ericlustbader.the ninja-第51部分

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　He　began　to　walk　west。　Traffic　from　Sixth　Avenue　sounded　like　surf　breaking　against　a　far…off　shore。　He　thought　of　Uraga　where　the　ships　of　Admiral　Perry　had　docked　in　1853；　ending　two　hundred　and　fifty　years　of　Japanese　isolationism。　The　mysterious　surf　rolling　in　towards　the　Floating　Kingdom。　Better　if　we　had　not　given　in　to　that　Pacific　Overture。　Far　better。　The　ageless　barrier　holding　Japan　in　magical　thrall　had　been　breached。　It　was　a　mythic　tale；　as　all　of　Japanese　history　tended　to　be；　throwing　bigger…than…life　shadows　on　the　screen　of　memory。
　Down　the　block；　almost　at　the　corner　of　Sixth；　a　cab　started　up；　pulling　slowly　out　from　the　kerb；　ing　towards　him。　Just　before　it　pulled　abreast；　its　hack　light　went　on。　It　caught　his　eye；　a　spinning　jewel　in　the　night。　He　was　still　in　Japan。
　He　waved　at　it　drunkenly　and　it　pulled　over　to　the　kerb。　A　Checker；　big　and　roomy。　And　air…conditioned。
　It　was　a　custom　job；　not　fleet…owned。　Inside；　there　was　no　plastic　partition　and　the　front　seats　were　beige　leather　buckets。　Vincent　gave　the　driver　his　address　and　settled　back。　The　cab　started　up。
　Even　in　the　crowded　modern　streets　of　Tokyo；　Vincent　was　thinking；　amid　the　urban　clutter；　the　European　business　suits；　one　would　abruptly　e　up　an　ancient　Shinto　shrine　tucked　away　somewhere　between　two　buildings。　One　could　hear　the　ghostly　tinkling　of　the　bronze　bells；　sewn　in　a　vertical　strip；　green　with　the　patina　of　time；　one　could　smell　the　incense　gently　swirling　the　air。　For　those　moments　the　exhaust　fumes；　the　pollution；　were　eliminated　and　the　soul　of　ageless　Japan　reigned　unsullied　by　Western　encroachment；　summoning　the　ancient　gods。　It　was　dark　in　the　cab。　He　gazed　out　at　the　glowing　lights　of　the　city；　realized　that　they　were　moving　quite　slowly。　He　leaned　forward。　'Hey；'　he　said；　Td　like　to　get　home　within　the　hour。〃
　He　saw　the　back　of　the　driver's　head　move　and；　raising　his　gaze；　saw　his　eyes　in　the　strip　of　the　rear…view　mirror。　He　saw　that　the　man　was　Japanese；　looked　for　his　name　on　the　I。D。　card　on　the　extreme　right　of　the　dashboard。　The　light　was　out　and　he　could　not　make　it　out。　He　spoke　to　the　driver　in　Japanese；　apologizing　for　his　rudeness。
　That's　all　right；'　the　man　said。　'It's　been　a　hard　night　for　everyone。'
　They　had　e　round　onto　Forty…fifth；　heading　west。　The　taxi　swung　right　at　the　corner　onto　Eighth　Avenue。　Here　the　street　was　lined　on　both　sides　by　a　bination　of　junk　food　restaurants　and　sleazy　porn　theatres。　The　sidewalks　were　filled　with　hookers　looking　to　feed　their　habits；　black　con　men；　low…grade　pushers　and　Puerto　Rican　strong…arm　boys：　the　vast　white　underbelly　of　the　city　in　all　its　gritty；　sorrowful　splendour。
　The　driver　went　through　one　intersection　on　the　change；　hit　a　red　light　on　the　next。
　'It's　a　night　like　home；'　Vincent　said　in　Japanese。
　'No　one　wanted　it；'　the　man　said。　'It　should　never　have　e。'
　Vincent　thought　again　of　Perry's　four　warships；　riding　in　the　harbour　at　Uraga。　Perhaps　he's　right；　he　thought。　We　never　should　have　…
　The　driver　had　turned　round。　His　face　was　blue　and　green　in　the　dancing　garish　lights　from　a　movie　theatre。　His　mouth　opened　in　a　smile。　A　black　oblong　that　might　have　belonged　to　a　No　mask。　The　eyes　were　like　stones；　radiated　no　possibility　of　warmth　or　friendship。　This　contrast　between　smile　and　animosity　made　him　appear　to　leer　frighteningly。　Vincent　was　reminded　of　the　first　No　play　he　had　seen　with　its　terrifying　demon's　mask；　at　least　that　was　how　it　had　seemed　to　him　at　the　age　of　six。
　There　was　something　odd　about　this　face　but　in　the　low　light　he　couldn't　tell。　He　leaned　forward。　It　seemed　as　if　the　skin　on　the　man's　face　was　blotchy　as　if　…
　He　drew　back；　his　mind　stunned　at　what　it　had　perceived。　But　his　reflexes　had　been　dulled　by　the　alcohol　and；　even　as　he　retreated；　he　saw　the　man's　face　ballooning　out　towards　him　like　the　wedge　of　a　viper。　The　cheeks　billowed　and　the　lips　curled　into　an　O。　A　fine　mist　shot　from　the　aperture；　caught　him　in　mid…gasp。　He　had　already　inhaled　some　of　the　spray　before　he　stopped　breathing。
　Croaker　sat　in　the　tatami　room；　cross…legged；　his　head　propped　on　one　fist；　after　Vincent　had　left。　He　called　for　more　sake　and　thought　savagely　about　going　home。　He　gulped　at　the　liquor。　It　was　cold　and　he　waited　patiently　for　the　fresh　bottle。　He　liked　the　stuff。　It　had　hardly　any　taste　but　generated　a　hell　of　a　high。
　He　didn't　want　to　go　home。　No；　no；　he　thought。　That's　not　it。　I　don't　want　to　go　home　to　Alison。　This　both　surprised　and　annoyed　him。　Surprised　because　even　though　he　had　known　this　might　be　ing　for　a　while；　it　had　now　surfaced　so　strongly；　so　blatantly。　Annoyed　with　himself　because　he　had　allowed　things　to　slip　this　far。　It　wasn't　even　that　he　was　angry　with　Alison；　he　thought。　He　just　didn't　want　to　have　anything　'　to　do　with　her　any　more。　He　wondered　for　a　time　that　two　people　could　feel　so　much　together　for　a　time　and　then；　later；　not　'。　feel　anything　at　all。　Part　of　the　human　condition；　he　concluded　philosophically；　but　a　hell　of　a　part。
　The　sake　came　and　he　allowed　the　waiter　to　pour　the　first　cup。　He　downed　it；　immediately　poured　himself　another。　He　itched　to　call　Matty　the　Mouth　but　he　suspected　that　if　he　did　he　might　break　this　Didion　thing　to　smithereens。　It　seemed　to　him　now　that　the　entire　case　was　balanced　on　one　shining　　　　　　　'　point：　getting　the　name　and　address　of　this　broad。
　He　didn't　have　to　close　his　eyes　to　be　able　to　picture　again　Angela　Didion's　apartment；　but　he　did　so　anyway。　He　went　over　it　all　again。
　The　first　thing　he　noticed　when　he　walked　in　was　the　smell。　Sickly…sweet；　it　was　ether　bined　with　what？　The　darkened　living…room　had　given　up　nothing　but　in　the　bedroom　he　saw　the　American　Indian　bone　pipe　and；　sniffing　it；　smelled　the　opium。　Tasted　it　on　the　tip　of　his　tongue。　Very　high　grade　indeed。　Hardly　street　stuff。　But　then　this　was　Angela　Didion's'；　bedroom　and　a　woman　who　was　purportedly　the　world's　highest…paid　model　could　hardly　be　expected　to　have　anything　but　the；　best　…　of　everything。　He　didn't　touch　the　pipe；　he　didn't　touch　anything。
　Slipping　on　his　surgeon's　gloves；　he　crossed　to　the　closet；　opposite　the　enormous　bed。　The　bedroom　was　all　done　in　midnight　blue；　from　the　silk　walls　to　the　satin　lampshades。　There　was　only　one　lamp　on　when　he　came　in；　next　to　the　bed。　He　left　the　room　that　way。
　Carefully　he　opened　up　the　sliding　door。　Inside　he　found　silk　dresses；　six　fur　coats；　ranging　from　。a　full…length　dyed　Russian　sable　to　a　spectacular　three…quarter　silver　lynx。　Below；　shoes　from　Botticelli　and　Charles　Jourdan。
　On　the　deep…pile　rug　between　the　bed　and　the　closet　was　a　black　silk　negligee。　He　skirted　that　on　the　way　to　the　bed。　It　was　a　custom…made　affair；　moon…shaped。　The　sheets　were　midnight…blue　percale　but　the　rumpled　quilt　was　covered　in　silk。　It　lay　around　Angela　Didion's　ankles　like　dark　surf；　ready　to　claim　her。
　She　lay　half　on　the　bed；　half　off。　Her　head　hung　over　the　edge；　the　long　honey…blonde　hair　falling　on　to　the　floor。　She　was　made　up。　Her　eyes　were　mascaraed；　her　cheeks　blushed；　her　lips　painted。　She　was　naked　save　for　a　thin　gold　chain；　which　she　wore　around　her　waist。　There　was　no　other　jewellery。　She　lay　on　the　left　side　of　the　bed。　The　right　side　was　empty　but　the　pillow　on　that　side　was　indented　as　if　someone　had　lain　there。　There　were　stains　on　the　sheets；　still　damp。　There　was　no　blood。　A　pillow　was　wedged　beneath　the　small　of　Angela　Didion's　back。
　Someone　had　done　quite　a　job　on　her。　Bruises；　just　beginning　to　darken；　lay　like　boils　along　the　sides　of　her　neck；　her　chest　and　rib　cage；　her　stomach。　Her　back　was　arched　as　if　in　ecstasy。　There　was　no　expression　on　her　face　whatsoever。　No　sign　of　pain　or　fear　…　or　of　passion。
　It　should　have　been　grotesque；　would　have　been　with　any　other　victim　…　Croaker　had　seen　too　many　like　it。　But　this　wasn't　anyone；　it　was　Angela　Didion。　She　must　have　been　an　extraordinary　woman；　Croaker　thought　as　he　stood　staring　down　at　the　corpse；　because　her　beauty　transcended　even　this　degradation；　even　death。　Croaker　knew　dial　he　was　looking　at　a　magnificent　piece　of　humanity　and　it　saddened　him　that　it　should　have　been　destroyed　so　recklessly。　He　felt　that　about　most　of　the　bodies　he　found；　if　they　weren't　the　punks　who　got　blown　away　by　their　own　cupidity；　the　city　breathed　easier　without　them。
　He　tore　his　gaze　away　from　the　bed　and；　going　around　it；　knelt　beside　the　black　silk　garment　on　the　carpet。　In　this　twilight　of　the　room；　it　was　almost　invisible：　black　against　the　deep　blue　that　was　almost　black　itself。
　Dipping　one　forefinger　down；　he　lifted　it　up　slightly。　Bending；　he　touched　his　nose　to　it；　breathed　in；　caught　the　faint　whiff　of　a　perfume。　He　got　up；　crossed　to　Angela　Didion's　dressing　table。　He　passed　over　the　ivory　brush　and　b　set；　the　oval　tortoise…shell　hand　mirror；　the　odds　and　ends　of　mascara；　eyeliner；　blush；　powder；　creams；　taking　them　all　in　as　he　did　so。　There　were　two　perfume　bottles　on　a　silver　tray　against　the　wall。　Joy　and　Bal　a　Versailles。　He　sniffed　at　both　of　them；　one　at　a　time；　slowly。　Then；　to　make　certain；　he　returned　to　the　silk　negligee；　confirming　for　himself　that　it　exuded　another　perfume；　that　it　bore　the　imprint　of　another　woman。
　It