[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
I lowered the knife, turned away, and walked out into the night.
107 of 173
TWENTY-FOUR
S OMEHOW I PULLED MYSELF OUT OF BED AND WENT IN TO work the next day, in spite of the
gnawing sense of dull despair that bloomed in me like a brittle garden of thorns. I felt wrapped in a fog of dull
pain that hurt only enough to remind me that it, too, was without purpose, and there seemed no point to going
through the empty motions of breakfast, the long slow drive to work, no reason at all beyond the slavery of
habit. But I did it, allowing muscle memory to push me all the way into the chair at my desk, where I sat, turned
on the computer, and let the day drag me off into gray drudgery.
I had failed with Starzak. I was no longer me, and had no idea who or what I was.
Rita was waiting for me at the door when I got home with a look of anxious annoyance on her face.
"We need to decide about the band," she said. "They may already be booked."
"All right," I said. Why not decide about bands? It was as meaningful as anything else.
"I picked up all the CDs from where you dropped them yesterday," she said, "and sorted them by price."
"I'll listen to them tonight," I said, and although Rita still seemed peeved, eventually the evening routine took
over and calmed her down, and she settled into cooking and cleaning while I listened to a series of rock bands
playing "Chicken Dance" and "Electric Slide." I'm sure that ordinarily it would have been as much fun as a
toothache, but since I couldn't think of anything else in the world worth doing, I labored through the whole stack
of CDs and soon it was time for bed again.
At 1 A.M. the music came back to me, and I don't mean "Chicken Dance." It was the drums and trumpets, and a
chorus of voices came with them and rolled through my sleep, lifting me up into the heavens, and I woke up on
the floor with the memory of it still echoing in my head.
I lay on the floor for a long time, unable to form any truly coherent thought about what it meant, but afraid to go
to sleep in case it should come back again. Eventually I did get into bed, and I suppose I even slept, since I
opened my eyes to sunlight and sound coming from the kitchen.
image
It was a Saturday morning, and Rita made blueberry pancakes, a very welcome nudge back to everyday life.
Cody and Astor piled into the flapjacks with enthusiasm, and on any normal morning I would not have held back
either. But today was not a normal morning.
It is difficult to understate how large the shock must be to put Dexter off his feed. I have a very fast metabolism,
and require constant fuel in order to maintain the wonderful device that is me, and Rita's pancakes fully qualify
as high-test unleaded. And yet, time and again I found myself staring at the fork as it wavered halfway between
the plate and my mouth, and I was unable to muster the necessary enthusiasm for completing the motion and
putting in food.
Soon enough, everyone else was finished with the meal, and I was still staring at half a plate of food. Even Rita
noticed that all was not well in Dexter's Domain.
"You've hardly touched your food," she said. "Is something wrong?"
"It's this case I'm working on," I said, at least half truthfully. "I can't stop thinking about it."
"Oh," she said. "You're sure that& I mean, is it very violent?"
"It's not that," I said, wondering what she wanted to hear. "It's just& very puzzling."
Rita nodded. "Sometimes if you stop thinking about something for a while, the answer comes to you," she said.
"Maybe you're right," I said, which was probably stretching the truth.
"Are you going to finish your breakfast?" she said.
108 of 173
I stared down at my plate with its pile of half-eaten pancakes and congealed syrup. Scientifically speaking, I
knew they were still delicious, but at the moment they seemed about as appealing as old wet newspaper. "No," I
said.
Rita looked at me with alarm. When Dexter does not finish his breakfast, we are in uncharted territory. "Why
don't you take your boat out?" she said. "That always helps you relax." She came over and put a hand on me
with aggressive concern, and Cody and Astor looked up with the hope of a boat ride written on their faces, and
it was suddenly like being in quicksand.
I stood up. It was all too much. I could not even meet my own expectations, and to be asked to deal with all
theirs too was suffocating. Whether it was my failure with Starzak, the pursuing music, or being sucked down
into family life, I could not say. Maybe it was the combination of all of them, pulling me apart with wildly
opposite gravities and sucking the pieces into a whirlpool of clinging normaley that made me want to scream,
and at the same time left me unable even to whimper. Whatever it was, I had to get out of here.
"I have an errand I have to run," I said, and they all looked at me with wounded surprise.
"Oh," Rita said. "What kind of errand?"
"Wedding business," I blurted out, without any idea what I was going to say next, but trusting the impulse
blindly. And happily for me, at least one thing went right, because I remembered my conversation with the
blushing, groveling Vince Masuoka. "I have to talk to the caterer."
Rita lit up. "You're going to see Manny Borque? Oh," she said. "That's really-"
"Yes, it is," I assured her. "I'll be back later." And so at the reasonable Saturday-morning time of fifteen minutes
before ten o'clock, I bid a fond farewell to dirty dishes and domesticity, and climbed into my car. It was an
unusually calm morning on the roads, and I saw no violence or crime of any kind as I drove to South Beach,
which was almost like seeing snow at the Fontainebleau. Things being what they were for me lately, I kept an
eye on the rearview mirror. For just a minute I thought that a little red Jeep-style car was following me, but
when I slowed down it went right past me. The traffic stayed light, and it was still only ten fifteen when I had
parked my car, rode up in the elevator, and knocked on Manny Borque's door.
There was a very long spell of utter silence, and I knocked again, a little more enthusiastically this time. I was
about to try a truly rousing salute on the door when it swung open and an exceedingly bleary and mostly naked
Manny Borque blinked up at me. "Jesus' tits," he croaked. "What time is it?"
"Ten fifteen," I said brightly. "Practically time for lunch."
Perhaps he wasn't really awake, or perhaps he thought it was so funny it was worth saying again, but in any case
he repeated himself: "Jesus' tits."
"May I come in?" I asked him politely, and he blinked a few more times and then pushed the door open all the
way.
"This better be good," he said, and I followed him in, past the hideous art-thing in his foyer and on to his perch
by the window. He hopped up onto his stool, and I sat on the one opposite.
"I need to talk to you about my wedding," I said, and he shook his head very grumpily and squealed out,
"Franky!" There was no answer and he leaned on one tiny hand and tapped the other on the table. "That little
bitch had better-Goddamn it, Franky!" he called out in something like a very high-pitched bellow.
A moment later there was a scurrying sound from the back of the apartment, and then a young man came out, [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
zanotowane.pl doc.pisz.pl pdf.pisz.pl aikidobyd.xlx.pl
I lowered the knife, turned away, and walked out into the night.
107 of 173
TWENTY-FOUR
S OMEHOW I PULLED MYSELF OUT OF BED AND WENT IN TO work the next day, in spite of the
gnawing sense of dull despair that bloomed in me like a brittle garden of thorns. I felt wrapped in a fog of dull
pain that hurt only enough to remind me that it, too, was without purpose, and there seemed no point to going
through the empty motions of breakfast, the long slow drive to work, no reason at all beyond the slavery of
habit. But I did it, allowing muscle memory to push me all the way into the chair at my desk, where I sat, turned
on the computer, and let the day drag me off into gray drudgery.
I had failed with Starzak. I was no longer me, and had no idea who or what I was.
Rita was waiting for me at the door when I got home with a look of anxious annoyance on her face.
"We need to decide about the band," she said. "They may already be booked."
"All right," I said. Why not decide about bands? It was as meaningful as anything else.
"I picked up all the CDs from where you dropped them yesterday," she said, "and sorted them by price."
"I'll listen to them tonight," I said, and although Rita still seemed peeved, eventually the evening routine took
over and calmed her down, and she settled into cooking and cleaning while I listened to a series of rock bands
playing "Chicken Dance" and "Electric Slide." I'm sure that ordinarily it would have been as much fun as a
toothache, but since I couldn't think of anything else in the world worth doing, I labored through the whole stack
of CDs and soon it was time for bed again.
At 1 A.M. the music came back to me, and I don't mean "Chicken Dance." It was the drums and trumpets, and a
chorus of voices came with them and rolled through my sleep, lifting me up into the heavens, and I woke up on
the floor with the memory of it still echoing in my head.
I lay on the floor for a long time, unable to form any truly coherent thought about what it meant, but afraid to go
to sleep in case it should come back again. Eventually I did get into bed, and I suppose I even slept, since I
opened my eyes to sunlight and sound coming from the kitchen.
image
It was a Saturday morning, and Rita made blueberry pancakes, a very welcome nudge back to everyday life.
Cody and Astor piled into the flapjacks with enthusiasm, and on any normal morning I would not have held back
either. But today was not a normal morning.
It is difficult to understate how large the shock must be to put Dexter off his feed. I have a very fast metabolism,
and require constant fuel in order to maintain the wonderful device that is me, and Rita's pancakes fully qualify
as high-test unleaded. And yet, time and again I found myself staring at the fork as it wavered halfway between
the plate and my mouth, and I was unable to muster the necessary enthusiasm for completing the motion and
putting in food.
Soon enough, everyone else was finished with the meal, and I was still staring at half a plate of food. Even Rita
noticed that all was not well in Dexter's Domain.
"You've hardly touched your food," she said. "Is something wrong?"
"It's this case I'm working on," I said, at least half truthfully. "I can't stop thinking about it."
"Oh," she said. "You're sure that& I mean, is it very violent?"
"It's not that," I said, wondering what she wanted to hear. "It's just& very puzzling."
Rita nodded. "Sometimes if you stop thinking about something for a while, the answer comes to you," she said.
"Maybe you're right," I said, which was probably stretching the truth.
"Are you going to finish your breakfast?" she said.
108 of 173
I stared down at my plate with its pile of half-eaten pancakes and congealed syrup. Scientifically speaking, I
knew they were still delicious, but at the moment they seemed about as appealing as old wet newspaper. "No," I
said.
Rita looked at me with alarm. When Dexter does not finish his breakfast, we are in uncharted territory. "Why
don't you take your boat out?" she said. "That always helps you relax." She came over and put a hand on me
with aggressive concern, and Cody and Astor looked up with the hope of a boat ride written on their faces, and
it was suddenly like being in quicksand.
I stood up. It was all too much. I could not even meet my own expectations, and to be asked to deal with all
theirs too was suffocating. Whether it was my failure with Starzak, the pursuing music, or being sucked down
into family life, I could not say. Maybe it was the combination of all of them, pulling me apart with wildly
opposite gravities and sucking the pieces into a whirlpool of clinging normaley that made me want to scream,
and at the same time left me unable even to whimper. Whatever it was, I had to get out of here.
"I have an errand I have to run," I said, and they all looked at me with wounded surprise.
"Oh," Rita said. "What kind of errand?"
"Wedding business," I blurted out, without any idea what I was going to say next, but trusting the impulse
blindly. And happily for me, at least one thing went right, because I remembered my conversation with the
blushing, groveling Vince Masuoka. "I have to talk to the caterer."
Rita lit up. "You're going to see Manny Borque? Oh," she said. "That's really-"
"Yes, it is," I assured her. "I'll be back later." And so at the reasonable Saturday-morning time of fifteen minutes
before ten o'clock, I bid a fond farewell to dirty dishes and domesticity, and climbed into my car. It was an
unusually calm morning on the roads, and I saw no violence or crime of any kind as I drove to South Beach,
which was almost like seeing snow at the Fontainebleau. Things being what they were for me lately, I kept an
eye on the rearview mirror. For just a minute I thought that a little red Jeep-style car was following me, but
when I slowed down it went right past me. The traffic stayed light, and it was still only ten fifteen when I had
parked my car, rode up in the elevator, and knocked on Manny Borque's door.
There was a very long spell of utter silence, and I knocked again, a little more enthusiastically this time. I was
about to try a truly rousing salute on the door when it swung open and an exceedingly bleary and mostly naked
Manny Borque blinked up at me. "Jesus' tits," he croaked. "What time is it?"
"Ten fifteen," I said brightly. "Practically time for lunch."
Perhaps he wasn't really awake, or perhaps he thought it was so funny it was worth saying again, but in any case
he repeated himself: "Jesus' tits."
"May I come in?" I asked him politely, and he blinked a few more times and then pushed the door open all the
way.
"This better be good," he said, and I followed him in, past the hideous art-thing in his foyer and on to his perch
by the window. He hopped up onto his stool, and I sat on the one opposite.
"I need to talk to you about my wedding," I said, and he shook his head very grumpily and squealed out,
"Franky!" There was no answer and he leaned on one tiny hand and tapped the other on the table. "That little
bitch had better-Goddamn it, Franky!" he called out in something like a very high-pitched bellow.
A moment later there was a scurrying sound from the back of the apartment, and then a young man came out, [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]