dk.solesurvivor-第5部分

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nging　back；　watching。
　　The　crowded　lavatory　was　sweltering；　Joe　was　streaming　sweat；　and　the　yellow　air　burned　in　his　nostrils；　corroded　his　lungs　with　each　inhalation；　stung　his　eyes。　It　was　condensing　on　the　mirrors；　blurring　the　reflections　of　the　agitated　men　until　they　seemed　not　to　be　creatures　of　flesh　and　blood　but　tortured　spirits　glimpsed　through　an　abattoir　window；　wet　with　sulphurous　steam；　in　the　deepest　kingdom　of　the　damned。　The　fevered　gamblers　shouted　at　the　roach；　shaking　fistfuls　of　dollars　at　it。　Their　voices　blended　into　a　single　shrill　ululation；　seemingly　senseless；　a　mad　gibbering　that　rose　in　intensity　and　pitch　until　it　sounded；　to　Joe；　like　a　crystal…shattering　squeal；　piercing　to　the　centre　of　his　brain　and　setting　off　dangerous　vibrations　in　the　core　of　him。
　　He　pushed　between　two　of　the　men　and　stamped　on　the　crippled　cockroach；　killing　it。
　　In　the　instant　of　stunned　silence　that　followed　his　intrusion；　Joe　turned　away　from　the　men；　shaking；　shaking；　the　shattering　sound　still　tremulant　in　his　memory；　still　vibrating　in　his　bones。　He　headed　toward　the　exit；　eager　to　get　out　of　there　before　he　exploded。
　　As　one；　the　gamblers　broke　the　paralytic　grip　of　their　surprise。　They　shouted　angrily；　as　righteous　in　their　outrage　as　churchgoers　might　be　outraged　at　a　filthy　and　drunken　denizen　of　the　streets　who　staggered　into　their　service　to　sag　against　the　chancel　rail　and　vomit　on　the　sanctuary　floor。
　　One　of　the　men；　with　a　face　as　sun　red　as　a　slab　of　greasy　ham；　heat…cracked　lips　peeled　back　from　snuff…stained　teeth；　seized　Joe　by　one　arm　and　spun　him　around。　'What　the　shit　you　think　you're　doing；　pal？'
　　'Let　go　of　me。'
　　'I　was　winning　money　here；　pal。'
　　The　stranger's　hand　was　damp　on　Joe's　arm；　dirty　fingernails　blunt　but　digging　in　to　secure　the　slippery　grip。
　　'Let　go。'
　　'I　was　winning　money　here；'　the　guy　repeated。　His　mouth　twisted　into　such　a　wrathful　grimace　that　his　chapped　lips　split；　and　threads　of　blood　unravelled　from　the　cracks。
　　Grabbing　the　angry　gambler　by　the　wrist；　Joe　bent　one　of　the　dirty　fingers　back　to　break　the　bastard's　grip。　Even　as　the　guy's　eyes　widened　with　surprise　and　alarm；　even　as　he　started　to　cry　out　in　pain；　Joe　wrenched　his　arm　up　behind　his　back；　twisted　him　around；　and　ran　him　forward；　giving　him　the　bum's　rush；　face　first　into　the　closed　door　of　a　toilet　stall。
　　Joe　had　thought　his　strange　rage　had　been　vented　earlier；　as　he　had　talked　to　the　teenage　boy；　leaving　only　despair；　but　here　it　was　again；　disproportionate　to　the　offence　that　seemed　to　have　caused　it；　as　hot　and　explosive　as　ever。　He　wasn't　sure　why　he　was　doing　this；　why　these　men's　callousness　mattered　to　him；　but　before　he　quite　realized　the　enormity　of　his　overreaction；　he　battered　the　door　with　the　guy's　face；　battered　it　again；　and　then　a　third　time。
　　The　rage　didn't　dissipate；　but　with　the　blood…dark　pressure　constricting　his　field　of　vision；　filled　with　a　primitive　frenzy　that　leaped　through　him　like　a　thousand　monkeys　skirling　through　a　jungle　of　trees　and　vines；　Joe　was　nevertheless　able　to　recognize　that　he　was　out　of　control。　He　let　go　of　the　gambler；　and　the　man　fell　to　the　floor；　in　front　of　the　toilet　stall。
　　Shuddering　with　anger　and　with　fear　of　his　anger；　Joe　moved　backward　until　the　sinks　prevented　him　from　going　any　farther。
　　The　other　men　in　the　lavatory　had　eased　away　from　him。　All　were　silent。
　　On　the　floor；　the　gambler　lay　on　his　back　in　scattered　one　and　five…dollar　bills；　his　winnings。　His　chin　was　bearded　with　blood　from　his　cracked　lips。　He　pressed　one　hand　to　the　left　side　of　his　face；　which　had　taken　the　impact　with　the　door。　'It　was　just　a　cockroach；　Christ's　sake；　just　a　lousy　cockroach。'
　　Joe　tried　to　say　that　he　was　sorry。　He　couldn't　speak。
　　'You　almost　broke　my　nose。　You　could've　broke　my　nose。　For　a　cockroach？　Broke　my　nose　for　a　cockroach？'
　　Sorry　not　for　what　he　had　done　to　this　man；　who　had　no　doubt　done　worse　to　others；　but　sorry　for　himself；　sorry　for　the　miserable　walking　wreckage　that　he　had　bee　and　for　the　dishonour　that　his　inexcusable　behaviour　brought　to　the　memory　of　his　wife　and　daughters；　Joe　nonetheless　remained　unable　to　express　any　regret。　Choking　on　self…loathing　as　much　as　on　the　fetid　air；　he　walked　out　of　the　reeking　building　into　an　ocean　breeze　that　didn't　refresh；　a　world　as　foul　as　the　lavatory　behind　him。
　　In　spite　of　the　sun；　he　was　shivering；　because　a　cold　coil　of　remorse　was　unwinding　in　his　chest。
　　Halfway　back　to　his　beach　towel　and　his　cooler　of　beer；　all　but　oblivious　of　the　sunning　multitudes　through　which　he　weaved；　he　remembered　the　pale…faced　man　in　the　red　and　orange　Hawaiian　shirt。　He　didn't　halt；　didn't　even　look　back；　but　slogged　onward　through　the　sand。
　　He　was　no　longer　interested　in　learning　who　was　conducting　a　surveillance　of　him…if　that　was　what　they　were　doing。　He　couldn't　imagine　why　he　had　ever　been　intrigued　by　them。　If　they　were　police；　they　were　bumblers；　having　mistaken　him　for　someone　else。　They　were　not　genuinely　part　of　his　life。　He　wouldn't　even　have　noticed　them　if　the　kid　with　the　ponytail　hadn't　drawn　his　attention　to　them。　Soon　they　would　realize　their　mistake　and　find　their　real　quarry。　In　the　meantime；　to　hell　with　them。
　　
　　More　people　were　gravitating　to　the　portion　of　the　beach　where　Joe　had　established　camp。　He　considered　packing　and　leaving；　but　he　wasn't　ready　to　go　to　the　cemetery。　The　incident　in　the　lavatory　had　opened　the　stopcock　on　his　supply　of　adrenaline；　cancelling　the　effects　of　the　lulling　surf　and　the　two　beers　that　he　had　drunk。
　　Therefore；　onto　the　beach　towel　again；　one　hand　into　the　cooler；　extracting　not　a　beer　but　a　half…moon　of　ice；　pressing　the　ice　to　his　forehead；　he　gazed　out　to　sea。　The　grey…green　chop　seemed　to　be　an　infinite　array　of　turning　gears　in　a　vast　mechanism；　and　across　it；　bright　silver　flickers　of　sunlight　jittered　like　electric　current　across　a　power　grid。　Waves　approached　and　receded　as　monotonously　as　connecting　rods　pumping　back　and　forth　in　an　engine。　The　sea　was　a　perpetually　labouring　machine　with　no　purpose　but　the　continuation　of　its　own　existence；　romanticized　and　cherished　by　countless　poets　but　incapable　of　knowing　human　passion；　pain；　and　promise。
　　He　believed　that　he　must　learn　to　accept　the　cold　mechanics　of　Creation；　because　it　made　no　sense　to　rail　at　a　mindless　machine。　After　all；　a　clock　could　not　be　held　responsible　for　the　too…swift　passage　of　time。　A　loom　could　not　be　blamed　for　weaving　the　cloth　that　later　was　sewn　into　an　executioner's　hood。　He　hoped　that　if　he　came　to　terms　with　the　mechanistic　indifference　of　the　universe；　with　the　meaningless　nature　of　life　and　death；　he　would　find　peace。
　　Such　acceptance　would　be　cold　fort；　indeed；　and　deadening　to　the　heart。　But　all　he　wanted　now　was　an　end　to　anguish；　nights　without　nightmares；　and　release　from　the　need　to　care。
　　Two　newers　arrived　and　spread　a　white　beach　blanket　on　the　sand　about　twenty　feet　north　of　him。　One　was　a　stunning　redhead　in　a　green　thong　bikini　skimpy　enough　to　make　a　stripper　blush。　The　other　was　a　brunette；　nearly　as　attractive　as　her　friend。
　　The　redhead　wore　her　hair　in　a　short；　pixie　cut。　The　brunette's　hair　was　long；　the　better　to　conceal　the　munications　device　that　she　was　no　doubt　wearing　in　one　ear。
　　For　women　in　their　twenties；　they　were　too　giggly　and　girlish；　high…spirited　enough　to　call　attention　to　themselves　even　if　they　had　not　been　stunning。　They　lazily　oiled　themselves　with　tanning　lotion；　took　turns　greasing　each　other's　back；　touching　with　languorous　pleasure；　as　if　they　were　in　the　opening　scene　of　an　adult　video；　drawing　the　interest　of　every　heterosexual　male　on　the　beach。
　　The　strategy　was　clear。　No　one　would　suspect　that　he　was　under　surveillance　by　operatives　who　concealed　so　little　of　themselves　and　concealed　themselves　so　poorly。　They　were　meant　to　be　as　unlikely　as　the　men　in　the　Hawaiian　shirts　had　been　obvious。　But　for　thirty　dollars'　worth　of　reconnaissance　and　the　libidinous　observations　of　a　horny　fourteen…year…old；　their　strategy　would　have　been　effective。
　　With　long　tan　legs　and　deep　cleavage　and　tight　round　rumps；　maybe　they　were　also　meant　to　engage　Joe's　interest　and　seduce　him　into　conversation　with　them。　If　this　was　part　of　their　assignment；　they　failed。　Their　charms　didn't　affect　him。
　　During　the　past　year；　any　erotic　image　or　thought　had　the　power　to　stir　him　only　for　a　moment；　whereupon　he　was　overe　by　poignant　memories　of　Michelle；　her　precious　body　and　her　wholesome　enthusiasm　for　pleasure。　Inevitably；　he　thought　also　of　the　terrible　long　fall　from　stars　to　Colorado；　the　smoke；　the　fire；　then　death。　Desire　dissolved　quickly　in　the　solvent　of　loss。
　　These　two　women　distracted　Joe　only　to　the　extent　that　he　was　annoyed　about　their　inpetent　misidentification　of　him。　He　considered　approaching　them　to　inform　them　of　their　mistake；　just　to　be　rid　of　them。　After　the　violence　in　the　lavatory；　however；　the　prospect　of　confrontation　made　him　uneasy。　He　was　drained　of　anger　now；　but　he　no　longer　trusted　his　self…control。
　　One　year　to　the　day。
　　Memories　and　gravestones。
　　He　would　get　through　it。
　　Surf　broke；　gathered　the　foamy　fragments　of　itself；　stole　away；　and　broke　again。　In　the　patient　study　of　that　endless　breaking；　Joe　Carpenter　gradually　grew　calm。
　　Half　an　hour　later；　without　the　benefit　of　another　beer；　he　was　ready　to　visit　the　cemetery。
　　He　shook　the　sand　out　of　his　towel。　He　folded　the　towel　in　half　lengthwise；　rolled　it　tight；　and　picked　up　the　cooler。
　　As　silken　as　the　sea　breeze；　as　buttery　as　sunlight；　the　lithe　young　women　in　the　thong　bikinis　pretended　to　be　enthralled　by　the　monosyllabic　repartee　of　two　steroid…thickened　suitors；　the　latest　in　a　string　of　beach…boy　Casanovas　to　take　their　shot。
　　The　direction　of　his　gaze　masked　by　his　sunglasses；　Joe　could　see　that　the　beauties'　interest　in　the　beefcake　was　pretence。　They　were　not　wearing　sunglasses；　and　while　they　chattered　and　laughed　and　encouraged　their　admirers；　they　glanced　surreptitiously　at　Joe。
　　He　walked　away　and　did　not　look　back。
　　As　he　took　some　of　the　beach　with　him　in　his　shoes；　so　he　strove　to　take　the　indifference　of　the　ocean　with　him　in　his　heart。
　　Nevertheless；　he　could　not　help　but　wonder　what　police　agency　could　boast　such　astonishingly　beautiful　women　on　its　force。　He　had　known　some　female　cops　who　were　as　lovely　and　sexy　as　any　movie　star；　but　the　redhead　and　her　friend　exceeded　even　celluloid　standards。
　　In　the　parking　lot；　he　half　expected　the　men　in　the　Hawaiian　shirts　to　be　watching　his　Honda。　If　they　had　it　staked　out；　their　surveillance　post　was　well　concealed。
　　Joe　drove　out　of　the　lot　and　turned　right　on　Pacific　Coast　Highway；　checking　his　rear…view　mirror。　He　was　not　being　followed。
　　Perhaps　they　had　realized　theft　error　and　were　frantically　looking　for　the　right　man。
　　
　　From　Wilshire　Boulevard　to　the　San　Diego　Freeway；　north　to　the　Ventura　Freeway　and　then　east；　he　drove　out　of　the　cooling　influence　of　the　sea　breezes　into　the　furnace　heat　of　the　San　Fernando　Valley。　In　the　August　glare；　these　suburbs　looked　as　hot　and　hard…baked　as　kiln…fired　pottery。