"Let's All Kill Constance" - читать интересную книгу автора (Bradbury Ray Douglas)CHAPTER SIXTEENon the way across town I was a hot-air balloon full of Great Expectations. Crumley kept hitting my elbow to make me calm down, calm down. But we "Church!" Crumley muttered. "Since when do double features sideline the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost?" "Holy mackerel." Crumley switched on the car radio. "— afternoon-" a voice said. "Mount Lowe-" "Listen!" I said, my stomach a chunk of ice. The voice said, "Death… police… Clarence Rattigan… victim…" A flare of static. "Freak accident… victim smothered, smothered… old newspapers. Recall brothers in Bronx? Saved stacks of old papers that fell and killed the brothers? Newspapers…" "Turn it off." Crumley turned it off. "That poor lost soul," I said. "Was he really "Lost as you can get without giving it the old heave-ho." "You want to drive by?" "Drive by," I said at last, making noises. "You didn't know him," said Crumley. "Why those noises?" The last police car was leaving. The morgue van had long since left. A lone policeman on his motorcycle stood at the bottom of Mount Lowe. Crumley leaned out his window. "Anything to keep us from driving up?" "Just me," said the officer. "But I'm leaving." "Were there any reporters?" "No, it wasn't worth it." "Yeah," I said, and made more noises. "Okay, okay," Crumley groused, "wait till I get this damn car aimed before you upchuck your hairball." I waited and fell apart, silently. The motorcycle policeman left, and it was a long late afternoon journey up to the ruined temple of Karnak, the destroyed Valley of the Kings, and lost Cairo, or so I said along the way. "Lord Carnarvon dug up a king, we bury one. I wouldn't mind a grave like this." "Bull Montana," said Crumley. "He was a wrestling cowboy. Bull." At the top of the hill there were no ruins, just a vast pyramid of newspapers being rummaged by a bulldozer driven by an illiterate. The guy bucking the wheeled machine had no idea he was reaping Hearst's outcries, '29, or McCormick's eruptions in the Crumley had to restrain me from leaping out to seize VICTORY IN EUROPE or HITLER DEAD IN BUNKER or AIMEE WALKS FROM SEA. "Easy!" Crumley muttered. "But look what he's doing to all that priceless stuff! Let go, dammit!" I leaped forward to grab two or three front pages. Roosevelt was elected on one, dead on another, reelected on the third, and then there was Pearl Harbor and Hiroshima at dawn. "Jesus," I whispered, pressing the damned lovely things to my ribs. Crumley picked up "l WILL RETURN," SAYS MACARTHUR. "I get your point," he admitted. "He was a bastard, but the best emperor Japan ever had." The guy minding the grim reaping machine had stopped and was eyeing us like more trash. Crumley and I jumped back. He plowed through toward a truck already heaped with MUSSOLINI BOMBS ETHIOPIA, JEANETTE MACDONALD MARRIES, AL JOLSON DEAD. "Fire hazard!" he yelled. I watched a half-hundred years of time pour into the Dumpster. "Dry grass and newsprint, firetraps," I mused. "My God, my God, what if-" "What if what?" "In some future date people use newspapers, or books, to "They already do," said Crumley. "Winter mornings, my dad shoved newspaper under the coal in our stove and struck a match." "Okay, but what about "No damn fool would use a book to start a fire. Wait. You got that look says you're about to write a ten-ton encyclopedia." "No," I said. "Maybe a story with a hero who smells of kerosene." "Some hero." We walked over a killing field of littered days, nights, years, half a century. The papers crunched like cereal underfoot. "Jericho," I said. "Someone bring a trumpet here, and blow a blast?" "A trumpet blast or a yell. There's been a lot of yelling lately. At Queen Califia's, or here, for King Tut." "And then there's the priest. Rattigan," Crumley said. "Didn't Constance try to blow his church down? But hell, look, we're standing on Omaha Beach, Normandy, over Churchill's war rooms, holding Chamberlain's damned umbrella. You soaking it up?" "Wading three feet deep. I wonder how it felt, that last second when old Rattigan drowned in this flood. Franco's Falangists, Hitler's youth, Stalin's Reds, Detroit's riots, Mayor La Guardia reading the Sunday funnies, what a death!" "To hell with it. Look." The remnant of Clarence Rattigan's burial cot was sticking up out of a cat litter of STOCK MARKET CRASHES and BANKS CLOSE. I picked up a final discard. Nijinsky danced on the theater page. "A couple of nuts," said Crumley. "Nijinsky, and old Rattigan, who saved this review!" "Touch your eyelids." Crumley did so. His fingers came away wet. "Damn," he said. "This is a graveyard. Move!" I grabbed TOKYO SUES FOR PEACE… And then headed for the sea. Crumley drove me to my old beach apartment, but it was raining again, and I looked at the ocean threatening to drown us all with a storm that could knock at midnight and bring Constance, dead, and the other Rattigan, also dead, and crush my bed with rain and seaweed. Hell! I yanked Clarence Rattigan's newspapers off the wall. Crumley drove me back to my small empty tract house, with no storm on the shore, and stashed vodka by my bed, Crumley's Elixir, and left the lights on and said he would call later that night to I heard hail on the roof. Someone thumping a coffin lid. I called Maggie across a continent of rain. "Do I hear someone crying?" she said. |
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