ch.nakedcamethemanatee-第19节

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s　table。　What　was　he　in　town　for？　Defending　some　fat　tourist？　Something　about　a　riot。　Or　was　it　the　Club　Hell　fiasco？　Dash　had　given　Johnnie　a　nod　and　a　conspiratorial　thumbs…up。　He'd　eavesdropped　as　Johnnie　rehearsed　his　forensic　couplets：　〃If　the　facts　don't　indicate；　you　must　vindicate；〃　〃If　the　fault's　with　the　police；　you　must　release；〃　and　so　on　throughout　the　brunch。　Dash　thought　about　his　own　funeral。　A　full…couch；　polished　copper　casket　with　taffeta　lining；　interior　lighting；　brass　fittings。　Or　an　Egyptian　sarcophagus。　Wouldn't　that　be　a　hoot？　Show　tunes　and　spontaneous　eulogies。　He　cast　his　pallbearers：　Arnold；　Bruce；　Sly；　Wesley；　Woody；　the　Boz。　No；　not　the　Boz。　Denzel。　Ziff　Bodine　nudged　Dash；　showed　him　the　sketch　he'd　been　doodling。　Castro；　it　looked　like；　without　the　beard　and　toupee。
　John　Deal　wondered　if　this　was　such　a　good　idea；　ing　back　to　Miami。　It　had　seemed　like　the　right　thing；　sitting　there　in　the　bar　with　Mike；　into　his　tenth　Cuba　libre；　thinking　he　could　straighten　his　whole　life　out　in　a　minute　if　he　could　just　get　back　home。　He　felt　an　intense　heat　at　the　base　of　his　neck；　an　itch　on　his　scalp　that　stung　like　shame。　He　touched　the　back　of　his　head。　He　made　a　mental　note：　call　1…800…ROGAINE。　Why　the　burn？　Why　at　the　back　of　his　head。　Too　much　Advil？　Where　was　it　ing　from？　Deal　turned；　and　the　man's　doleful　gaze　locked　with　his　for　a　moment。　Deal　returned　his　eyes　to　the　altar。　Where　had　he　seen　that　face　before？　Havana？　Not　Havana。　Deal　felt…he　didn't　know…he　was　marked　or　something。　That's　it。　The　Grove。　The　man　outside　the　market。　Just　a　coincidence；　he　hoped。　What　was　it　his　dad　used/to　say？　You'll　meet　everyone　twice　before　you　die。　This　was　like　a　reunion　for　Deal。　The　man　behind　him；　his　ex　across　the　aisle　with　Jake　Lassiter　of　all　people；　the　movie　actor　who'd　sued　him　over　the　hot　tub。　Deal　wondered　if　he　might　be　dreaming　all　this。　No；　this　was　Mike　Weston　right　beside　him；　Mike　Weston　was　real；　wasn't　he？　And　there's　that　quack；　Irwin　Schein　。。。　berg？　man？　Schein？　。。。　
　Irwin　Scheinblum　wondered　why　the　cover…up。　Marion's　death　was　no　drowning；　of　course。　You　don't　have　to　be　a　coroner　to　know　that　it　takes　days　for　a　drowned　body　to　bloat　with　gas　and　rise　to　the　surface。　No　weeds　or　sand　in　the　lungs。　He'd　read　the　autopsy　report。　Evidence　of　pete…chiae；　tiny　hemorrhages；　dark　spots　on　the　mucous　membrane；　caused　most　likely　by　increased　pressure　in　the　head　from　strangling；　or　choking　perhaps。　Face　and　neck　congested　and　dark　red；　bruises　on　the　arms　and　legs；　contusions　on　the　face；　a　fractured　hyoid　bone　and　torn　thyroid　cartilage。　So　why　did　the　medical　examiner　rule　the　death　an　accident？　And　why　wasn't　anyone　upset？　Why　wasn't　anyone　talking；　writing　about　this？　Irwin　was　puzzled。　Irwin　needed　several　drinks。
　Marion　McAlister　Williams　felt　deflated；　degenerate；　annoyed。　So　there　you　have　it：　there　are　no　answers　beyond　the　grave。　Well；　not　the　grave　just　yet。　No　answers　beyond　death。　She　was　no　longer　one　of　the　chosen　people…those　still　alive。　She　found　herself　humming　the　tune　to　〃The　Yellow　Rose　of　Texas〃　and　singing　the　words　to　Emily　Dickinson　poems：　Because　I　could　not　stop　for　death；　da…da…da…dum…dee…tum。　No　answers　and　no　tunnels　and　no　lights。　We　spend　our　lives　lumbering　from　hope　to　hope。　So　what　is　death　then？　No　lights　and　no　hope。　Marion　felt　like　her　mind　was　going　blind。　Death　belongs　to　life；　not　to　whatever…this…is。　No　hope　and　no　Buddha。　No　Jesus。　No　Allah。　No　angels；　no　time；　no　enlightenment；　no　nine　circles　of　hell；　no　rest；　no　numbers；　no　regrets；　no　color；　no　stories；　no　space；　no　peace；　no　honor；　no　pain；　no　blood；　no　air；　no　matter。　Just　alone。　All　alone。　That's　all。
　Jimmy　Carter　was　basking　in　a　marvelous　run　of　good　luck　and　nothing　was　going　to　get　him　down…not　Rosalynn's　volatile　mood　swings；　not　Robertico　Robles's　threats；　not　this　dismal　ceremony；　and　certainly　not　these　elitist　book　reviewers。　Jimmy　Carter　stood　with　the　congregation。　He　bent　his　head；　moved　his　lips；　as　if　in　prayer。　Yesterday　he'd　autographed　eight　hundred　hardcover　copies　of　Always　a　Reckoning　in　two　hours　at　Books　and　Books；　beating　the　Anne　Rice　record　by　seventy…five　books。　Mitchell　Kaplan　told　him　so；　and　booksellers　don't　lie。　And　then　last　night　he'd　beaten　Vanilla　Ice　by　a　pentameter　in　the　poetry　slam　at　Warehaus　57。　Then　this　morning's　News　carried　his　photo　on　page　one。　There　he　was　driving　a　nail　into　a　crossbeam　in　the　new　Habitat　house　in　Liberty　City。　He　was　in　a　zone　right　now；　and　he　dared　to　dream　of；　to　lust　in　his　heart　for；　the　unprecedented　Double　Nobel…Peace　and　Literature。　He　was　possessed　by　the　Muse；　on　fire　with　a　Promethean　mission　to　steal　poetry　from　the　academic　gods　and　deliver　it　to　the　people。　Soon　poetry　would　be　accessible　to　working　men　and　women　in　paper…hat　jobs；　would　be　understood　and　loved　by　schoolchil…dren；　illiterates；　babies；　cats。　And　in　the　limo　on　the　way　to　the　cemetery　he'd　begin　his　Sonnet　Sequence　for　Democracy；　that　is；　if　he　could　get　Governor　Whatchamacallit　to　shut　his　trap　for　a　minute。
　Former　altar　boy　Juan　Carlos　Reyes　stood　in　line　to　receive　munion。　Introibo　ad　altare　Dei。　The　choir　chanted　Tantum　Ergo。　To　God　the　joy　of　my　youth。　He　felt　his　pager　vibrate　in　his　pocket。　He　checked　the　display。　Ramona　calling。　Probably　wanted　him　to　pick　up　a　bag　of　those　pink　mice　for　her　snakes。　I　have　no　shame；　he　thought。　Shame　is　for　the　young。　Juan　Carlos　nodded　to　the　Peanut　Man　as　he　passed　the　first　pew。　We　live　on　secrets；　he　thought。　He　took　the　host　in　his　hands。　My　God；　what　would　the　world　be　like　if　all　our　secrets　were　revealed；　all　our　lusts；　opinions；　fears；　dreams；　our　fantasies；　our　rituals？　What　secrets；　he　wondered；　did　this　old　woman　take　with　her？　Expensive　secrets　perhaps。　Well；　he　wasn't　here　to　worry　about　that。　He　was　here　to　protect　his　holdings：　Reyes　Cuban…American　Cruise　Lines；　Reyes　Hotel　and　Casinos；　Reyes　PepsiCo　Bottling　pany；　Reyes　Burger　King　Havana；　Inc。　He　was　here　to　keep　his　eye　on　the　slippery　Dr。　Irwin　Scheinblum；　the　one　man　alive　who　could　positively　identify　the　body　of　Fidel　Castro；　the　man　who　had　performed　Fidel's　penile　implant　in　1962。　But　where　was　that　body？　Juan　Carlos　was　not　paying　a　million　dollars　to　any　Cuban　Cuban　for　a　severed　head。　The　gentleman　would　have　to　provide　the　rest　of　the　filthy　munist。　Of　course；　if　he；　himself；　could　acquire　the　rumored　lock　of　hair　and　match　its　DNA　with　the　head；　well；　perhaps　then　he　would　negotiate。　Yes；　people　will　need　to　be　relocated。　Yes；　people　will　have　to　die；　unfortunately。　Yes；　of　course；　the　transition　to　the　Golden　Age　of　freedom　and　prosperity　will　not　be　easy。
　This　was　still　not　what　Joe　Sereno　had　in　mind　when　he　joined　the　police　department。　This　was　not　fighting　crime；　this　was　not　making　a　difference。　This　was　standing　in　the　vestibule　of　a　church　waiting　for　some　dignitaries　to　exit　to　their　limousines。　He'd　been　reduced　to　this；　to　special…detail　security　for　Magic　City　Protective　Services。　He'd　been　suspended　without　pay　after　the　Grove　riot　and　would　remain　suspended　until　the　trial　was　over；　at　least。　And　now　he　had　to　worry　if　Johnnie　Cochran　was　going　to　turn　him　into　the　next　Mark　Fuhrman。　Sure　he'd　called　the　fat　guy　a　Canuck　and　a　Frog；　but　he　hadn't　meant　it　in　a　bad　way。　Since　when　did　people　start　worrying　about　the　Frenchies；　anyway？　And　now　he　was　getting　that　uneasy　feeling　again　like　on　the　night　of　the　Club　Hell　disaster　when　he　worked　the　door。　Who'd　have　thought　the　sharks　would　only　go　after　the　lawyers　like　they　did？　Must　be　some　kind　of　pheromone　they　give　off。　What　a　mess　that　was。　Joe　Sereno　himself　had　dragged　two　of　the　bodies　out　of　the　drink…the　city　manager　of　Miami　Beach；　who　looked　like　a　drowned　cat；　actually；　and　the　city's　insurance　attorney；　Russell　B。　Whittaker　III；　whose　mascara　had　run　over　his　face　and　whose　left　arm　had　been　chewed　to　the　bone。　Joe　felt　dizzy　again。　Maybe　he　was　bad　luck　like　the　sergeant　said。　He　dipped　his　fingers　into　the　holy　water　font；　blessed　himself。　He　waited　for　whatever　would　happen　to　happen。
　
　In　Dania：　When　housewife　Sabrina　Kennedy　saw　the　face　of　Mickey　Schwartz　on　the　door　of　her　Kelvinator　refrigerator；　saw　it　blossom　to　life　like　a　Polaroid　photograph；　why；　she　called　Tristan　Jude；　Dania　correspondent　for　the　Broward　Sun…Tattler　and　invited　him　over　to　see　for　himself。　He　wanted　to　know　what　she　thought　this　meant。　Well；　she　said；　it　means；　apparently；　that　I'm　going　to　win　the　lottery　in　the　very　near　future。　Yes；　she　had　to　agree　with　Tristan；　this　could　possibly　be　Mickey's　double；　that　Cuban　dude；　in　which　case　she　figured　she'd　meet　some　tall；　dark　stranger。　Miracles　aren't　ordinary；　she　told　him。　Life's　no　accident。　Everything　means　something。
　
　On　Desi　Arnaz　Boulevard：　Big　Joey　G。　leaned　against　the　fireplace；　his　arm　resting　on　the　onyx　mantel；　in　his　hand　a　Vietnamese　trophy　skull。　〃We　boiled　the　flesh　off　the　VC　skulls；〃　he　told　Britt。　〃We　made　table　ornaments；　ashtrays；　candy　dishes；　like　this　fellow　here。　I　call　him　Tranh。　Sometimes　we　carved　their　ulnas　into　letter　openers；　their　fingers　into　whistles。〃　He　set　the　skull　on　the　mantel；　sat　in　the　club　chair　across　from　Britt。　〃Happiest　days　of　my　life；　the　war。〃
　〃And　n