Black Wings Has My Angel by Elliott Chaze

Author:Elliott Chaze
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: マイコンテンツ
Published: 2011-01-27T05:00:42.185000+00:00

Chapter Eight

THE LAST WEEK OF WAITING in Denver was the worst of all. I got into my dreams about Jeepie pretty deep there at the last in the back bedroom of the brick house on Milligan. The dreams hadn't bothered me when I was working at Morris-Myers, maybe because I was too tired nights, and if that's the way of it I'll have to admit that honest labor has its points. I still can't subscribe to it a hundred per cent because my dad was an honest laborer and for forty years he pulled teeth honestly and soberly with his nickel-plated pliers, until he found out he was wasting his time on people who didn't ever intend to pay him. Yes, sir, he was honest as they come, for a long time, and I imagine you could gravel a mile of country road with the unpaid-for teeth he pulled. Of course I don't know how any of it affected his dreams and even at his worst he surely never dreamed anything like Jeepie on the concrete wall, his face welling red and then black, but never spilling a drop of blood on the clean concrete. Jeepie's real voice was slow and low, but in the dreams on the wall it roared louder and louder and more profane. Sometimes it whined like a bomb. Sometimes it didn't come from the wall in the dreams, but from a lonely little plane high in the gray sky, crawling slowly as a sick bug on a dirty ceiling, the voice huge as the plane was tiny. The voice always said about the same thing. What it amounted to when you boil it down and subtract the armored cars and heistman philosophy was:People are no damned good. Get yours, boy, while there's some left. And get it while you're young enough to live it up.

But the last night, the night of August thirtieth, I slept like a baby.

When I'd got up the next morning and cleaned my teeth I went in the kitchen, and Virginia had a fine mess of those little pork-link sausages I like. She'd already eaten and she put my eggs on and gave me my coffee, hot and good, the way you can never get it in restaurants or hotels, even the best of them. She gave me the food and sat down across from me. “How you feel, Tim?”

I chewed the toast, smiling at her. “Let's don't talk right now. This is too good to spoil.”

“All right.”

When I'd finished we went up front and I looked out through the glass in the door and there was Mr. Damon in his yard, just like any other day. It was strange he could be moving around exactly the same as usual, that the same wife with the same diabetes and the troublesome toes could be waiting inside for him the way she had yesterday. Because I felt so different myself. As if I were charged with cool electricity that washed me down inside and out and at the same time scared me and relieved me.

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