sk.everythingseventual-第22部分

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ed　Mr。　Francis's　key　ring　with　the　tips　of　his　fingers；　where　the　prints　were　growing　back　in　spite　of　all　his　trouble。　There　were　four　or　five　keys　on　the　ring　besides　the　one　to　the　Ford。　And　that　lucky　rabbit's　foot。　'Butt　of　the　gun　hit　this　when　it　e　down；'　he　says。　He　nodded　his　head。　'Hit　my　very　own　lucky　piece。　And　now　my　luck's　gone。　Help　me　with　him。'　We　lugged　Jack　to　the　gravel　slope。　Then　Johnnie　got　the　bottle　of　lye。　It　had　a　big　brown　skull　and　crossbones　on　the　label。
　　Johnnie　knelt　down　and　pulled　the　sheet　back。　'Get　his　rings；'　he　says；　and　I　pulled　them　off。　Johnnie　put　them　in　his　pocket。　We　ended　up　getting　forty…five　dollars　for　them　in　Calumet　City；　although　Johnnie　swore　up　and　down　that　the　little　one　had　a　real　diamond　in　it。
　　'Now　hold　out　his　hands。'
　　I　did；　and　Johnnie　poured　a　cap　of　lye　over　the　tip　of　each　finger。　That　was　one　set　of　prints　wasn't　ever　going　to　e　back。　Then　he　leaned　over　Jack's　face　and　kissed　him　on　the　forehead。　'I　hate　to　do　this；　Red；　but　I　know　you'd　do　the　same　to　me　if　it'd　gone　the　other　way。'
　　He　then　poured　the　lye　over　Jack's　cheeks　and　mouth　and　brow。　It　hissed　and　bubbled　and　turned　white。　When　it　started　to　eat　through　his　closed　eyelids；　I　turned　away。　And　of　course　none　of　it　done　no　good；　the　body　was　found　by　a　farmer　after　a　load　of　gravel。　A　pack　of　dogs　had　knocked　away　most　of　the　stones　we　covered　him　with　and　were　eating　what　was　left　of　his　hands　and　face。　As　for　the　rest　of　him；　there　were　enough　scars　for　the　cops　to　I。D。　him　as　Jack　Hamilton。
　　It　was　the　end　of　Johnnie's　luck；　all　right。　Every　move　he　made　after　that…right　up　to　the　night　Purvis　and　his　badge…carrying　gunsels　got　him　at　the　Biograph…was　a　bad　one。　Could　he　have　just　thrown　up　his　hands　that　night　and　surrendered？　I'd　have　to　say　no。　Purvis　meant　to　have　him　dead　one　way　or　the　other。　That's　why　the　Gees　never　told　the　Chicago　cops　Johnnie　was　in　town。
　　
　　I'll　never　forget　the　way　Jack　laughed　when　I　brought　them　flies　in　on　their　strings。　He　was　a　good　fellow。　They　all　were；　mostly…good　fellows　who　got　into　the　wrong　line　of　work。　And　Johnnie　was　the　best　of　the　bunch。　No　man　ever　had　a　truer　friend。　We　robbed　one　more　bank　together；　the　Merchants　National　in　South　Bend；　Indiana。　Lester　Nelson　joined　us　on　that　caper。　Getting　out　of　town；　it　seemed　like　every　hick　in　Indiana　was　throwing　lead　at　us；　and　we　still　got　away。　But　for　what？　We'd　been　expecting　more　than　a　hundred　grand；　enough　to　move　to　Mexico　and　live　like　kings。　We　ended　up　with　a　lousy　twenty　thousand；　most　of　it　in　dimes　and　dirty　dollar　bills。
　　God　makes　it　all　e　right　in　the　end；　that's　what　Johnnie　told　Dock　Barker　just　before　we　parted　pany。　I　was　raised　a　Christian…I　admit　I　fell　away　a　bit　along　my　journey…and　I　believe　that：　we're　stuck　with　what　we　have；　but　that's　all　right；　in　God's　eyes；　none　of　us　are　really　much　more　than　flies　on　strings　and　all　that　matters　is　how　much　sunshine　you　can　spread　along　the　way。　The　last　time　I　seen　Johnnie　Dillinger　was　in　Chicago；　and　he　was　laughing　at　something　I　said。　That's　good　enough　for　me。
　　
　　
　　As　a　kid；　I　was　fascinated　by　tales　of　the　Depression…era　outlaws；　an　interest　that　probably　peaked　with　Arthur　Penn's　remarkable　Bonnie　and　Clyde。　In　the　spring　of　2000；　I　re…read　John　Toland's　history　of　that　era；　The　Dillinger　Days；　and　was　particularly　taken　by　his　story　about　how　Dillinger's　sidekick；　Homer　Van　Meter；　taught　himself　how　to　rope　flies　in　Pendleton　Reformatory。　Jack　'Red'　Hamilton's　lingering　death　is　a　documented　fact；　my　story　of　what　happened　in　Dock　Barker's　hideout　is；　of　course；　pure　imagination　。　。　。　or　myth；　if　you　like　that　word　better；　I　do。
　　
　　
　　　
　　　IN　THE　DEATHROOM
　　
　　
　　It　was　a　deathroom。　Fletcher　knew　it　for　what　it　was　as　soon　as　the　door　opened。　The　floor　was　gray　industrial　tile。　The　walls　were　discolored　white　stone；　marked　here　and　there　with　darker　patches　that　might　have　been　blood…certainly　blood　had　been　spilled　in　this　room。　The　overhead　lights　were　cupped　in　wire　cages。　Halfway　across　the　room　stood　a　long　wooden　table　with　three　people　seated　behind　it。　Before　the　table　was　an　empty　chair；　waiting　for　Fletcher。　Beside　the　chair　stood　a　small　wheeled　trolley。　The　object　on　it　had　been　draped　with　a　piece　of　cloth；　as　a　sculptor　might　cover　his　work…in…progress　between　sessions。
　　Fletcher　was　half…led；　half…dragged　toward　the　chair　which　had　been　placed　for　him。　He　reeled　in　the　guard's　grip　and　let　himself　reel。　If　he　looked　more　dazed　than　he　really　was；　more　shocked　and　unthinking；　that　was　fine。　He　thought　his　chances　of　ever　leaving　this　basement　room　in　the　Ministry　of　Information　were　perhaps　one　or　two　in　thirty；　and　perhaps　that　was　optimistic。　Whatever　they　were；　he　had　no　intention　of　thinning　them　further　by　looking　even　halfway　alert。　His　swelled　eye；　puffy　nose；　and　broken　lower　lip　might　help　in　this　regard；　so　might　the　crust　of　blood；　like　a　dark　red　goatee；　around　his　mouth。　One　thing　Fletcher　knew　for　sure：　if　he　did　leave；　the　others…the　guard　and　the　three　sitting　in　tribunal　behind　the　table…would　be　dead。　He　was　a　newspaper　reporter　and　had　never　killed　anything　much　larger　than　a　hornet；　but　if　he　had　to　kill　to　escape　this　room；　he　would。　He　thought　of　his　sister；　on　her　retreat。　He　thought　of　his　sister　swimming　in　a　river　with　a　Spanish　name。　He　thought　of　the　light　on　the　water　at　noon；　moving　river　light　too　bright　to　look　at。　They　reached　the　chair　in　front　of　the　table。　The　guard　pushed　him　into　it　so　hard　that　Fletcher　almost　tipped　himself　over。
　　'Careful　now；　that's　not　the　way；　no　accidents；'　said　one　of　the　men　behind　the　table。　It　was　Escobar。　He　spoke　to　the　guard　in　Spanish。　To　Escobar's　left　sat　the　other　man。　To　Escobar's　right　sat　a　woman　of　about　sixty。　The　woman　and　the　other　man　were　thin。　Escobar　was　fat　and　as　greasy　as　a　cheap　candle。　He　looked　like　a　movie　Mexican。　You　expected　him　to　say；　'Batches？　Batches？　We　don't　need　no　steenkin　batches。'　Yet　this　was　the　Chief　Minister　of　Information。　Sometimes　he　gave　the　English…language　portion　of　the　weather　on　the　city　television　station。　When　he　did　this　he　invariably　got　fan　mail。　In　a　suit　he　didn't　look　greasy；　just　roly…poly。　Fletcher　knew　all　this。　He　had　done　three　or　four　stories　on　Escobar。　He　was　colorful。　He　was　also；　according　to　rumor；　an　enthusiastic　torturer。　A　Central　American　Himmler；　Fletcher　thought；　and　was　amazed　to　discover　that　one's　sense　of　humor…rudimentary；　granted…could　function　this　far　into　a　state　of　terror。
　　'Handcuffs？'　the　guard　asked；　also　in　Spanish；　and　held　up　a　pair　of　the　plastic　kind。　Fletcher　tried　to　keep　his　look　of　dazed　inprehension。　If　they　cuffed　him；　it　was　over。　He　could　forget　about　one　chance　in　thirty；　or　one　in　three　hundred。
　　Escobar　turned　briefly　to　the　woman　on　his　right。　Her　face　was　very　dark；　her　hair　black　with　startling　white　streaks。　It　flowed　back　and　up　from　her　forehead　as　if　blown　by　a　gale…force　wind。　The　look　of　her　hair　reminded　Fletcher　of　Elsa　Lanchester　in　Bride　of　Frankenstein。　He　gripped　this　similarity　with　a　fierceness　that　was　close　to　panic；　the　way　he　gripped　the　thought　of　bright　light　on　the　river；　or　his　sister　laughing　with　her　friends　as　they　walked　to　the　water。　He　wanted　images；　not　ideas。　Images　were　luxury　items　now。　And　ideas　were　no　good　in　a　place　like　this。　In　a　place　like　this　all　you　got　were　the　wrong　ideas。
　　The　woman　gave　Escobar　a　small　nod。　Fletcher　had　seen　her　around　the　building；　always　garbed　in　shapeless　dresses　like　the　one　she　wore　now。　She　had　been　with　Escobar　often　enough　for　Fletcher　to　assume　she　was　his　secretary；　personal　assistant；　perhaps　even　his　biographer…Christ　knew　that　men　like　Escobar　had　egos　large　enough　to　warrant　such　accessories。　Now　Fletcher　wondered　if　he'd　had　it　backward　all　along；　if　she　was　his　boss。
　　In　any　case；　the　nod　seemed　to　satisfy　Escobar。　When　he　turned　back　to　Fletcher；　Escobar　was　smiling。　And　when　he　spoke；　it　was　in　English。　'Don't　be　silly；　put　them　away。　Mr。　Fletcher　is　only　here　to　help　us　in　a　few　matters。　He　will　soon　be　returning　to　his　own　country'…Escobar　sighed　deeply　to　show　how　deeply　he　regretted　this。　'。　。　。　but　in　the　meantime　he　is　an　honored　guest。'
　　We　don't　need　no　steenkin　handcuffs；　Fletcher　thought。
　　The　woman　who　looked　like　the　Bride　of　Frankenstein　with　a　very　deep　tan　leaned　toward　Escobar　and　whispered　briefly　behind　her　hand。　Escobar　nodded；　smiling。
　　'Of　course；　Ramón；　if　our　guest　should　try　anything　foolish　or　make　any　aggressive　moves；　you　would　have　to　shoot　him　a　little。'　He　roared　laughter…roly…poly　TV　laughter…and　then　repeated　what　he　had　said　in　Spanish；　so　that　Ramón　would　understand　as　well　as　Fletcher。　Ramón　nodded　seriously；　replaced　his　handcuffs　on　his　belt；　and　stepped　back　to　the　periphery　of　Fletcher's　vision。
　　Escobar　returned　his　attention　to　Fletcher。　From　one　pocket　of　his　parrot…and…foliage…studded　guayabera　he　removed　a　red…and…white　package：　Marlboros；　the　preferred　cigarette　of　third…world　peoples　everywhere。　'Smoke；　Mr。　Fletcher？'
　　Fletcher　reached　toward　the　pack；　which　Escobar　had　placed　on　the　edge　of　the　table；　then　withdrew　his　hand。　He　had　quit　smoking　three　years　ago；　and　supposed　he　might　take　the　habit　up　again　if　he　actually　did　get　out　of　this…drinking　high…tension　liquor　as　well；　quite　likely…but　at　this　moment　he　had　no　craving　or　need　for　a　cigarette。　He　had　wanted　them　to　see　his　fingers　shaking；　that　was　all。
　　'Perhaps　later。　Right　now　a　cigarette　might…'
　　Might　what？　It　didn't　matter　to　Escobar；　he　just　nodded　understandingly　and　left　the　red…and…white　pack　where　it　was；　on　the　edge　of　the　table。　Fletcher　had　a　sudden；　agonizing　vision　in　which　he　saw　himself　stopping　at　a　newsstand　on　Forty…third　Street　and　buying　a　pack　of　Marlboros。　A　free　man　buying　the　happy　poison　on　a　New　York　street。　He　told　himself　that　if　he　got　out　of　this；　he　would　do　that。　He　would　do　it　as　some　people　went　on　pilgrimages　to　Rome　or　Jerusalem　after　their　cancer　was　cured　or　their　sight　was　restored。
　　'The　men　who　did　that　to　you'…Escobar　indicated　Fletcher's　face　with　a　wave　of　one　not…particularly…clean　hand…'have　been　discipline