js&cs.thebridge-第21节

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　　There　was　a　vacant　bank　of　phones　in　the　narrow　access　corridor。　It　was　there　that　he　chose　to　break　down。　It　only　took　a　minute　to　sob　his　way　clear。
　　Which　brought　him　right　back　where　he'd　started　from。
　　Not　that　he　didn't　trust　Blake；　if　anyone　had　more　to　lose　than　Leonard　himself；　that　person　was　certainly　Blake。　It　was　just　that　he　felt　so　helpless；　so　utterly　out　of　the　loop。
　　Not　to　mention　guilty　as　sin。
　　Not　to　mention　terrified。
　　He　kept　thinking　about　the　dead　boy；　and　wondering　what　had　happened。　The　thought　that　he　could　have　caused　someone's　death；　however　inadvertently；　was　just　too　horrible　to　bear。
　　And　then　there　was　the　other　boy。　Otis's　son。　Perhaps；　Leonard　thought；　he's　getting　better。　Lord；　what　a　relief　that　would　be！
　　And　if　not　。。。
　　He　had　Pusser's　number；　burning　a　hole　in　the　inside　pocket　of　his　sport　coat。　He　withdrew　it　now；　punched　in　the　number；　tried　to　breathe　normally。
　　〃What？〃　snapped　the　voice　on　the　other　end；　midway　into　the　second　ring。
　　〃H…hello；　Otis；〃　Leonard　stammered。
　　〃That　YOU；　Leonard？　God　damn　it！〃　The　malice　in　Pusser's　voice　shifted；　focused；　went　pletely　specific。　〃What　the　fuck　are　you　doin'　for　me　and　my　boy？〃
　　〃W…w…well；　that's　actually　why　I　called　。。。　〃
　　〃　'Cause　I'm　about　FIFTEEN　FUCKIN'　MINUTES　AWAY　from　callin'　the　cops　on　your　ass　。。。　！〃
　　〃Otis；　you　can't　do　that。〃　He　was　striving　for　an　authoritative　tone；　but　the　rivets　that　held　his　reality　together　were　rattling　loose。
　　〃My　boy　is　DYIN'！　Do　you　understand　me？〃　And　in　the　background；　Leonard　could　hear　the　boy　mewling：　a　horrible　sound。　〃You　gonna　find　some　kinda　hospital　can　take　him？　He　don't　have　no　insurance！　You　gonna　pay　the　fuckin'　bill？〃
　　〃Listen　。。。　〃　He　tasted　blood　in　his　mouth；　realized　he'd　gnawed　a　tiny　hole　in　his　lip。　〃I　t…talked　to　my　people；　and　。。。　〃
　　〃YOUR　PEOPLE　GOT　ABOUT　FIFTEEN　MINUTES　TO　SAVE　HIS　LIFE　AND　KEEP　HIS　ASS　OUT　OF　JAIL！〃　The　sound　blistered　through　the　plastic　earpiece。　〃OR　YOU'RE　GOIN'　DOWN；　YOU　STUPID　FAT　FUCK　。。。　！〃
　　Leonard　hung　up　the　phone。
　　And　stood　there；　terrified；　weighing　his　options。　None　of　them　were　good。　If　Otis　rolled　over；　then…Blake　or　no　Blake…the　world　as　he　knew　it　would　surely　end。
　　He　reached　up　to　fish　around　in　the　coin　return；　and　stopped。　Some　punk　had　plastered　a　sticker　over　the　slot；　a　design　rendered　in　jarringly　garish　neon　colors　and　squiggles。　It　was　a　circle…and…slash　motif：　the　universal　forbidden　symbol；　stamped　across　squiggly　letters　that　spelled
　　F　。。。　U　。。。　T　。。。　U　。。。　R　。。。　E。
　　The　gestalt　gelled　in　Harold's　quivering　mind。
　　NO　FUTURE。
　　〃Very　funny；〃　he　muttered；　jabbing　a　fat　finger　defiantly　into　the　slot。　〃Very　fucking　funny。〃
　　It　took　less　than　five　minutes　to　round　up　the　family；　pay　the　bill；　and　get　back　in　the　van。　Leonard　fidgeted　more　than　he　customarily　did　in　the　cashier's　line；　and　didn't　even　bother　to　scarf　his　customary　handful　of　chalky　mints　from　the　bowl　by　the　register。　Marge　knew　better　than　to　pry；　and　the　kids　never　even　wondered　why　Daddy　looked　so　bad。
　　They　wouldn't　have　understood　it　if　he'd　told　them。
　　Nobody　did。
　　
　　
　　　Sixteen
　　　
　　Getting　the　tape　out　of　the　edit　deck　was　easy。
　　Getting　the　hell　out　of　the　studio　was　impossible。
　　It　had　been　a　mess；　alright；　the　tape　had　mitted　hari…kari；　spilling　its　innards　into　the　guts　of　the　deck　in　nasty　little　inextricable　knots。　Mike　was　right　about　the　decks：　the　Sony　had　seized　up　like　it　was　holding　the　cassette　for　ransom；　it　took　twenty　minutes　to　free　the　hostage。
　　Gary　stood　at　his　bench　in　the　repair　bay　behind　Studio　B；　putting　the　edit　deck　back　together。　The　bay　was　his　domain：　a　garage…sized　space　housing　repair　benches　stacked　with　ripped…down　gear；　plus　storage　space　for　the　bulky　microwave　relays　and　other　accoutrements　of　broadcast　technology　maintenance。
　　He　screwed　the　last　screw　into　place　and　did　the　mental　math　of　his　redemption。　It　would　take　him　ten　minutes　to　get　across　town；　give　or　take　a　stoplight　or　two。　Add　that　to　the　ten　it　took　to　get　there　and　twenty　at　the　bench；　divided　by　the　time　Micki's　flight　was　due　in　over　the　square　root　of　Gwen's　pregnancy　。。。
　　。。。　equals　a　world　of　shit；　he　thought。　God；　she's　gonna　be　pissed。　He　sighed；　picked　up　the　phone　and　tried　again：　no　answer。
　　Oboy；　he　groaned；　wincing；　then　shrugged　it　off。　He'd　deal　with　it　later。　There　was　certainly　nothing　he　could　do　about　it　now。
　　Gary　hefted　the　deck　and　carted　it　down　the　hall。　The　nattering　buzz　of　the　newsroom　was　tangible　from　all　the　way　down　the　hall。　It　made　his　gut　rumble。　He　stopped　at　the　doorway　to　Studio　A　and　stuck　his　head　in。
　　On　the　home　monitor；　the　closing　credits　for　WWF　Superstars　of　Wrestling　were　rolling　by。　This　Is　the　NFL　was　less　than　three　minutes　away。　John　Bizzano　was　tending　to　the　changeover　with　his　customarily　laconic　aplomb。
　　〃Mornin'；　Gar；〃　he　said；　not　even　looking　up　as　he　cued　up　the　mercial　tapes。　〃What're　you　doin'　here　today？〃
　　〃Beats　me；〃　Gary　grumbled。　〃Misplaced　sense　of　duty；　I　guess。〃
　　〃Don'cha　hate　it　when　that　happens？〃　Bizzano　replied；　presiding　over　the　switch　as　they　cut　from　World　Federation　Wrestling　to　a　five…second　station　ID　and　a　thirty…second　mercial　for　toilet　bowl　cleaner。
　　John　Bizzano　was　a　burly　bear　of　a　man；　with　a　bushy　black　beard　and　no　visible　neck；　but　his　fingers　were　pure　magic。　John　was　the　Iceman；　'PAL's　Amadeus　of　the　digital　cross…fade。　No　task　fazed　him；　he　could　orchestrate　the　mix　of　two　live　feeds　in　different　time　zones；　with　satellite　uplink；　taped　outtakes；　and　special　effects；　and　load　and　cut　to　sixteen　mercials。　Never　bumping　his　blood　pressure　up　a　single　point　on　the　stressometer。
　　Never　blowing　a　fucking　cue。
　　John　was　cool。
　　〃Hmmm；〃　Gary　began；　offhandedly　scanning　the　bank　of　monitors　above　the　console。　〃Anything　weird　happening　here　today？〃
　　〃Hmmph；〃　John　scoffed。　〃Ask　a　stupid　question。〃
　　〃No；　I　mean　weird　weird；〃　Gary　amended。
　　〃Sorry；　bro'；〃　John　replied。　〃It's　dead。〃　He　reclined　back　in　his　chair　and　watched　as　little　cartoon　scrubbing　bubbles　raced　around　a　bathtub　like　it　was　the　Indy　500。　〃Dead；　dead；　deadskies　。。。　〃　he　drawled　in　a　passable　Michael　Keaton…Beetlejuice　growl。　〃Why　do　you　ask？〃
　　Gary　shrugged。　〃I　dunno。　Just　a　feeling；　I　guess；〃　he　said；　and　ambled　off　down　the　hall。
　　
　　A　minute　later；　he　entered　the　newsroom。　〃Here　you　go；〃　he　said。　〃All　better　now　。。。　〃
　　And　stopped。
　　It　was　like　walking　into　range　of　an　enormous　field　generator：　the　police　scanners　all　cranked　and　buzzing；　the　tension　so　charged　it　stood　the　short　hairs　of　his　arms　on　end。　He　clammed　up　as　if　he'd　just　stumbled　onto　a　live　soundstage。
　　But　it　was　only　Laura；　pacing　and　smoking　up　a　miniature　smog　bank。
　　〃Ahem　。。。　〃　Gary　said　cautiously。　〃Deck's　back　up。〃
　　〃Uh；　thanks；〃　she　said；　looking　up　as　though　just　noticing　him。　〃Just　set　it　up；　okay？〃
　　〃You　got　it；〃　Gary　said；　putting　the　deck　back　in　its　place。　So　much　for　gratitude；　he　thought。　News　was　big　on　making　nice　when　they　needed　something…a　quick　fix；　a　rush　edit；　or　some　effects　generation…but　give　them　a　hot　story　and　watch　everything　else　drop　right　off　the　map。
　　A　garbled　transmission　squawked　across　the　police　scanner；　Laura　bolted　to　the　desk；　pen　and　notebook　in　hand。　〃County　to　Adam…sixty；　e　in　please　。。。　Adam…sixty；　please　respond　。。。　〃
　　〃Shit！〃　Laura　hissed。　〃That　little　bastard！〃
　　〃What's　going　on？〃　Gary　asked。　Not　that　she　was　talking　to　him　or　anything。
　　〃What？〃　Laura　started　as　if　she'd　forgotten　he　was　there。　〃Oh；　nothing。〃　She　turned　toward　the　scanner；　figurative　steam　hissing　out　of　her　ears。　〃Kirk　and　Mike　took　off　chasing　down　a　lead　almost　forty　minutes　ago；〃　she　said；　〃and　I　told　them　to　maintain　radio　contact；　but　Kirk　is　such　a　little　goddamned　asshole　sometimes；　and　。。。　〃
　　And　Mike's　such　a　stoner；　Gary　thought。　Mike　hadn't　been　around　too　long；　but　Gary　liked　him　in　a　my…dorky…kid…brother　kind　of　way。　In　some　ways；　Mike　reminded　Gary　of　himself；　a　decade　or　so　ago。　Same　goofy　go…for…broke　resolve；　same　fascination　with　the　toys　and　tools　of　his　trade。
　　Of　course；　Mike　seemed　spacier；　but　then　Gary　wasn't　sure　how　much　of　that　was　the　change　in　himself。　He　could　remember　more　than　once　looking　down　to　find　his　face　wrapped　around　the　pay　end　of　a　bong。
　　〃Well；　if　that's　all　you　need；　then　。。。　〃　Gary　began；　easing　his　way　toward　the　door。
　　And　that　was　when　Kirk　came　busting　in。
　　Now；　ten　years　in　television　news　could　turn　the　most　delicate　stomach　lining　to　boot　leather。　Gary's　had　long　since　made　the　change。　Experience　had　sharpened　his　senses　even　as　it　had　dulled　his　feelings；　he　picked　up　on　the　heady　adrenaline…scent　of　disaster　almost　instantly。　It　mingled　with　another　smell：　the　high　nasal　tang　of　undiluted　ambition。
　　It　didn't　take　a　master　detective　to　win　the　first　round　of　what's　wrong　with　this　picture！　Kirk　Bogarde　was　one　of　the　vainest　sons…of…bitches　on　earth；　but　here　he　was；　showing　up　at　work　spattered　from　head　to　toe　in　mud；　his　hair　all　unmoussed　and　tousled。　Mike's　battered　camera　dangled　from　one　hand；　mud…spattered