ericlustbader.the ninja-第5节

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kitchen；　making　himself　a　cup　of　hot　cocoa；　and　would　read；　at　random；　from　one　of　Raymond　Chandler's　seven　novels；　finding　within　that　spare　inferential　prose…style　a　kind　of　existential　calm　amid　his　private　storm；　and　inside　thirty　minutes　he　had　returned　to　sleep。
　Doc　Deerforth　stretched；　easing　the　ache　that　sat　like　a　stuck　pitchfork　between　his　shoulder　blades。　That's　what　es　of　working　all　hours　at　my　age；　he　thought。　Still；　he　went　over　his　findings　once　again。　It　was　all　there；　black　and　white；　the　words　piling　together　into　sentences　and　paragraphs；　but　now　he　was　seeing　the　meaning　for　the　first　time；　as　if　he　were　an　Egyptologist　who　had　at　last　stumbled　upon　the　Rosetta　Stone。
　Another　routine　drowning；　he　had　thought；　when　they　had　called　him　out　to　Dune　Road。　Of　course　he　did　not　mean　that。　The　word　routine　had　no　place　in　his　vocabulary。　Life　was　the　most　precious　thing　in　the　world　to　him。　But　he　need　not　have　bee　a　doctor　to　feel　that　way。　Living　through　the　war　in　the　Pacific　Theatre　had　been　enough。　Day　after　day；　from　his　disarrayed　jungle　camp　during　the　bitter　fighting　in　the　Philippines；　he　had　seen　the　cascades　of　small　one…man　planes　guided　by　their　kamikaze　pilots　as　they　plunged　headlong　with　2；650　pounds　of　high　explosives　in　their　blunt　noses　into　the　American　warships。　The　cultural　chasm　between　East　and　West　could　be　summed　up　by　those　aircraft；　Doc　Deerforth　had　always　thought。　The　Japanese　name　for　them　was　Oka　…　the　cherry　blossom。　But　the　Americans　called　them　baka　…　the　idiot　bomb。　Western　philosophical　thought　had　no　place　for　the　concept　of　ritual　suicide　inherent　in　the　Japanese　samurai　of　old。　But　that　was　it；　really。　The　samurai　survived；　despite　all　obstacles　that　had　been　put　in　his　path。　Doc　Deerforth　would　never　forget　the　haiku　which；　so　the　story　went；　had　been　written　by　a　twenty…two…year…old　kamikaze　pilot　just　before　his　death；　this；　too；　was　tradition：　'If　only　we　might　fall　/　Like　cherry　blossoms　in　the　spring　…　/　So　pure　and　radiant！'　And　that；　he　thought；　was　how　the　Japanese　felt　about　death。　The　samurai　was　born　to　the　a　glorious　death　in　battle。
　And　all　I　wanted　was　for　the　war　to　end　with　my　skin　intact　and　my　mind　unbent。
　And　it　had　e　to　pass；　except　for　the　nightmares　that　haunted　him　like　hungry　vampires　newly　risen　from　the　grave。
　Doc　Deerforth　got　up　from　behind　his　desk　and　went　to　the　window。　Beyond　the　fluted　layers　of　the　oak　leaves　that　shaded　this　side　of　the　house　from　the　long　afternoon's　heat；　he　saw　the　expanse　of　Main　Street。　Just　another　weekday　in　the　summer。　But　that　world　now　seemed　a　million　miles　away；　as　remote　as　the　surface　of　another　planet。
　Doc　Deerforth　turned　back　into　his　office　and；　scooping　up　the　manila　folder　and　its　contents；　went　out　of　the　house；　down　Main　Street　towards　the　one…storey　ugly　red　brick　building　housing　the　Fire　Department　and；　beyond　a　courtyard　parking　lot；　the　Village　Police。
　Half　way　there；　he　ran　into　Nicholas；　who　was　just　ing　out　of　the　automated　doors　of　the　supermarket　loaded　down　with　groceries。
　'Hello；　Nick。'
　'Hey；　Doc。　How　are　you？'
　Tine。　Fine。　Just　on　my　way　to　see　Ray　Florum。'　They　had　met；　as　most　residents　of　West　Bay　Bridge　did　eventually；　along　this　same　Main　Street；　introduced　by　mutual　acquaintances。　It　was　difficult　here；　even　for　the　most　devoutly　reclusive；　not　to　make　friends　even　if　they　were　only　of　the　'Howdy'　variety。　'Just　got　back　from　Hauppauge。'
　'That　body　they　found　yesterday？'
　'Yeah。'　Doc　Deerforth　turned　his　head　quickly；　spat　out　a　bit　of　food　that　had　lodged　itself　between　his　teeth。　He　was　glad　of　this　diversion。　He　felt　a　genuine　fear　of　confronting　Florum　with　what　he　had。　Besides；　he　liked　Nicholas。　'Hey；　you　might've　known　him。　Didn't　live　too　far　from　you　along　Dune　Road。'
　Nicholas　smiled　thinly。　'Not　very　likely　…'
　'Braughm's　his　name。　Barry　Braughm。'
　Nicholas　felt　a　queer　sense　of　vertigo　for　just　a　moment　and　he　thought　of　Justine's　words　on　the　beach　the　day　she　had　run　into　him。　You　know　how　incestuous　this　place　is。　She　couldn't　know　how　right　she　was。
　'Yes；'　Nicholas　said　slowly。　'I　knew　him。　When　I　was　in　advertising；　we　worked　together　at　the　same　agency。'　'Say；　I'm　sorry；　Nick。　Did　you　know　him　well？'
　Nicholas　thought　about　that　for　a　time。　Braughm　had　had　a　brilliantly　analytical　mind。　He　knew　the　public　perhaps　better　than　anyone　at　the　agency。　What　a　shock　to　find　him　suddenly　gone。　'Well　enough；〃　he　said；　thoughtfully。
　Swinging　her　around。　Slow…dancing　into　the　night；　the　screen　door　bang　open；　the　record　player　sending　the　music　rolling　in　languorous　ribbons；　drowning　the　tide。　Moving　in　stereo。　Her　arms　had　trembled　when　he　had　first　taken　them；　guiding　her　out　onto　the　porch。　But　it　was　the　right　thing　to　do。　The　perfect　thing。　She　loves　to　dance；　first　off。　And　it　was　perfectly　acceptable　for　him　to　hold　her　this　way；　even　though；　quite　clearly；　rock　was　sex　and　dancing　was；　subliminally；　the　same　thing。　What　matter？　She　would　dance。
　She　shadows　me　in　the　mirror　And　never　leaves　on　the　light。。。
　In　giving　herself　up　to　the　rhythms　she　was　sensual；　a　kind　of　glossy　exoskeleton　dissolving　at　her　feet；　unearthing　an　ardour　rich　with　substantive　and　elemental　fury。
　Some　things　that　I　say　to　her　They　just　don't　seem　to　bite。。。
　It　was　as　if　the　music　had　freed　her　somehow　of　her　chains；　of　her　wounds　…　inhibitions　was　a　word　with　far　too　few　ramifications　to　serve　the　situation　…　of　her　fear；　not　of　him；　not　of　any　man；　but　of　herself。
　She　says　leave　it　to　me
　And　everything　will　be　all　right。
　With　her　shoulder　touching　his　and　the　music　filling　another　room；　she　said；　'I　grew　up　reading。　At　first　it　was　anything　I　could　get　my　hands　on。　While　my　sister；　always　so　good　with　people；　was　out　on　dates；　I　would　be　gulping　down　one　book　or　another。　Curiously；　that　didn't　last　long。　I　mean；　I　kept　on　reading　but　I　quickly　became　quite　discriminating　in　what　I　read。'　She　laughed；　a　rich　happy　sound　that　surprised　him　in　its　wholeheartedness。　'Oh；　I　had　my　phases；　yes　indeed！　The　Tremayne　dog　books　and　then　Howard　Pile　…　I　adored　his
　Robin　Hood。　One　day；　when　I　was　about　sixteen；　I　discovered　de　Sade。　It　was　rather　forbidden　reading　then　and　therefore　　　exciting。　But　beyond　that；　I　was　struck　by　much　of　his　writing。　And　then　I　had　this　fantasy　that　that　was　the　reason　my　parents　had　named　me　Justine。　However；　when　I　was　older　and　asked　my　mother　about　it；　she　said；　〃Well；　you　know；　it　was　just　a　name　that　your　father　and　I　liked。〃　It　must　have　appealed　to　her　Continental　leanings；　I　imagine；　she　was　French；　you　see。　But　then；　oh　how　I　washed　that　I　had　never　asked　her！　My　fantasy　was　so　much　better　than　the　reality　of　it。　Well；　what　can　you　expect？　They　were　both　banal。'
　'Was　your　father　American？'
　She　turned　her　face　towards　him　and　the　warm　glow　from　the　living…room　lamps　burnished　one　cheek　as　if　by　an　artist's　brush。　'Very　American。'
　'What　did　he　do？'
　'Let's　go　inside；'　she　said；　turning　from　him。　'I'm　cold。'
　First　there　was　the　large　black　and　white　photograph　of　a　rather　heavy…set　man　with　a　firm　jaw　and　undaunted　eyes。　Printed　underneath　was　the　legend：　Stanley。　Teller；　Chief　of　Police　1932…1964。　Next　to　that　was　a　framed　copy　of　Norman　Rockwell's　The　Runway。
　The　office　was　a　spare　cubicle　with　double　windows　overlooking　the　courtyard　parking　lot。　There　was　not　much　to　see　out　there；　this　time　of　the　evening。
　'Why　don't　you　cut　the　doubletalk；　Doc；　and　run　it　by　me　in　plain　English；'　Lieutenant　Ray　Florum　said。　'Just　what's　so　special　about　this　drowning？〃
　The　subdued　crackle　of　the　two…way　radio　down　the　hall　was　a　constant　background　chatter；　like　being　on　the　telephone　with　a　crossed　line。
　'That's　just　what　I've　been　trying　to　explain　to　you；〃　Doc　Deerforth　said　slowly　and　patiently。　'This　man　did　not　die　of　drowning。〃
　Ray　Florum　sat　down　in　his　wooden　swivel　chair。　It　creaked　beneath　his　weight。　Florum　was　a　big　man；　both　in　height　and　girth；　which　made　him　the　butt　of　a　series　of　ongoing　jokes　batted　about　good…naturedly　among　his　staff。　He　was　manding　officer　of　the　Village　Police　of　West　Bay　Bridge。　He　had　a　beery…cheeked　face　on　which　was　positioned　dead　centre；　as　if　it　were　the　bull's…eye　of　some　target；　a　bulbous　red…veined　nose。　His　skin　was　tanned　to　the　colour　of　cured　leather；　his　salt…and…pepper　hair　was　cut　en　brosse。　He　wore　a　brown　Dacron　suit　not　because　he　liked　it　but　because　he　had　to。　He　would　just　as　soon　have　e　to　work　in　a　flannel　shirt　and　a　pair　of　old　slacks。　'What；　then；'　Florum　said　equally　slowly；　'did　he　die　from？'
　'He　was　poisoned；'　Doc　Deerforth　said。　'Doc；'　Florum　said　as　he　wearily　rubbed　his　hand　over　his　face。　'I　want　this　to　be　real　clear；　understand？　Crystal　clear。　So　perfectly　clear　that　there　won't　be　any　possibility　of　a　misunderstanding　when　I　make　out　my　report。　Because；　beside　the　State　Detectives　who；　I'm　sure　you're　aware；　I'm　gonna　have　to　copy　on　this　…　and　when　I　do；　they're　gonna　be　down　here　like　locusts　on　a　wheat…field　asking　us　to　do　all　their　goddamned　field　work　and　then　sucking　us　dry　…　beside　those　sonsabitches；　I've　gotta　contend　with　the　county　bastards　who're　most　probably　gonna　claim　that　this　thing's　in　t