[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

usual arousal in all directions; no anger, no love, no strong emotions of any sort would help either of
them. How could intense natural involvement be of use when they were discussing crimes, serious
crimes, committed by persons close to Fred and even, as in the case of Luckman and Donna, dear to
him? He had to neutralize himself; they both did, him more so than Hank. They became neutral; they
spoke in a neutral fashion; they looked neutral. Gradually it became easy to do so, without
prearrangement.
And then afterward all his feelings seeped back.
Indignation at many of the events he had seen, even horror, in retrospect: shock. Great
overpowering runs for which there had been no previews. With the audio always up too loud inside his
head.
But while he sat across the table from Hank he felt none of these. Theoretically, he could describe
anything he had witnessed in an impassive way. Or hear anything from Hank.
For example, he could offhandedly say  Donna is dying of hep and using her needle to wipe out
as many of her friends as she can. Best thing here would be to pistol-whip her until she knocks it off.
His own chick . . . if he had observed that or knew it for a fact. Or  Donna suffered a massive
vasoconstriction from a mickey-mouse LSD analogue the other day and half the blood vessels in her
brain shut down. Or  Donna is dead. And Hank would note that down and maybe say  Who sold her
the stuff and where s it made? or  Where s the funeral, and we should get license numbers and
names, and he d discuss that without feeling.
This was Fred. But then later on Fred evolved into Bob Arctor, somewhere along the sidewalk
between the Pizza Hut and the Arco gas station (regular now a dollar two cents a gallon), and the
terrible colors seeped back into him whether he liked it or not.
This change in him as Fred was an economy of the passions. Firemen and doctors and morticians
did the same trip in their work. None of them could leap up and exclaim each few moments; they
would first wear themselves out and be worthless and then wear out everyone else, both as technicians
on the job and as humans off. An individual had just so much energy.
Hank did not force this dispassion on him; he allowed him to be like this. For his own sake. Fred
appreciated it.
 What about Arctor? Hank asked.
In addition to everyone else, Fred in his scramble suit naturally reported on himself. If he did not,
his superior and through him the whole law-enforcement apparatus would become aware of who
Fred was, suit or not. The agency plants would report back, and very soon he as Bob Arctor, sitting in
his living room smoking dope and dropping dope with the other dopers, would find he had a little
threefoot-high contract man on a cart coasting after him, too. And he would not be hallucinating, as
had been Jerry Fabin.
 Arctor s not doing anything much, Fred said, as he always did.  Works at his nowhere Blue
Chip Stamp job, drops a few tabs of death cut with meth during the day 
 I m not sure. Hank fiddled with one particular sheet of paper.  We have a tip here from an
informant whose tips generally pan out that Arctor has funds above and beyond what the Blue Chip
Redemption Center pays him. We called them and asked what his take-home pay is. It s not much.
And then we inquired into that, why that is, and we found he isn t employed there full time throughout
the week.
 No shit, Fred said dismally, realizing that the  aboveand-beyond funds were of course those
provided him for his narking. Every week small-denomination bills were dispensed to him by a
machine masquerading as a Dr. Pepper source at a Mexican bar and restaurant in Placentia. This was
in essence payoffs on information he gave that resulted in convictions. Sometimes this sum became
exceptionally great, as when a major heroin seizure occurred.
Hank read on reflectively,  And according to this informant, Arctor comes and goes
mysteriously, especially around sunset. After he arrives home he eats, then on what may be pretexts
takes off again. Sometimes very fast. But he s never gone for long. He glanced up the scramble suit
glanced up at Fred.  Have you observed any of this? Can you verify? Does it amount to anything?
 Most likely his chick, Donna, Fred said.
 Well,  most likely. You re supposed to know.
 It s Donna. He s over there banging her night and day. He felt acutely uncomfortable.  But I ll
check into it and let you know. Who s this informant? Might be a burn toward Arctor.
 Hell, we don t know. On the phone. No print he used some sort of rinky-dink electronic grid.
Hank chuckled; it sounded odd, coming out metallically as it did.  But it worked. Enough.
 Christ, Fred protested,  it s that burned-out acid head Jim Barris doing a schizy grudge number
on Arctor s head! Barris took endless electronic-repair courses in the Service, plus heavy-machinery
maintenance. I wouldn t give him the time of day as an informant.
Hank said,  We don t know it s Barris, and anyhow there may be more to Barris than  burned-out
acid head. We ve got several people looking into it. Nothing I feel would be of use to you, at least so
far.
 Anyhow, it s one of Arctor s friends, Fred said.
 Yes, it s undoubtedly a vengeance burn trip. These dopers phoning in on each other every time
they get sore. As a matter of fact, he did seem to know Arctor from a close standpoint.
 Nice guy, Fred said bitterly.
 Well, that s how we find out, Hank said.  What s the difference between that and what you re
doing?
 I m not doing it for a grudge, Fred said.
 Why are you doing it, actually?
Fred, after an interval said,  Damned if I know.
 You re off Weeks. I think for the time being I ll assign you primarily to observe Bob Arctor.
Does he have a middle name? He uses the initial 
Fred made a strangled, robotlike noise.  Why Arctor?
 Covertly funded, covertly engaged, making enemies by his activities. What s Arctor s middle
name? Hank s pen poised patiently. He waited to hear.
 Postlethwaite.
 How do you spell that?
 I don t know, I don t fucking know, Fred said.
 Postlethwaite, Hank said, writing a few letters.  What nationality is that?
 Welsh, Fred said curtly. He could barely hear; his ears had blurred out, and one by one his
other senses as well.
 Are those the people who sing about the men of Harlech? What is  Harlech ? A town
somewhere?
 Harlech is where the heroic defense against the Yorkists in 1468  Fred broke off. Shit, he
thought. This is terrible. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]