ch.doublewhammy-第48部分

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　The　statuesque　eyebrow　barber　nearly　wilted。
　〃Bravo！〃　said　Charlie　Weeb。
　〃Thank　you；〃　said　Darla。　Her　pale　arms　hung　crookedly　at　her　sides。
　〃Izzy；　whadya　think？〃　Weeb　said。　〃I　think　we're　talking　the　big　P。〃
　〃Polio？〃　Deacon　Johnson　frowned。
　〃Why　the　hell　not？〃
　Deacon　Johnson　said；　〃Well；　it's　very　unmon　these　days。〃
　〃Perfect。〃
　〃Except　everybody　knows　there's　a　vaccine。〃
　〃Not　in　the　bowels　of　Appalachian　coal　country；〃　Charlie　Weeb　said。　〃Not　for　a　poor　little　orphan　girl　raised　on　grubworms　and　drainwater。〃
　Darla　spoke　up。　〃I　live　in　a　'partment　on　St。　Charles；〃　she　said　firmly。　〃With　my　momma。〃
　〃Talk　to　this　child；〃　Charlie　Weeb　said　to　Deacon　Johnson。　〃Explain　how　TV　works。〃
　It　was　a　good　thing　for　Charlie　Weeb　that　there　was　no　audience　for　the　dress　rehearsals。　At　first　Darla　insisted　on　popping　her　elbows　in　and　out；　in　and　out…just　to　show　off…and　it　took　Deacon　Johnson　quite　some　time　to　make　her　understand　the　theatrical　importance　of　timing。　At　a　given　cue　Darla　was　supposed　to　roll　her　eyes；　loll　her　tongue；　and　fall　writhing　onto　the　stage；　when　she　rose　again　to　face　the　cameras　and　audience；　her　polio　would　be　cured。　To　demonstrate　the　success　of　his　ministrations；　the　Reverend　Charles　Weeb　would　then　toss　her　a　beach　ball。
　The　cue　for　Darla's　fit　was　to　be　when　Weeb　raised　his　arms　and　implored：　〃Lord　Jesus；　mend　this　poor　Christian　creature！〃　The　first　few　times；　Darla　jumped　the　gun　badly；　collapsing　on　the　word　〃Jesus〃　so　that　the　sound　of　her　limp　form　hitting　the　stage　stepped　all　over　Charlie　Weeb's　big　climax。　Once　Deacon　Johnson　had　coached　Darla　past　this　problem；　the　next　challenge　was　teaching　her　to　catch　the　beach　ball。　The　first　few　times　she　simply　let　the　ball　bounce　off　her　chest；　and　the　noise　of　it　smacking　the　lanyard　mike　nearly　blew　out　the　engineer's　eardrums。　Darla　dropped　the　ball　so　many　times　in　rehearsal　that　the　Reverend　Weeb　lost　his　Christian　temper　and　called　her　a　〃palsied　little　twat〃…a　term　which；　fortunately；　the　child　did　not　understand。　When　Weeb　demanded　that　they　go　back　to　the　lidocaine…injection　method；　Deacon　Johnson　quickly　intervened　and　suggested　now　was　a　good　time　for　lunch。
　Miraculously；　the　live　Sunday　broadcast　went　off　without　a　hitch。　The　crew　did　an　extraordinary　job　making　Darla　appear　sallow　and　gray　and　mortally　ill。　When　the　cue　came；　she　collapsed　perfectly　and…after　much　thrashing…arose　beaming　and　cherubic　and　healed。　Reviewing　the　videotapes　later；　the　Reverend　Weeb　marveled　aloud　at　how　deftly　and　invisibly　little　Darla　had　reengaged　her　elbow　joints。　Only　on　slo…mo　could　you　see　her　do　it。　And；　at　the　end；　she　even　caught　the　beach　ball。　Charlie　Weeb　had　been　so　genuinely　overjoyed　that　he　hadn't　even　needed　the　glycerine　tears。
　They　ran　the　800　number　for　five　full　minutes　on　the　TV　screen　following　Darla's　performance。　That　evening；　when　Charlie　Weeb　got　the　final　figures　from　the　phone　bank；　he　called　Deacon　Johnson　at　home。
　〃Guess　the　totals；　Izzy。〃
　〃I　really　don't　know。　A　million？〃
　Weeb　cackled　and　said；　〃Guess　again；　sucker。〃
　Deacon　Johnson　was　too　tired　to　guess。　〃I　don't　know；　Charles；〃　he　said。
　〃How　does　a　million…four　sound？〃　the　Reverend　Weeb　exulted。
　The　deacon　was　amazed。　〃Holy　shit；〃　he　said。
　〃Exactly；〃　said　Charlie　Weeb。　〃Are　you　thinking　what　I'm　thinking？〃
　
　Thomas　Curl　had　been　thoroughly　enjoying　himself　at　the　Grand　Bay　Hotel　and　was　annoyed　that　he　had　to　depart　so　suddenly。　One　morning；　while　eating　eggs　Benedict　in　the　sunken　bathtub；　he　had　received　a　strange　and　unsettling　phone　call。　Thomas　Curl　could　tell　by　the　scratchy　connection　that　it　was　long　distance；　and　he　could　tell　by　the　voice　that　it　wasn't　either　Dennis　Gault　or　his　Uncle　Shawn；　the　only　two　men　who　knew　where　to　find　him。　The　voice　sounded　to　Thomas　Curl　like　it　might　belong　to　a　nigger；　but　Curl　couldn't　be　sure。　Whoever　it　was　had　called　him　by　name；　so　Curl　had　hung　up　the　phone　immediately　and　decided　to　check　out　of　the　hotel。　He　was　worried　that　the　black…sounding　voice　might　turn　out　to　be　Decker's　crazy　gorilla　friend　Skink；　who　would　think　nothing　of　breaking　into　a　fancy　suite　and　drowning　somebody　in　a　sunken　tub。
　Thomas　Curl　took　a　more　modest　room　at　the　Airport　Marriott　and　shrewdly　registered　under　the　name　〃Juan　Gomez；〃　which　he　figured　was　the　Miami　equivalent　of　John　Smith。　The　fact　that　Thomas　Curl　looked　about　as　Hispanic　as　Gale　Yarborough　didn't　stop　him；　and　his　Juan　Gomez　signature　drew　scarcely　a　raised　eyebrow　from　a　desk　clerk　named　Rosario。
　That　evening；　after　a　room…service　steak；　Thomas　Curl　went　to　work。　R。　J。　Decker's　address　was　in　the　phone　book；　and　now　it　was　only　a　matter　of　finding　a　decent　map　of　Bade　County。
　The　Palmetto　Expressway；　Thomas　Curl　decided；　was　worse　than　anything　in　New　Orleans；　worse　even　than　Interstate　4　in　Orlando。　Thomas　Curl　had　always　considered　himself　a　fast　and　sharp…witted　driver；　but　the　Palmetto　shattered　his　confidence。　It　was　as　if　he'd　stalled　out　in　the　center　lane；　with　bleating　semis　and　muffler…dragging　low…riders　and　cherry　Porsches　speeding　past　on　both　sides。　Thomas　Curl　had　heard　the　wild　tales　about　Miami　drivers；　and　now　he　could　go　back　home　and　say　it　was　all　true。　They　were　moving　so　damn　fast　you　couldn't　even　flip　them　the　finger。
　He　was　delighted　when　he　found　his　exit　and　got　on　a　street　with　actual　traffic　lights。　The　trailer　park　was　at　the　dark　end　of　a　deadend　street。　Thomas　Curl　poked　the　car　around　slowly　until　he　found　the　mailbox　to　R。　J。　Decker's　mobile　home。　The　lights　were　off　and　the　trailer　looked　empty；　as　Thomas　Curl　knew　it　would　be。　An　older　grey　sedan；　a　Dodge　or　Plymouth；　sat　in　the　gravel　drive；　the　rear　tires　looked　low　on　air；　as　if　the　car　hadn't　been　driven　recently。　Curl　parked　behind　it　and　cut　off　his　headlights。　He　took　a　sixteen…inch　flathead　screwdriver　from　under　the　front　seat。　He　was　not　the　world's　greatest　burglar　but　he　knew　the　fundamentals；　including　the　fact　that　trailers　usually　were　a　cinch。
　Another　cardinal　rule　of　burglary　was：　Leave　your　gun　in　the　car　unless　you　want　another　nickel　tacked　onto　your　prison　sentence。　Thomas　Curl　began　to　have　second　thoughts　about　this　rule　after　he　had　gotten　the　screwdriver　stuck　in　Decker's　back　door；　and　after　a　neighbor's　sixty…five…pound　pit　bulldog　came　trotting　over　to　investigate　the　racket。　As　the　dog　bared　its　teeth　and　emitted　a　tremulous　rumble；　Thomas　Curl　could　not　help　thinking　how　nice　it　would　have　been　to　be　holding　either　the　shotgun　or　the　pistol；　both　locked　in　the　trunk　of　his　car。
　The　pit　bull　got　a　running　start　before　it　leapt；　so　it　landed　on　Thomas　Curl　with　maximum　impact。　He　crashed　against　the　aluminum　wall　and　lost　his　wind；　but　somehow　kept　his　balance。　The　dog　crouched　at　his　feet　and　snarled　hotly。　The　animal　seemed　genuinely　surprised　that　it　had　failed　to　knock　its　victim　down；　but　Thomas　Curl　was　a　muscular　and　stocky　fellow　with　a　low　center　of　gravity。
　The　next　time　the　dog　jumped；　Thomas　Curl　recoiled　and　tried　to　shield　his　face　with　his　right　arm；　which　is　where　the　animal　sank　its　yellow　fangs。　At　first　Thomas　Curl　felt　no　pain；　only　an　unbelievable　pressure。　He　stared　at　the　dog　and　couldn't　believe　it。　Eyes　wide；　its　pale　muzzle　splotched　with　Curl's　blood；　the　frenzied　animal　twisted　and　turned　as　it　dangled　from　the　arm；　it　was　trying　to　tear　the　flesh　from　Thomas　Curl's　bone。
　Curl　swallowed　his　scream。　With　his　left　hand　he　feverishly　groped　for　the　long　screwdriver；　still　wedged　in　the　doorjamb。　He　found　it；　grunted　as　he　yanked　it　free；　and　poised　it　firmly　in　his　good　fist。
　With　all　his　strength　Thomas　Curl　lifted　his　right　arm　as　high　as　his　head；　so　that　the　pit　bull　hung　before　him　at　eye　level；　squirming　and　frothing。　With　one　jagged　downward　thrust　Thomas　Curl　disemboweled　the　animal。　Its　wild　eyes　went　instantly　dull　and　the　legs　stopped　kicking；　but　still　the　powerful　jaws　held　fast　to　Curl's　thick　arm。　Moments　passed　and　Curl　stood　rigid；　waiting　for　the　animal's　muscles　to　slacken　in　death。　Yet　even　as　its　guts　dripped　on　the　cold　doorstep；　steaming　the　night　air；　the　dog's　jaws　would　not　let　go。
　Thomas　Curl　braced　against　waves　of　nausea。　The　screwdriver　slipped　from　his　good　hand　and　pinged　off　the　concrete　stoop。
　At　a　nearby　trailer　the　porch　light　came　on；　and　an　elderly　man　in　a　long　undershirt　poked　his　head　out。　Thomas　Curl　quickly　turned　his　back　so　that　the　neighbor　would　not　see　the　dead　dog　on　his　arm。　By　the　fresh　light　Curl　noticed　that　in　his　panic　he　had　succeeded　in　breaking　the　doorjamb。　With　his　good　hand　he　turned　the　knob；　and　lurched　inside　R。　J。　Decker's　trailer。
　Curl　lay　faceup　on　a　sofa；　the　big　dog　across　his　chest。　He　stayed　there　for　what　seemed　like　an　hour；　until　he　could　no　longer　tolerate　the　weight　of　the　animal　and　the　raw　odor　of　its　blood。　In　the　darkness　he　could　only　imagine　what　his　right　arm　looked　like；　he　felt　the　first　stinging　tickle　of　a　vile　infection；　and　the　burning　throb　of　torn　muscles。　He　realized　that　before　long　the　dog's　body　would　stiffen；　and　it　would　bee　virtually　impossible　to　pry　its　jaws。　Angrily　Thomas　Curl　balled　his　left　fist　and　tested　his　strength。　Still　supine；　he　aimed　a　fierce