dk.coldfire-第15节

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　〃I　was　down　at　the　Hilton　for　the　annual　banquet　of　the　Greater　Port　land　Lumber　Products　Association；　interviewing　manufacturers　of　prefabricated　pullmans；　plyboard　salesmen；　and　redwood…decking　distributors。　
　They　gave　out　the　Timber　Trophy…that's　what　they　call　it…for　the　lumber　products　man　of　the　year。〃　I　got　to　interview　him；　too。　Rushed　back　here　to　get　it　all　written　up　in　time　for　the　morning　edition。　Hot　stuff　like　that；　you　don't　want　to　let　the　bastards　at　The　New　York　Times　scoop　you　on　it〃　〃I　thought　you　were　arts　and　leisure。〃　
　〃Got　sick　of　it。　Let　me　tell　you；　Tommy；　the　wrong　poet　can　turn　you　the　arts　for　maybe　a　decade。〃　
　She　tossed　more　chocolate　morsels　in　her　mouth。　She　usually　didn't　eat　candy　because　she　was　determined　not　to　wind　up　with　a　weight　problem　like　the　one　that　had　always　plagued　her　mother；　and　she　was　gobbling　M　&　Ms　now　just　to　make　herself　feel　more　miserable　and　worthless。　S　was　in　a　bad　downward　spiral。　
　She　said；　〃TV　and　movies；　they　make　journalism　look　so　glamorous　exciting。　It's　all　lies。〃　
　〃Me；〃　Tommy　said；　〃I　haven't　had　the　life　I　planned　on；　either。　Y　think　I　figured　to　wind　up　head　of　maintenance　for　the　Press；　just　a　glorified　janitor？〃　〃I　guess　not；〃　she　said；　feeling　small　and　self　centered　for　whining　at　him　when　his　lot　in　life　was　not　as　desirable　as　her　own。　
　〃Hell；　no。　From　the　time　I　was　a　little　kid；　I　knew　I　was　gonna　grow　up　to　drive　one　of　those　big　damn　old　sanitation　trucks；　up　there　in　that　high　cab；　pushin'　the　buttons　to　operate　the　hydraulic…ram　pactor。〃　
　His　voice　became　wistful。　〃Ridin'　above　the　world；　all　that　powerful　machinery　at　my　mand。　It　was　my　dream；　and　I　went　for　it；　but　I　couldn't　pass　the　city　physical。　Have　this　kidney　problem；　see。　
　Nothin'　serious　but　enough　for　the　city's　health　insurers　to　disqualify　me。〃　
　He　leaned　on　his　broom；　gazing　off　into　the　distance；　smiling　faintly；　probably　visualizing　himself　ensconced　in　the　kingly　driver's　seat　of　a　garbage　truck。　
　Staring　at　him　in　disbelief；　Holly　decided　that　his　broad　face　did　not；　after　all；　look　sweet　and　innocent　and　kind。　She　had　misread　the　meaning　of　its　lines　and　planes。　It　was　a　stupid　face。　
　She　wanted　to　say；　You　idiot！　I　dreamed　of　winning　Pulitzers；　and　now　I'm　a　hack　writing　industry　puff　pieces　about　the　damn　Timber　Trophy！　That　is　tragedy。　You　think　having　to　settle　for　being　a　janitor　instead　of　a　garbage　collector　is　in　any　way　parable？　But　she　didn't　say　anything　because　she　realized　that　they　were　parable。　An　unfulfilled　dream；　regardless　of　whether　it　was　lofty　or　humble；　was　still　a　tragedy　to　the　dreamer　who　had　given　up　hope。　
　Pulitzers　never　won　and　sanitation　trucks　never　driven　were　equally　capable　of　inducing　despair　and　insomnia。　And　that　was　the　most　depressing　thought　she'd　had　yet。　
　Tommy's　eyes　swam　into　focus　again。　〃You　gotta　not　dwell　on　it；　Miss　Thorne。　Life。　。　。　it's　like　getting'　a　blueberry　muffin　in　a　coffeeshop　when　what　you　ordered　was　the　apricot…nut。　There　aren't　any　apricots　or　nuts　in　it；　and　you　can　get　tied　up　in　knots　just　thinkin'　about　what　you're　missin'；　when　the　smarter　thing　to　do　is　realize　that　blueberries　have　a　nice　taste；　too。〃　
　Across　the　room；　George　Fintel　farted　in　his　sleep。　It　was　a　window　rattler。　If　the　Press　had　been　a　big　newspaper；　with　reporters　hanging　around　who'd　just　returned　from　Beirut　or　some　war　zone；　they'd　have　all　dived　for　cover。　
　My　God；　Holly　thought；　my　life's　nothing　but　a　bad　imitation　of　a　Damon　Runyon　story。　Sleazy　newsrooms　after　midnight。　Half　baked　philosopher　janitors。　Hard…drinking　reporters　who　sleep　at　their　desks。　
　But　it　was　Runyon　as　revised　by　an　absurdist　writer　in　collaboration　with　a　bleak　existentialist。　
　〃I　feel　better　just　having　talked　to　you；〃　Holly　lied。　〃Thanks；　Tommy。〃　
　〃Anytime；　Miss　Thorne。〃　
　As　Tommy　set　to　work　with　his　push　broom　again　and　moved　on　down　the　aisle；　Holly　tossed　some　more　candy　into　her　mouth　and　wondered　if　she　would　be　able　to　pass　the　physical　required　of　potential　sanitation　truck　drivers。　On　the　positive　side；　the　work　would　be　different　from　journalism　as　she　knew　it　collecting　garbage　instead　of　dispensing　it…or　she　would　have　the　satisfaction　of　knowing　that　at　least　one　person　Portland　would　desperately　envy　her。　
　She　looked　at　the　wall　clock。　One…thirty　in　the　morning。　She　wasn't　sleepy。　She　didn't　want　to　go　home　and　lie　awake；　staring　at　the　ceiling　with　nothing　to　do　but　indulge　in　more　self　examination　and　self　pity　Well；　actually；　that　was　what　she　wanted；　because　she　was　in　a　wallow　in　it　mood；　but　she　knew　it　wasn't　a　healthy　thing　to　do。　
　Unfortunately；　she　was　without　alternatives：　weekday；　wee…hour　nightlife　in　Portland　was　twenty…four…hour　doughnut　shop。　
　She　was　less　than　a　day　away　from　the　start　of　her　vacation；　and　She　desperately　needed　it。　She　had　made　no　plans。　She　was　just　going　to　hang　out；　never　once　look　at　a　newspaper。　Maybe　see　some　movies。　
　maybe　read　a　few　books。　Maybe　go　to　the　Betty　Ford　Center　to　take　the　self　pity　detox　program。　
　She　had　reached　that　dangerous　state　in　which　she　began　to　brood　about　her　name。　Holly　Thorne。　Cute。　Real　cute。　What　in　God's　name　had　possessed　her　parents　to　hang　that　one　on　her？　Was　it　possible　to　imagine　the　Pulitzer　mittee　giving　that　grand　prize　to　a　woman　with　a　name　more　suitable　to　a　cartoon　character？　Sometimes…always　in　the　still　heart　of　the　night；　of　course…she　was　tempted　to　call　her　folks　and　demand　to　know　whether　this　name　thing　had　been　just　bad　taste；　a　misfired　joke；　or　conscious　cruelty。　
　But　her　parents　were　salt…of　the…earth　working…class　people　who　had　denied　themselves　many　pleasures　in　order　to　give　her　a　first…rate　education　；　and　they　wanted　nothing　but　the　best　for　her。　They　would　be　devastated　to　hear　that　she　loathed　her　name；　when　they　no　doubt　thought　it　was　clever　and　even　sophisticated。　She　loved　them　fiercely；　and　she　had　to　be　in　the　deepest　trenches　of　depression　before　she　had　the　gall　to　blame　them　for　her　shortings。　
　Half　afraid　that　she　would　pick　up　the　phone　and　call　them；　she　quickly　turned　to　her　puter　again　and　accessed　the　current…edition　file。　The　Press's　data…retrieval　system　made　it　possible　for　any　reporter　on　staff　to　follow　any　story　through　editing；　typesetting；　and　production。　
　Now　the　tomorrow's　edition　had　been　formatted；　locked　down；　and　sent　to　the　printer　she　could　actually　call　up　an　image　of　each　page　on　her　screen。　
　Only　the　headlines　were　big　enough　to　read；　but　any　portion　of　the　image　could　be　enlarged　to　fill　the　screen。　Sometimes　she　could　cheer　herself　a　little　by　reading　a　big　story　before　the　newspaper　hit　the　street；　it　sparked　in　her　at　cast　a　dim　glimmer　of　the　feeling　of　being　an　insider；　which　was　one　aspect　of　the　job　that　attracted　every　dream…besotted　young　person　to　a　vocation　in　journalism。　
　But　as　she　scanned　the　headlines　on　the　first　few　pages；　looking　for　an　interesting　story　to　enlarge；　her　gloom　deepened。　A　big　fire　in　St。　
　Louis；　nine　people　dead。　Presentiments　of　war　in　the　Mid…East。　An　oil　spill　off　Japan。　A　huge　storm　and　flood　in　India；　tens　of　thousands　homeless。　The　federal　government　was　raising　taxes　again。　She　had　always　known　that　the　news　industry　flourished　on　gloom；　disaster；　scandal；　mindless　violence；　and　strife。　But　suddenly　it　seemed　to　be　a　singularly　ghoulish　business；　and　Holly　realized　that　she　no　longer　wanted　to　be　an　insider；　among　the　first　to　know　this　dreadful　stuff　Then；　just　as　she　was　about　to　close　the　file　and　switch　off　the　puter；　a　headline　arrested　her　MYSTERIOUS　STRANGER　SAVES　BOY。　The　events　at　McAlbery　School　were　not　quite　twelve　days　in　the　past；　and　those　four　words　had　a　special　association　for　her。　Curiosity　triggered；　she　instructed　the　puter　to　enlarge　the　quadrant　in　which　the　story　began。　
　The　dateline　was　Boston；　and　the　story　was　acpanied　by　a　photograph。　
　The　picture　was　still　blurry　and　dark；　but　the　scale　was　now　large　enough　to　allow　her　to　read　the　text；　although　not　fortably。　She　instructed　the　puter　to　further　enlarge　one　of　the　already　enlarged　quadrants；　pulling　up　the　first　column　of　the　article　so　she　could　read　it　without　strain。　
　The　opening　line　made　Holly　sit　up　straighter　in　her　chair：　A　courageous　bystander；　who　would　say　only　that　his　name　was　Jim；　saved　the　life　of　Nicholas　O'Conner；　6；　when　a　New　England　Power　and　Light　pany　vault　exploded　under　a　sidewalk　in　a　Boston　residential　area　Thursday　evening。　
　Softly；　she　said；　〃What　the　hell。　。　。　？〃　She　tapped　the　keys；　instructing　the　puter　to　shift　the　field　of　display　rightward　on　the　page　to　show　her　the　multiply　enhanced　photo　that　acpanied　the　piece。　She　went　to　a　bigger　scale；　then　to　a　still　bigger　one；　until　the　face　filled　the　screen。　
　Jim　Ironheart。　
　Briefly　she　sat　in　stunned　disbelief；　immobile。　Then　she　was　stricken　by　a　need　to　know　more；not　only　an　intellectual　but　a　genuinely　physical　need　that　felt　not　unlike　a　sudden　and　intense　pang　of　hunger。　
　She　returned　to　the　text　of　the　story　and　read　it　through；　then　read　it　again。　The　O'Conner　boy　had　been　sitting　on　the　sidewalk　in　front　of　his　home；　directly　on　the　two…by…three…foot　concrete　lid　that　covered　the　entrance　to　the　po