cb.imajica2-第38章

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　〃He's　a　head　case；　Tolly；〃　the　Irishman　said。　〃Look　at　him！　He's　a　friggin'　head　case。〃
　Tolland　didn't　glance　the　Irishman's　way；　or　slow　his　beating；　but　delivered　a　new　fusillade　of　punches。　The　Gentile's　body　now　hung　limply　from　the　pinion　of　his　hand；　the　face　above　it　blanker　by　the　blow。
　〃You　hear　me；　Tolly？〃　the　Irishman　said。　〃He's　a　nutter。　He's　not　feeling　it。〃
　〃You　keep　the　fuck　out　of　this。〃
　〃Why　don't　you　leave　him　alone？〃
　〃He's　on　my　fuckin'　patch；〃　Tolland　said。
　He　dragged　the　Gentile　away　from　the　wall　and　swung　him　around。　The　small　crowd　backed　off　to　give　their　leader　room　to　play。　With　Irish　silenced；　there　were　no　objections　raised　from　any　quarter。　Tolland　was　left　to　beat　the　Gentile　to　the　ground。　Then　he　followed　through　with　a　barrage　of　kicks。　His　victim　put　his　hands　around　his　head　and　curled　up　to　protect　himself　as　best　he　could；　whimpering。　But　Tolland　wasn't　about　to　let　the　man's　face　go　unbroken。　He　reached　down　and　dragged　the　hands　away；　raising　his　boot　to　bring　it　down。　Before　he　could　do　so；　however；　Tolland's　bottle　hit　the　floor；　spattering　wine　as　it　smashed。　He　turned　on　Irish。
　〃What　the　fuck　d'you　that　for？〃
　〃You　shouldn't　beat　up　head　cases；〃　the　man　replied；　by　his　tone　already　regretting　the　breakage。
　〃You　goin'　to　stop　me？〃
　〃All　I'm　sayin'…〃
　〃Are　you　goin'　to　try　and　fuckin'　stop　me？〃
　〃He's　not　right　in　the　head；　Tolly。〃
　〃So　I'll　kick　some　sense　into　him；〃　Tolland　replied。
　He　dropped　his　victim's　arms；　turning　all　his　crazed　attention　on　the　dissenter。
　〃Or　do　you　want　to　do　it？〃　he　said。
　Irish　shook　his　head。
　〃Go　on；〃　said　Tolland。　〃You　do　it　for　me。〃　He　stepped　over　the　Gentile　in　the　Irishman's　direction。　〃Go　on。。。〃　he　said　again。　〃Go　on。。。。〃
　Irish　began　to　retreat；　Tolland　bearing　down　on　him。　The　Gentile　had　meanwhile　turned　himself　over　and　was　starting　to　crawl　away；　blood　running　from　his　nose　and　from　the　wounds　reopened　on　his　brow。　Nobody　moved　to　help　him。　When　ToUand　was　roused；　as　now；　his　fury　knew　no　bounds。　Anyone　who　stepped　in　his　way…whether　man；　woman；　or　child…was　forfeit。　He　broke　bones　and　heads　without　a　second　thought；　had　ground　a　broken　bottle　into　a　man's　eye　once；　not　twenty　yards　from　this　spot；　for　the　crime　of　looking　at　him　too　long。　There　wasn't　a　cardboard　city　north　or　south　of　the　river　where　he　wasn't　known；　and　prayers　said　in　the　hope　that　he'd　not　e　visiting。
　Before　he　could　grab　hold　of　Irish　the　man　threw　up　his　hands　in　defeat。
　〃All　right；　Tolly；　all　right；〃　he　said。　〃It　was　my　mistake。　I　swear；　I'm　sorry。〃
　〃You　broke　my　fuckin　bottle。〃
　〃HI　fetch　you　another。　I　will。　I'll　do　it　now。〃
　Irish　had　known　Tolland　longer　than　anyone　else　in　this　circle　and　was　familiar　with　the　rules　of　placation：　copious　apology；　witnessed　by　as　many　of　Tolland's　tribe　as　possible。　It　wasn't　foolproof；　but　today　it　worked。
　〃Will　I　be　fetchin'　you　a　bottle　now？〃　Irish　said。
　〃Get　me　two；　you　fuckin'　scab。〃
　〃That's　what　I　am；　Tolly。　I'm　a　scab。〃
　〃And　one　for　Carol；〃　Tolland　said。
　〃I'll　do　that〃
　Tolland　leveled　a　grimy　finger　at　Irish。　〃And　don't　you　ever　try　crossin'　me　again；　or　I'll　have　your　fuckin'　balls。〃
　With　this　promise　made；　ToUand　turned　back　to　his　victim。　Seeing　that　the　Gentile　had　already　crawled　some　distance　from　him；　he　let　out　an　incoherent　roar　of　fury；　and　those　of　the　crowd　who　were　standing　within　a　yard　or　two　of　the　path　between　him　and　his　target　retreated。　Tolland　didn't　hurry；　but　watched　as　the　wounded　Gentile　laboriously　got　to　his　feet　and　began　to　make　a　staggering　escape　through　the　chaos　of　boxes　and　strewn　bedding。
　Up　ahead；　a　youth　of　sixteen　or　so　was　kneeling　on　the　ground；　covering　the　concrete　slabs　underfoot　with　designs　in　colored　chalk；　blowing　the　pastel　dust　off　his　handiwork　as　he　went。　Engrossed　in　his　art　he'd　ignored　the　beating　that　had　claimed　the　attention　of　the　others；　but　now　he　heard　Tolland's　voice　echoing　through　the　underpass；　calling　his　name。
　〃Monday；　you　fuckhead！　Get　hold　of　him！〃
　The　youth　looked　up。　His　hair　was　cropped　to　a　dark　fuzz；　his　skin　pockmarked；　his　ears　sticking　out　like　handles。　His　gaze　was　clear；　however；　despite　the　track　marks　that　disfigured　his　arms；　and　it　took　him　only　a　second　to　realize　his　dilemma。　If　he　brought　down　the　bleeding　man；　he'd　condemn　him。　If　he　didn't；　he'd　condemn　himself。　To　gain　a　little　time　he　feigned　bafflement；　cupping　his　hand　behind　his　ear　as　if　he'd　missed　Tolland's　instruction。
　〃Stop　him！〃　came　the　brute's　mand。
　Monday　started　to　get　to　his　feet；　murmuring；　〃Get　the　fuck　out　of　here；〃　to　the　escapee　as　he　did　so。
　But　the　idiot　had　stumbled　to　a　halt；　his　eyes　fixed　on　the　picture　Monday　had　been　making。　It　was　filched　from　a　newspaper　photo　of　a　starlet；　wide…eyed；　posing　with　a　koala　in　her　arms。　Monday　had　rendered　the　woman　with　loving　accuracy；　but　the　koala　had　bee　a　patchwork　beast；　with　a　single　burning　eye　in　its　brooding　head。
　〃Didn't　you　hear　me？〃　Monday　said。
　The　man　ignored　him。
　〃It's　your　funeral；〃　he　said；　rising　now　as　Tolland　approached；　pushing　the　man　from　the　edge　of　his　picture。　〃Go　on；〃　he　said；　〃or　he'll　bust　it　iip！　Get　away！〃　He　pushed　hard；　but　the　man　remained　fixated。　〃You're　gettin'　blood　on　it；　dickhead！〃
　Tolland　yelled　for　Irish；　and　the　man　hurried　to　his　side；　eager　to　make　good。
　〃What；　Tolly？〃
　〃Collar　that　fuckin'　kid。〃
　Irish　was　obedient　and　headed　straight　for　Monday；　taking　hold　of　the　boy。　Tolland；　meanwhile；　had　caught　up　with　the　Gentile；　who　hadn't　moved　from　his　place　on　the　edge　of　the　colored　paving。
　〃Don't　let　him　bleed　on　it！〃　Monday　begged。
　Tolland　threw　the　youth　a　glance；　then　stepped　onto　the　picture；　scraping　his　boots　over　the　carefully　worked　face。　Monday　raised　a　moan　of　protest　as　he　watched　the　bright　chalk　colons　reduced　to　a　gray…brown　dust。
　〃Don't；　man；　don't；〃　he　pleaded。
　But　his　plaints　only　riled　the　vandal　further。　Seeing　Monday's　tobacco　tin　of　chalks　within　reach　of　his　boot；　Tolland　went　to　scatter　them；　but　Monday；　dragging　himself　out　of　Irish's　grip；　flung　himself　down　to　preserve　them。　Tolland's　kick　landed　in　the　boy's　flank；　and　he　was　sent　sprawling；　rolled　in　chalk　dust。　Tolland's　heel　booted　the　tin　and　its　contents；　then　he　came　after　its　protector　a　second　time。　Monday　curled　up；　anticipating　the　blow。　But　it　never　landed。　The　Gentile's　voice　came　between　Tolland　and　his　intention。
　〃Don't　do　that；〃　he　said。
　Nobody　had　custody　of　him；　and　he　could　have　made　another　attempt　to　escape　while　Tolland　went　after　Monday；　but　he　was　still　at　the　edge　of　the　picture；　his　gaze　no　longer　on　it　but　on　its　spoiler。
　〃What　the　fuck　did　you　say？〃　Tolland's　mouth　opened　like　a　toothed　wound　in　his　matted　beard。
　〃I　said：　Don't　。。。do。。。　that；〃
　Whatever　pleasure　Tolland　had　derived　from　this　hunt　was　over　now；　and　there　wasn't　one　among　the　spectators　who　didn't　know　it。　The　sport　that　would　have　ended　with　an　ear　bitten　off　or　a　few　broken　ribs　had　bee　something　else　entirely；　and　several　of　the　crowd；　having　no　stomach　for　what　they　knew　was　ing；　retired　from　their　places　at　the　ringside。　Even　the　hardiest　of　them　backed　away　a　few　paces；　their　drugged；　drunken；　or　simply　addled　minds　dimly　aware　that　something　far　worse　than　bloodletting　was　imminent。
　Tolland　turned　on　the　Gentile；　reaching　into　his　jacket　as　he　did　so。　A　knife　emerged；　its　nine…inch　blade　marked　with　nicks　and　scratches。　At　the　sight　of　it；　even　Irish　retreated。　He'd　seen　Tolland's　blade　at　work　only　once　before；　but　it　was　enough。
　There　were　no　jabs　or　taunts　now；　just　Tolland's　drink…rotted　bulk　lurking　towards　his　victim　to　bring　the　man　down。　The　Gentile　stepped　back　as　the　knife　came；　his　eyes　going　to　the　designs　underfoot。　They　were　like　the　pictures　that　filled　his　head　to　overflowing；　brightnesses　that　had　been　smeared　into　gray　dust。　But　somewhere　in　the　midst　of　that　dust　he　remembered　another　place　like　this：　a　makeshift　town；　full　of　filth　and　rage；　where　somebody　or　something　had　e　for　his　life　as　this　man　was　ing；　except　that　this　other　executioner　had　carried　a　fire　in　his　head；　to　burn　the　flesh　away；　and　all　that　he；　the　Gentile；　had　owned　by　way　of　defense　was　empty　hands。
　He　raised　them　now。　They　were　as　marked　as　the　knife　the　executioner　was　carrying；　their　backs　bloodied　from　his　attempt　to　stem　the　flow　from　his　nose。　He　uncurled　them；　as　he'd　done　many　times　before；　drawing　breath　as　he　chose　his　right　over　his　left　and；　without　understanding　why；　put　it　to　his　mouth。
　The　pneuma　flew　before　Tolland　had　time　to　raise　his　blade；　hitting　him　on　the　shoulder　with　such　force　he　was　thrown　to　the　ground。　Shock　took　his　voice　away　for　several　seconds；　then　his　hand　went　to　his　gushing　shoulder　and　he　loosed　a　noise　more　shriek　than　roar。　The　few　witnesses　who'd　remained　to　watch　the　killing　were　rooted　to　the　spot；　their　eyes　not　on　their　fallen　lord　but　on　his　deposer。　Later；　when　they　told　this　story；　they'd　all　describe　what　they'd　seen　in　different　ways。　Some　would　talk　of　a　knife　produced　from　hiding；　used；　and　concealed　again　so　fast　the　eye　could　barely　catch　it。　Others　of　a　bullet；　spat　from　between　the　Gentile's　teeth。　But　nobody　doubted　that　something　remarkable　had　taken　place　in　these　seconds。　A　wonder　worker　had　appeared　among　them　and　laid　the　tyrant　Tolland　low　without　even　touching　him。
　The　wounded　man　wasn't　bested　so　easily；　however。　Though　his　blade　had　gone　from　his　fingers　（and　been　surreptitiously　swiped　by　Monday）　he　still　had　his　tribe　to　defend　him。　He　summoned　them　now；　with　wild　screeches　of　rage。
　〃See　what　he　did？　What　are　you　fuckin'　waitin'　for？　Take　him！　Take　the　fucker！　No　one　does　that　to　me！　Irish？　Irish？　Where　the　fuck　are　you？　Somebody　help　me！〃
　It　was　the　woman　who　came　to　his　aid；　but　he　pushed　her　aside。
　〃Where　the　fuck's　Irish？〃
　〃I'm　here。〃
　〃Take　hold　of　the　bastard；〃　Tolland　said。
　Irish　didn't　move。
　〃D'you　hear　me？　He　used　some　fuckin'　Jew…boy　trick　on　me！　You　saw　him。　Some　yid　trick；　it　was。〃
　〃I　saw　him；〃　said　Irish。
　〃He'll　do　it　again！　He'll　do　it　to　you！〃
　〃I　don't　think　he's　goin'　to　do　anything　to　anybody。〃
　〃Then　break　his　fuckin'　head。〃
　〃You　can　do　it　if　you　like；〃　Irish　said。　〃I'm　not　touching　him。〃
　Despite　his　wounding　and　his　bulk；　Tolland　was　up　on　his　feet　in　seconds；　and　going　at　his　sometime　lieutenant　like　a　bull；　but　the　Gentile's　hand　was　on　his　shoulder　before　his　fingers　could　get　to　the　man's　throat。　He　stopped　in　his　tracks；　and　the　spectators　had　sight　of　the　day's　second　wonder：　fear　on　Tolland's　face。　There'd　be　no　ambiguity　in　their　reports　of　this。　When　word　went　out　across　the　city…as　it　did　within　the　hour；　passed　from　one　asylum　Tolland　had　spoiled　with　blood　to　another…the　account；　though　embroidered　in　the　telling；　was　at　root　the　same。　Drool　had　run　from　Tolland's　mouth；　it　said；　and　his　face　had　got　sweaty。　Some　said　piss　ran　from　the　bottom　of　his　trousers　and　filled　his　boots。
　〃Let　Irish　alone；〃　the　Gentile　told　him。　〃In　fact　。。。let　us　all　alone。〃
　Tolland　made　no　reply。　He　simply　looked　at　the　hand　laid　on　him　and　seemed　to　shrink。　It　wasn't　his　wounding　that　made　him　so　quiescent；　or　even　fear　of　the　Gentile　attacking　a　second　time。　He'd