jherbert.sepulchre-第15节
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om others of the human race。 But there was a glimmer shining from deep inside this man that was like nothing else he'd witnessed before。 Kline's stare was almost mesmeric。
Until whatever held him became dulled； or at least； was veiled by a creeping normality。 Kline laughed； and it was a full； rich sound； unexpected and unlike his usual cackling。
'Whatever you say； Halloran；' he said good…humouredly。 'Yeah； whatever you say。' Halloran turned and shifted into D。 The Mercedes pulled away； heading into the winding country roads。 And during the last part of that journey； Halloran frequently checked the rearview mirror。 But this time he was mostly studying the man who was resting； with eyes now closed； in the backseat。
While Monk； from the corner of his eyes； watched Halloran。
MONK A PILGRIM'S PROGRESS
It was a lousy name anyway。 But none of the other kids ever added the 'ey'。 MONKEY。 Nah； too easy。 They called him Ape。 Up until he hit fourteen； that is。 That was when the ape pissed right back out of the cage。
Theo was never gutsy （or Theodore Albert； as his mama always called him … 'Theodore Albert you wuz baptised； and Theodore Albert you be called； honey mine'…as she parted his hair right down the middle； slicking either side with a licked palm； every fuckin' morning afore she pushed him out the door and along the path to where good of Uncle Mort waited in the pick…up…'You'd look real purty； boy；' Uncle Mort often observed； 'if you wunt so porky'… to take him down to Coatesville Junior High where the boys bent their knees and dragged their knuckles along the ground behind him； lumbering from side to side in an ape waddle； imitating his high wheezy voice （another affliction which didn't help none） until he finally flipped his aid and whirled around and knocked them squat…no； a lie： he cried； he always fuckin' cried。 'cos he was a mama's boy； he knew it and they knew it and they all knew he'd never raise a pudgy fist； he was too chickenshit to hit back； but 。 。 。） but he hadn't been chickenshit those few years later at West Chester High when he stuck the fire under the assembly hall on prizegiving （no prizes ing to him anyway） morning； when all those turds had been up there nudging and sniggering and whispering； but soon wailing and screaming and punching； falling over each other to break out of that burning hell…hall； where only three were really roasted by the fire； but fifteen （no teachers damaged…the parents hated them for that） kicked off from chokin' and crushed rib…cages。
That day was the turning point for Theodore Albert Monk； 'pissin'…out day'； the day he discovered every person had a power； anyone…big； small； fat or skinny…could decide for someone else when their Pay…Off Time （POT） had arrived。 You didn't need to be Einstein or Charles Atlas （or even Charlie fuckin' Brown） to choose their day for 'em。 Point a stubby finger and raise a meaty thumb like a cocked gun and that was it。 Bingo。 Not right there and then； of course； but that was decision time； that was as good as。 After that you waited for the right moment。 Could take days； weeks； maybe months。 Thing was； it always came。 You gottem when they and nobody else expected it。 When you were safe。
He'd shown it to insects first； his power； graduating to animals…mice； frogs （slice 'em； dice 'em）； Grandma Kaley's old crosseyed cat （weed…killer in its milk bowl）； a stray mutt （lured by half a salami sandwich into a rusted freezer left to rot on the town's rubbish dump…he'd opened it up two weeks later and the stink had made him throw up）。 Then on to the big time。
Four of 'em he'd wasted （he enjoyed the macho sound of wasted）； two boys； two chicks。 And nobody the wiser。
When he'd moved on to Philly； there'd been two more three if you counted the spic。 In LA almost…almost…one （the hooker had fought like a wildcat when； on the spur of the moment maybe just to get hisself excited…he'd decided to cancel her subscription； and the stiletto…heeled shoe she'd been treading him with for his pleasure had nearly taken out his left eye； hurting him so bad that he'd had to leave her there moaning and hollering in a way he'd thought nobody could with a snapped neck and a belly…full of bruises）。
Things had gotten a mite tricky after that。 The Pigs had a description； they knew who they were looking for。 Hooker had seen him around before； that was the piss…puller； seen him hanging loose with Glass…Eye Spangler （an inch to the left with that stiletto heel and they'd have been calling him Glass…Eye； too）。 And good 'ol boy Spangler knew his drinking buddy's name； where he was from。 Turned out there was a small matter of an unsolved crime and a missing delinquent back there in Coatesville。 Nah； not the two boys； two chicks…one drowning； one car burning （the lighted rag stuck into the gas filler had blown the tank right under the backseat which the boy and girl were using for a make…out pad at the time）； and one rape with strangling as the dessert （or maybe the main course； it was hard to remember now）； not those。 There was the little mystery of Mama and Uncle Mort； brother and sister； found locked together in bed （joined at the loins； that is） with bed bugs buddying up with maggots on what must have been one sweltering； rotten feast…week； and Rosie Monk's sixteenyear…old； the one they figured was semi…imbecile because he never talked much and lumbered around like 。 。 。 like 。 。 。 say it 。 。 。 like one of them fuckin' orangy…tans and just about as smart （this was in the days before Mr Snaith）； had lit out； making him Number One suspect； since no one in his right brain would even think about kidnapping the big fucker （oh yeah； Theodore Albert aka Ape had filled his fat with muscle in the two years after POT power）； after bludgeoning Mama and that groin…groping bastid Uncle Mort with his battered old Jim Fugosi baseball bat in the bed where they'd grunted and heaved and made the springs sing along。
So the Pigs were on his tail again； years after the event； hot for his ass。 And maybe now those cops were finally figuring the big galoot had something to do with those other unexplained homicides； and if not； why not？ Neatened up things to hang them on Monk too。 Yeah； let's go for it； let's nail the mother…killer； the uncle…pounder； let's hand him the check for them all。 They recalled nobody'd liked the fat creep anyway。
Escape。 To Vegas。 Some stuff on the way； most of it a blur now。 Teaming up with Slimeball and Rivas in the glitz city； rolling drunks and mugging hookers for their purses nights； dealing crack days。 Fine until the pimps ganged up （a pimp posse no less）； sorely aggrieved that their take margin was down because three stooges from outa town hadn't yet learned their place in subsociety。 This very point was explained to Monk one night by a big buck who had razor blades glued to the insides of the fingers of one hand so that when he slapped palm or backhand； made no difference； the blade edges stuck out from either side…neat red lines would criss…cross your cheeks until the cuts got closer and closer to eventually bee one huge open wound； while five other hoods crushed Slimeball and Rivas' fingers and toes before chopping off an ear from each and making the boys chew on it （each other's ear； that is）。 They were saving him for something else； because he was the muscle and he had badly altered one of the girls' features two months ago； turning her into an asset loss； no good to no muthuh。
But what the razor…toting buck hadn't counted on…he had a crazy grin to match his crazy eyes…was that pain hardly meant a pig's ass to Monk （it took extreme and prolonged agony to give Monk any pleasure； even in those days）； so the slicing steel could have been chopping cheese for all he cared。 Monk did what he had e to know best。 POT…Pay…Off…Time…had arrived for the nigguh and introduced itself in the form of Monk's hawked phlegm in his eyes （ol' Uncle Mort； in between feeling him up； had taught young Theodore Albert how to do that to dogs straight out of the pick…up windows） and a grinding of the black's privates by Monk's raised knee。 The buck's own razor…blade fingers were used to sever his own jugular。
This last upset had proved too much for the rest of the vigilante squad who； pissed enough already by the cash loss； decided that what they'd had in mind for the ape…walking creep （their girls' description had pin…pointed Monk nicely） wasn't quite special enough。 This bozo required something more permanent。
They came for him with open switch…blades and surgeon's hatchets （that season's in…weapon） and Monk would have been chopped ape if he hadn't used the still…gurgling black man as a battering ram。
Oh yeah； he'd gotten away； but had been damaged in the getting （but not as damaged as the two dead he'd left behind）。 A knife stuck firmly in his shoulder…blade had proved unfortable as well as a bad feature for walking the streets。 Fortunately； a shithead who knew him on a supplier/client basis and whom he ran into several blocks away obliged him by tugging the knife free after much jiggling and muttering 'man…oh…man' and some giggling。 Jiggle and giggle。 The junkie had paid for the enjoyment with a windpipe so badly flatte
