated　spic。〃
　　In　his　doze；　Hecksler　has　slid　down　a　bit　in　Porter's　chair。　Now　he　slides　even　farther；　wanting　to　make　absolutely　sure　that　the　top　of　his　head　won't　show　if　the　D。　S。　should　wander　a　few　yards　farther　down　the　hall。　It's　okay　for　〃Carlos〃　to　see　the　mess　in　here　as　long　as　he　doesn't　see　the　man　in　here。
　　Silent　as　a　sigh；　Hecksler　eases　his　hand　into　the　pocket　of　his　pants　and　pulls　out　another　of　his　Army…Navy　store　purchases：　a　bone…handled　hunting　knife　with　a　seven…inch　tungsten　blade。
　　There　is　the　faintest　click　as　the　General　unfolds　the　blade　and　locks　it　into　position。　He　holds　it　against　his　chest；　the　tip　nearly　touching　the　undershelf　of　his　stringently　shaved　chin；　and　waits　for　whatever　es　next。
　　
　　Central　Park　Skies　fair；　winds　light；　temperature　60　F。
　　
　　10：50　A。　M。
　　
　　Bill　Gelb　is　so　excited　about　his　planned　excursion　to　Paramus　that　he　hardly　slept　at　all　last　night；　and　still　he　feels　energized　this　Saturday　morning；　totally　jazzed。　He　couldn't　stay　in　the　goddam　apartment；　just　couldn't。　The　question　was；　where　to　go？　Ordinarily　he'd　think　movie；　Bill　loves　the　movies；　but　he　couldn't　sit　still　in　one　today。　And　then；　in　the　shower；　the　answer　came。
　　On　a　Saturday　morning　in　Central　Park；　especially　on　a　pretty　spring　morning　like　this　one；　there'll　be　a　veritable　Olympic　games　going　on；　everything　from　skateboarding　and　pick…up　softball　to　chess　and　checkers。
　　There　will　also　be　a　crap　game　going　on　at　the　edge　of　the　Sheep　Meadow；　of　this　Bill　is　almost　sure。　It　may　have　been　closed　down；　but　he　can't　imagine　why　the　cops　would　bust　such　an　innocuous　game：　low　stakes；　young　white　guys　pretending　to　be　cool　dudes　rolling　the　bones。　Seven　e　eleven；　baby　needs　a　new　pair　of　Adidas　sneakers。　A　bottle　or　two　of　cheap　wine　will　make　the　rounds；　allowing　the　players　to　feel　totally　raffish；　not　to　say　decadent；　shooting　craps　and　drinking　Night　Train　at　eleven　o'clock　in　the　morning。
　　Bill　has　played　in　this　game　maybe　half　a　dozen　times　over　the　last　two　years；　always　in　warm　weather。　He　likes　to　gamble；　but　shooting　craps　in　Central　Park　when　the　temperature　is　below　forty？　No　way。　But　today　WINS　radio　says　the　mercury　may　shoot　all　the　way　up　to　an　unseasonable　seventy　degrees；　and　besides。　。　。　what　better　way　to　see　if　the　force　is　still　with　him？
　　Which　is　why…as　Riddley's　train　approaches　Manhattan；　as　Sandra　and　her　niece　continue　their　whirlwind　tour　of　Cony　Island's　early…season　amusements；　as　Carlos　Detweiller　begins　inspecting　〃Poop…Shit〃　Kenton's　files；　and　General　Hecksler　sits　slouched　in　Herb　Porter's　office　chair；　knife　gleaming　in　the　sunlight…we　find　Bill　Gelb　down　on　his　knees　in　a　circle　of　yelling；　laughing　white　guys　who　are　happy　to　fade　his　heat。　Lucky　son　of　a　bitch　got　in　the　game；　bet　two　guys　to　crap　out　（and　won）；　then　took　the　dice　himself。　Since　then　he's　rolled　five　straight　sevens。　Now　he's　promising　them　a　sixth；　and　further　promising　them　it'll　be　sixty…one。　Dude　is　crazy；　so　of　course　they're　happy　to　fade　him。　And　Bill　is　happy；　as　well。　As　happy　as　he's　ever　been　in　his　life；　it　seems　to　him。　He　showed　up　here　on　the　Meadow　with　just　fifteen　dollars　in　his　pocket；　deliberately　leaving　the　rest　of　his　cash　at　home；　he's　already　tripled　that。　And　this；　by　God；　is　just　the　warmup！　Tonight；　in　Paramus；　he　will　sit　down　to　the　main　course。
　　〃God　bless　that　crazy　houseplant；〃　he　murmurs；　and　rolls　the　dice　onto　the　painted　hopscotch　grid　that　serves　as　the　pit。　They　bounce；　they　roll；　they　tumble…
　　…and　the　Saturday　morning　yuppie　crap…artists　groan　in　mingled　disbelief；　despair；　and　amazement。
　　It's　six　and　one。
　　Bill　snatches　up　the　wad　of　currency　lying　on　the　HOME　slot　of　the　hopscotch　grid；　smacks　it；　and　holds　it　up　to　the　bright　blue　sky；　laughing。
　　〃You　want　to　pass　the　dice；　Mr。　Lucky？〃　one　of　the　other　players　asks。
　　〃When　I'm　on　a　roll　like　this？〃　Bill　Gelb　leans　forward　and　snatches　the　dice。　〃No　fuckin　way。〃　The　bones　feel　warm　in　his　hand。　Someone　hands　him　a　bottle　of　Boone's　Farm　and　he　takes　a　hit。　〃No　fuckin　way　am　I　passing；〃　he　repeats。　〃Gents；　I'm　going　to　roll　these　bones　until　the　spots　fall　off。〃
　　
　　11：05　A。　M。
　　
　　The　kadath　has　infiltrated　Kenton's　office　right　through　the　cracks　at　the　edges　of　the　door；　growing　exuberantly　up　the　walls；　but　Carlos　barely　notices。　The　ivy　is　nothing　to　him；　one　way　or　the　other。　Not　now。　It　might　have　been　fun　to　sit　back　and　watch　it　work　if　not　for　Tina　Barfield；　but　the　bitch　stole　his　owl's　beak　and　time　has　grown　short。　Let　Zenith　take　care　of　the　rest　if　it　wants　to；　Kenton　is　his。
　　〃You　mocker；〃　he　says　again。　〃You　thief。〃
　　As　in　Herb's　office；　there　are　pictures　on　the　walls　of　Kenton　with　various　authors。　Carlos　cares　nothing　for　the　authors　（they　look　like　wankers　to　him；　too）；　but　he　looks　fixedly　at　the　repetitions　of　Kenton　himself；　memorizing　the　lean　face　with　its　shock　of　too…long　black　hair。　What　does　he　think　he　is？　Carlos　asks　himself　indignantly。　A　damned　old　rock　star？　A　Beatle？　A　Rolling　Stone？　The　name　of　a　rock　and　roll　group　Kenton　could　belong　to　occurs　to　him：　Johnny　and　the　Poop…Shits。
　　As　always；　Carlos　is　startled　by　his　own　wit。　He　is　serious　so　much　of　the　time　that　he's　always　shocked　at　what　a　good　sense　of　humor　he　has。　Now　he　barks　laughter。
　　Still　chuckling；　he　tries　Kenton's　desk　drawers；　but；　unlike　Herb's；　they　are　locked。　There　is　an　IN/OUT　box　on　top　of　the　desk；　but；　also　unlike　Herb's；　it　is　almost　pletely　empty。　The　one　sheet　of　paper　has　several　lines　jotted　on　it　that　Carlos　doesn't　understand　in　the　slightest：
　　
　　Leper　hockey　game：　face　off　in　the　corner
　　7：　6　to　carry　the　coffin；　1　to　carry　the　boombox
　　Never　mind　the　jam　on　your　mouth；　what's　that　peanut　butter　doing　on　your　forehead？
　　〃Fuck　the　mailman；　give　him　a　dollar　and　a　sweet　roll。〃
　　Orange　manhole　cover　in　France=Howard　Johnson's。
　　
　　What　in　the　name　of　Demeter　is　all　that　crap　about？　Carlos　doesn't　know　and　decides　he　doesn't　care；　either。
　　He　goes　to　Kenton's　file　cabinets；　expecting　them　to　be　locked　as　well；　but　he　has　a　long　weekend　ahead　of　him；　and　if　he　gets　bored；　he　can　open　both　the　desk　and　the　files。　He　has　plenty　of　tools　in　the　Sakrifice　Case　that　will　do　the　job。　But　the　drawers　of　the　file　cabinets　turn　out　to　be　unlocked…go　figure。
　　Carlos　begins　searching　the　files　with　a　high　degree　of　interest　that　quickly　fades。　Poop…Shit's　files　are　alphabetized；　but　after　CURRAN；　JAMES　（author　of　four　paperback　originals　in　1978　and　'79；　with　titles　like　Love's　Strange　Delight　and　Love's　Strange　Obsession）；　es　DORCHESTER；　ELLEN　（six　brief　manuscript　reports；　each　signed　by　Kenton　and　each　attached　to　a　rejection　letter）。　There's　no　file　marked　DETWEILLER；　CARLOS。
　　
　　Such　a　file　by　then　existed；　of　course；　and　it　contained　material　that　might　well　have　caused　Detweiller　to　explode　with　rage；　but　it　was　in　the　publishing　house　safe；　behind　a　picture　in　Roger　Wade's　office。　Neither　Hecksler　nor　Detweiller　so