sk.thetalisman-第31部分

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。　As　he　was　setting　it　down　he　lost　control　of　it…the　big　bar…keg　weighed　only　a　few　pounds　less　than　Jack　did　himself。　It　landed　hard　on　the　foot　of　the　hand…truck；　which　had　been　padded　with　a　remnant　of　carpet　so　as　to　soften　just　such　landings。　Jack　tried　to　both　steer　it　and　get　his　hands　out　of　the　way　in　time。　He　was　slow。　The　keg　mashed　his　fingers　against　the　back　of　the　hand…truck。　There　was　an　agonizing　thud；　and　he　somehow　managed　to　get　his　throbbing；　pulsing　fingers　out　of　there。　Jack　stuck　all　the　fingers　of　his　left　hand　in　his　mouth　and　sucked　on　them；　tears　standing　in　his　eyes。
　　Worse　than　jamming　his　fingers；　he　could　hear　the　slow　sigh　of　gases　escaping　through　the　breather…cap　on　top　of　the　keg。　If　Smokey　hooked　up　the　keg　and　it　came　out　foamy　。　。　。　or；　worse　yet；　if　he　popped　the　cap　and　the　beer　went　a　gusher　in　his　face　。　。　。
　　Best　not　to　think　of　those　things。
　　Last　night；　Thursday　night；　when　he'd　tried　to　'run　Smokey　out　a　keg；'　the　keg　had　gone　right　over　on　its　side。　The　breather…cap　had　shot　clear　across　the　room。　Beer　foamed　white…gold　across　the　storeroom　floor　and　ran　down　the　drain。　Jack　had　stood　there；　sick　and　frozen；　oblivious　to　Smokey's　shouts。　It　wasn't　Busch；　it　was　Kingsland。　Not　beer　but　ale…the　Queen's　Own。
　　That　was　when　Smokey　hit　him　for　the　first　time…a　quick　looping　blow　that　drove　Jack　into　one　of　the　storeroom's　splintery　walls。
　　'There　goes　your　pay　for　today；'　Smokey　had　said。　'And　you　never　want　to　do　that　again；　Jack。'
　　What　chilled　Jack　most　about　that　phrase　you　never　want　to　do　that　again　was　what　it　assumed：　that　there　would　be　lots　of　opportunities　for　him　to　do　that　again；　as　if　Smokey　Up…dike　expected　him　to　be　here　a　long；　long　time。
　　'Jack；　hurry　it　up！'
　　'ing。'　Jack　puffed。　He　pulled　the　hand…truck　across　the　room　to　the　door；　felt　behind　himself　for　the　knob；　turned　it；　and　pushed　the　door　open。　He　hit　something　large　and　soft　and　yielding。
　　'Christ；　watch　it！'
　　'Whoops；　sorry；'　Jack　said。
　　'I'll　whoops　you；　asshole；'　the　voice　replied。
　　Jack　waited　until　he　heard　heavy　steps　moving　on　down　the　hall　outside　the　storeroom　and　then　tried　the　door　again。
　　The　hall　was　narrow　and　painted　a　bilious　green。　It　stank　of　shit　and　piss　and　TidyBowl。　Holes　had　been　punched　through　both　plaster　and　lath　here　and　there；　graffiti　lurched　and　staggered　everywhere；　written　by　bored　drunks　waiting　to　use　either　POINTERS　or　SETTERS。　The　largest　of　them　all　had　been　slashed　across　the　green　paint　with　a　black　Magic　Marker；　and　it　seemed　to　scream　out　all　of　Oatley's　dull　and　objectless　fury。　SEND　ALL　AMERICAN　NIGGERS　AND　JEWS　TO　IRAN；　it　read。
　　The　noise　from　the　taproom　was　loud　in　the　storeroom；　out　here　it　was　a　great　wave　of　sound　which　never　seemed　to　break。　Jack　took　one　glance　back　into　the　storeroom　over　the　top　of　the　keg　tilted　on　the　hand…truck；　trying　to　make　sure　his　pack　wasn't　visible。
　　He　had　to　get　out。　Had　to。　The　dead　phone　that　had　finally　spoken；　seeming　to　encase　him　in　a　capsule　of　dark　ice　。　。　。　that　had　been　bad。　Randolph　Scott　was　worse。　The　guy　wasn't　really　Randolph　Scott；　he　only　looked　the　way　Scott　had　looked　in　his　fifties　films。　Smokey　Updike　was　perhaps　worse　still　。　。　。　although　Jack　was　no　longer　sure　of　that。　Not　since　he　had　seen　（or　thought　he　had　seen）　the　eyes　of　the　man　who　looked　like　Randolph　Scott　change　color。
　　But　that　Oatley　itself　was　worst　of　all　。　。　。　he　was　sure　of　that。
　　Oatley；　New　York；　deep　in　the　heart　of　Genny　County；　seemed　now　to　be　a　horrible　trap　that　had　been　laid　for　him　。　。　。　a　kind　of　municipal　pitcher　plant。　One　of　nature's　real　marvels；　the　pitcher　plant。　Easy　to　get　in。　Almost　impossible　to　get　out。
　　　
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　　A　tall　man　with　a　great　swinging　gut　porched　in　front　of　him　stood　waiting　to　use　the　men's　room。　He　was　rolling　a　plastic　toothpick　from　one　side　of　his　mouth　to　the　other　and　glaring　at　Jack。　Jack　supposed　that　it　was　the　big　man's　gut　that　he　had　hit　with　the　door。
　　'Asshole；'　the　fat　man　repeated；　and　then　the　men's…room　door　jerked　open。　A　man　strode　out。　For　a　heart…stopping　moment　his　eyes　and　Jack's　eyes　met。　It　was　the　man　who　looked　like　Randolph　Scott。　But　this　was　no　movie…star；　this　was　just　an　Oatley　millhand　drinking　up　his　week's　pay。　Later　on　he　would　leave　in　a　half…paid…for　doorsucker　Mustang　or　maybe　on　a　three…quarters…paid…for　motorcycle…a　big　old　Harley　with　a　BUY　AMERICAN　sticker　plastered　on　the　nacelle；　probably。
　　His　eyes　turned　yellow。
　　No；　your　imagination；　Jack；　just　your　imagination。　He's　just…
　　…just　a　millhand　who　was　giving　him　the　eye　because　he　was　new。　He　had　probably　gone　to　high　school　here　in　town；　played　football；　knocked　up　a　Catholic　cheerleader　and　married　her；　and　the　cheerleader　had　gotten　fat　on　chocolates　and　Stouffer's　frozen　dinners；　just　another　Oatley　oaf；　just…
　　But　his　eyes　turned　yellow。　
　　Stop　it！　They　did　not！
　　Yet　there　was　something　about　him　that　made　Jack　think　of　what　had　happened　when　he　was　ing　into　town　。　。　。　what　had　happened　in　the　dark。
　　The　fat　man　who　had　called　Jack　an　asshole　shrank　back　from　the　rangy　man　in　the　Levi's　and　the　clean　white　T…shirt。　Randolph　Scott　started　toward　Jack。　His　big；　veined　hands　swung　at　his　sides。
　　His　eyes　sparkled　an　icy　blue　。　。　。　and　then　began　to　change；　to　moil　and　lighten。
　　'Kid；'　he　said；　and　Jack　fled　with　clumsy　haste；　butting　the　swinging　door　open　with　his　fanny；　not　caring　who　he　hit。
　　Noise　pounced　on　him。　Kenny　Rogers　was　bellowing　an　enthusiastic　redneck　paean　to　someone　named　Reuben　James。　'You　allus　turned　your　other　CHEEK；'　Kenny　testified　to　this　room　of　shuffling；　sullen…faced　drunks；　'and　said　there's　a　better　world　waitin　for　the　MEEK！'　Jack　saw　no　one　here　who　looked　particularly　meek。　The　Genny　Valley　Boys　were　trooping　back　onto　the　bandstand　and　picking　up　their　instruments。　All　of　them　but　the　pedal　steel　player　looked　drunk　and　confused　。　。　。　perhaps　not　really　sure　of　where　they　were。　The　pedal　steel　player　only　looked　bored。
　　To　Jack's　left；　a　woman　was　talking　earnestly　on　the　Tap's　pay　phone…a　phone　Jack　would　never　touch　again　if　he　had　his　way　about　it；　not　for　a　thousand　dollars。　As　she　talked；　her　drunken　panion　probed　and　felt　inside　her　half…open　cowboy　shirt。　On　the　big　dancefloor；　perhaps　seventy　couples　groped　and　shuffled；　oblivious　of　the　current　song's　bright　up…tempo；　simply　squeezing　and　grinding；　hands　gripping　buttocks；　lips　spit…sealed　together；　sweat　running　down　cheeks　and　making　large　circles　under　the　armpits。
　　'Well　thank　Gawd；'　Lori　said；　and　flipped　up　the　hinged　partition　at　the　side　of　the　bar　for　him。　Smokey　was　halfway　down　the　bar；　filling　up　Gloria's　tray　with　gin…and…tonics；　vodka　sours；　and　what　seemed　to　be　beer's　only　petition　for　the　Oatley　Town　Drink：　Black　Russians。
　　Jack　saw　Randolph　Scott　e　out　through　the　swinging　door。　He　glanced　toward　Jack；　his　blue　eyes　catching　Jack's　again　at　once。　He　nodded　slightly；　as　if　to　say：　We'll　talk。　Yessirree。　Maybe　we'll　talk　about　what　might　or　might　not　be　in　the　Oatley　tunnel。　Or　about　bullwhips。　Or　sick　mothers。　Maybe　we'll　talk　about　how　you're　gonna　be　in　Genny　County　for　a　long；　long　time　。　。　。　maybe　until　you're　an　old　man　crying　over　a　shopping　cart。　What　do　you　think；　Jacky？
　　Jack　shuddered。
　　Randolph　Scott　smiled；　as　if　he　had　seen　the　shudder　。　。　。　or　felt　it。　Then　he　moved　off　into　the　crowd　and　the　thick　air。
　　A　moment　later　Smokey's　thin；　powerful　fingers　bit　into　Jack's　shoulder…hunting　for　the　most　painful　place　and；　as　always；　finding　it。　They　were　educated；　nerve…seeking　fingers。
　　'Jack；　you　just　got　to　move　faster；'　Smokey　said。　His　voice　sounded　almost　sympathetic；　but　his　fingers　dug　and　moved　and　probed。　His　breath　smelled　of　the　pink　Canada　Mints　he　sucked　almost　constantly。　His　mail…order　false　teeth　clicked　and　clacked。　Sometimes　there　was　an　obscene　slurping　as　they　slipped　a　little　and　he　sucked　them　back　into　place。　'You　got　to　move　faster　or　I'm　going　to　have　to　light　a　fire　under　your　ass。　You　understand　what　I'm　saying？'
　　'Y…yeah；'　Jack　said。　Trying　not　to　moan。
　　'All　right。　That's　good　then。'　For　an　excruciating　second　Smokey's　fingers　dug　even　deeper；　grinding　with　a　bitter　enthusiasm　at　the　neat　little　nest　of　nerves　there。　Jack　did　moan。　That　was　good　enough　for　Smokey。　He　let　up。
　　'Help　me　hook　this　keg　up；　Jack。　And　let's　make　it　fast。　Friday　night；　people　got　to　drink。'
　　'Saturday　morning；'　Jack　said　stupidly。
　　'Then；　too。　e　on。'
　　Jack　somehow　managed　to　help　Smokey　lift　the　keg　into　the　square　partment　under　the　bar。　Smokey's　thin；　ropey　muscles　bulged　and　writhed　under　his　Oatley　Tap　T…shirt。　The　paper　fry…cook's　hat　on　his　narrow　weasel's　head　stayed　in　place；　its　leading　edge　almost　touching　his　left　eyebrow；　in　apparent　defiance　of　gravity。　Jack　watched；　holding　his　breath；　as　Smokey　flicked　off　the　red　plastic　breather…cap　on　the　keg。　The　keg　breathed　more　gustily　than　it　should　have　done　。　。　。　but　it　didn't　foam。　Jack　let　his　breath　out　in　a　silent　gust。
　　Smokey　spun　the　empty　toward　him。　'Get　that　back　in　the　storeroom。　And　then　swamp　out　the　bathroom。　Remember　what　I　told　you　this　afternoon。'　
　　Jack　remembered。　At　three　o'clock　a　whistle　like　an　air…raid　siren　had　gone　off；　almost　making　him　jump　out　of　his　skin。　Lori　had　laughed；　had　said：　Check　out　Jack；　Smokey…I　think　he　just　went　wee…wee　in　his　Tuffskins。　Smokey　had　given　her　a　narrow；　unsmiling　look　and　motioned　Jack　over。　Told　Jack　that　was　the　payday　whistle　at　the　Oatley　T　&　W。　Told　Jack　that　a　whistle　very　much　like　it　was　going　off　at　Dog…town　Rubber；　a　pany　that　made　beach…toys；　inflatable　rubber　dolls；　and　condoms　with　names　like　Ribs　of　Delight。　Soon；　he　said；　the　Oatley　Tap　would　begin　filling　up。
　　'And　you　and　me　and　Lori　and　Gloria　are　going　to　move　just　as　fast　as　lightning；'　Smokey　said；　'because　when　the　eagle　screams　on　Friday；　we　got　to　make　up　for　what　this　place　don't　make　every　Sunday；　Monday；　Tuesday；　Wednesday；　and　Thursday。　When　I　tell　you　to　run　me　out　a　keg；　you　want　to　have　it　out　to　me　before　I　finish　yelling。　And　you're　in　the　men's　room　every　half　an　hour　with　your　mop。　On　Friday　nights；　a　guy　blows　his