sk.everythingseventual-第60章
按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！
n； and getting what it needed to unlock the e…mail address of Mr。 Columbus。 Still； it was less than thirty seconds before the puter was right back at me with
E…MAIL ADDRESS FOUND SEND DINKYMAIL Y/N。
I typed Y with absolutely no hesitation。 The puter flashed
SENDING DINKYMAIL
and then
DINKYMAIL SENT。
That was all。 No fireworks。
I wonder what happened to Muffin； though。
You know。 After。
XVI
That night I called Mr。 Sharpton and said； 'I'm working。'
'That's good； Dink。 Great news。 Feel better？' Calm as ever。 Mr。 Sharpton is like the weather in Tahiti。
'Yeah；' I said。 The fact was； I felt blissful。 It was the best day of my life。 Doubts or no doubts； worries or no worries； I still say that。 The most eventual day of my life。 It was like a river of fire in my head； a fucking river of fire； can you get that？ 'Do you feel better； Mr。 Sharpton？ Relieved？'
'I'm happy for you； but I can't say I'm relieved； because…'
'…you were never worried in the first place。'
'Got it in one；' he said。
'Everything's eventual； in other words。'
He laughed at that。 He always laughs when I say that。 'That's right； Dink。 Everything's eventual。'
'Mr。 Sharpton？'
'Yes？'
'E…mail's not exactly private； you know。 Anybody who's really dedicated can hack into it。'
'Part of what you send is a suggestion that the recipient delete the message from all files； is it not？'
'Yes； but I can't absolutely guarantee that he'll do it。 Or she。'
'Even if they don't； nothing can happen to someone else who chances on such a message； am I correct？ Because it's 。 。 。 personalized。'
'Well； it might give someone a headache； but that would be about all。'
'And the munication itself would look like so much gibberish。'
'Or a code。'
He laughed heartily at that。 'Let them try to break it； Dinky； eh？ Just let them try！'
I sighed。 'I suppose。'
'Let's discuss something more important； Dink 。 。 。 how did it feel？'
'Fucking wonderful。'
'Good。 Don't question wonder； Dink。 Don't ever question wonder。'
And he hung up。
XVII
Sometimes I have to send actual letters…print out the stuff I whomp up in DINKY'S NOTEBOOK； stick it in an envelope； lick stamps； and mail it off to somebody somewhere。 Professor Ann Tevitch； University of New Mexico at Las Cruces。 Mr。 Andrew Neff； c/o The New York Post； New York； New York。 Billy Unger； General Delivery； Stovington； Vermont。 Only names； but they were still more upsetting than the phone numbers。 More personal than the phone numbers。 It was like seeing faces swim up at you for a second inside your Norden bomb…sight。 I mean； what a freak…out； right？ You're up there at twenty…five thousand feet； no faces allowed up there； but sometimes one shows up for a second or two； just the same。
I wondered how a University Professor could get along without a modem （or a guy whose address was a fucking New York newspaper； for that matter）； but I never wondered too much。 I didn't have to。 We live in a modern world； but letters don't have to be sent by puter； after all。 There's still snail…mail。 And the stuff I really needed was always in the database。 The fact that Unger had a 1957 Thunderbird； for instance。 Or that Ann Tevitch had a loved one…perhaps her husband； perhaps her son； perhaps her father…named Simon。
And people like Tevitch and Unger were exceptions。 Most of the folks I reach out and touch are like that first one in Columbus…fully equipped for the twenty…first century。 SENDING DINKYMAIL； DINKYMAIL SENT； velly good； so long； Cholly。
I could have gone on like that for a long time； maybe forever…browsing the database （there's no schedule to follow； no list of primary cities and targets； I'm pletely on my own 。 。 。 unless all that shit is also in my subconscious； down there on the hard disk）； going to afternoon movies； enjoying the Ma…less silence of my little house； and dreaming of my next step up the ladder； except I woke up feeling horny one day。 I worked for an hour or so； browsing around in Australia； but it was no good…my dick kept trespassing on my brain； so to speak。 I shut off the puter and went down to News Plus to see if I could find a magazine featuring pretty ladies in frothy lingerie。
As I got there； a guy was ing out； reading the Columbus Dispatch。 I never read the paper myself。 Why bother？ It's the same old shit day in and day out； dictators beating the ching…chong out of people weaker than they are； men in uniforms beating the ching…chong out of soccer balls or footballs； politicians kissing babies and kissing ass。 Mostly stories about the Skipper Brannigans of the world； in other words。 And I wouldn't have seen this story even if I'd happened to look at the newspaper display rack once I got inside； because it was on the bottom half of the front page； below the fold。 But this fucking dimbulb es out with the paper hanging open and his face buried inside it。
In the lower right corner was a picture of a white…haired guy smoking a pipe and smiling。 He looked like a good…humored fuck； probably Irish； eyes all crinkled up and these white bushy eyebrows。 And the headline over the photo…not a big one； but you could read it…said NEFF SUICIDE STILL PUZZLES； GRIEVES COLLEAGUES
For a second or two I thought I'd just skip News Plus that day； I didn't feel like ladies in lingerie after all； maybe I'd just go home and take a nap。 If I went in； I'd probably pick up a copy of the Dispatch； wouldn't be able to help myself； and I wasn't sure I wanted to know any more about that Irish…looking guy than I already did 。 。 。 which was nothing at all； as you can fucking believe I hastened to tell myself。 Neff couldn't be that weird a name anyway； only four letters； not like Shittendookus or Horecake； there must be thousands of Neffs； if you're talking coast to coast。 This one didn't have to be the Neff I knew about； the one who loved Frank Sinatra records。
It would be better； in any case； to just leave and e back tomorrow。 Tomorrow the picture of that guy with the pipe would be gone。 Tomorrow somebody else's picture would be there； on the lower right corner of page one。 People always dying； right？ People who aren't superstars or anything； just famous enough to get their pictures down there in the lower right corner of page one。 And sometimes people were puzzled about it； the way folks back home in Harkerville had been puzzled about Skipper's death…no alcohol in his blood； clear night； dry road； not the suicidal type。
The world is full of mysteries like that； though； and sometimes it's best not to solve them。 Sometimes the solutions aren't； you know； too eventual。
But willpower has never been my strong point。 I can't always keep away from the chocolate； even though I know my skin doesn't like it； and I couldn't keep away from the Columbus Dispatch that day。 I went on inside and bought one。
I started home； then had a funny thought。 The funny thought was that I didn't want a newspaper with Andrew Neff's picture on the front page going out with my trash。 The trash pick…up guys came in a city truck； surely they didn't…couldn't…have anything to do with TransCorp； but 。 。 。
There was this show me and Pug used to watch one summer back when we were little kids。 Golden Years； it was called。 You probably don't remember it。 Anyway； there was a guy on that show who used to say 'Perfect paranoia is perfect awareness。' It was like his motto。 And I sort of believe that。
Anyway； I went to the park instead of back home。 I sat on a bench and read the story； and when I was done； I stuck the paper in a park trashbarrel。 I didn't even like doing that； but hey…if Mr。 Sharpton has got a guy following me around and checking on every little thing I throw away； I'm fucked up the wazoo no matter what。
There was no doubt that Andrew Neff； age sixty…two； a columnist for the Post since 1970； had mitted suicide。 He took a bunch of pills that probably would have done the trick； then climbed into his bathtub； put a plastic bag over his head； and rounded the evening off by slitting his wrists。 There was a man totally dedica
