MY AINSEL
Chapter Nine
Not to mention mythic creatures in the rubble1...
-Wendy Cope, "A Policeman's Lot"
As they drove out of Illinois late that evening, Shadow asked Wednesday his first question. He saw the WELCOME TO WISCONSIN sign, and said, "So who were the guys that grabbed me in the parking lot? Mister Wood and Mister Stone? Who were they?"
The lights of the car illuminated2 the winter landscape. Wednesday had announced that they were not to take freeways because he didn't know whose side the freeways were on, so Shadow was sticking to back roads. He didn't mind. He wasn't even sure that Wednesday was crazy.
Wednesday grunted3. "Just spooks. Members of the opposition4. Black hats."
"I think," said Shadow, "that they think they're the white hats."
"Of course they do. There's never been a true war that wasn't fought between two sets of people who were certain they were in the right. The really dangerous people believe that they are doing whatever they are doing solely5 and only because it is without question the right thing to do. And that is what makes them dangerous."
"And you?" asked Shadow. "Why are you doing what you're doing?"
"Because I want to," said Wednesday. And then he grinned. "So that's all right."
Shadow said, "How did you all get away? Or did you all get away?"
"We did," said Wednesday. "Although it was a close thing. If they'd not stopped to grab you, they might have taken the lot of us. It convinced several of the people who had been sitting on the fence that I might not be completely crazy."
"So how did you get out?"
Wednesday shook his head. "I don't pay you to ask questions," he said. "I've told you before."
They spent the night in a Super 8 motel south of La Crosse.
Christmas Day was spent on the road, driving north and east. The farmland became pine forest. The towns seemed to come farther and farther apart.
They ate their Christmas lunch late in the afternoon in a hall-like family restaurant in northern central Wisconsin. Shadow picked cheerlessly at the dry turkey, jam-sweet red lumps of cranberry7 sauce, tough-as-wood roasted potatoes, and violently green canned peas. From the way he attacked it, and the way he smacked8 his lips, Wednesday seemed to be enjoying the food. As the meal progressed he became positively9 expansive-talking, joking, and, whenever she came close enough, flirting10 with the waitress, a thin blonde girl who looked scarcely old enough to have dropped out of high school.
"Excuse me, m'dear, but might I trouble you for another cup of your delightful11 hot chocolate? And I trust you won't think me too forward if I say what a mightily12 fetching and becoming dress that is. Festive13, yet classy."
The waitress, who wore a bright red-and-green skirt edged with glittering silver tinsel, giggled14 and colored and smiled happily, and went off to get Wednesday another mug of hot chocolate.
"Fetching," said Wednesday, thoughtfully, watching her go. "Becoming," he said. Shadow did not think he was talking about the dress. Wednesday shoveled16 the final slice of turkey into his mouth, flicked17 at his beard with his napkin, and pushed his plate forward. "Aaah. Good." He looked around him, at the family restaurant. In the background a tape of Christmas songs was playing: the little drummer boy had no gifts to bring, parupapom-pom, rapappom pom, rapappom pom.
"Some things may change," said Wednesday, abruptly18. "People, however...people stay the same. Some gifts last forever, others are swallowed soon enough by time and by the world. My favorite gift of all is no longer practical. Still, a surprising number of gifts are timeless-the Spanish Prisoner, the Pigeon Drop, the Fawney Rig (that's the Pigeon Drop but with a gold ring instead of a wallet), the Fiddle20 Game..."
"I've never heard of the Fiddle Game," said Shadow. "I think I've heard of the others. My old cellmate said he'd actually done the Spanish Prisoner. He was a grifter."
"Ah," said Wednesday, and his left eye sparkled. "The Fiddle Game was a fine and wonderful coir. In its purest form it is a two-man grift. It trades on cupidity21 and greed, as all great grifts do. You can always cheat an honest man, but it takes more work. So. We are in a hotel or an inn or a fine restaurant, and, dining there, we find a man-shabby, but shabby genteel, not down-at-heel but certainly down on his luck. We shall call him Abraham. And when the time comes to settle his bill-not a huge bill, you understand, fifty, seventy-five dollars-an embarrassment22! Where is his wallet? Good Lord, he must have left it at a friend's, not far away. He shall go and obtain his wallet forthwith! But here, mine host, says-Abraham, take this old fiddle of mine for security. It's old, as you can see, but it's how I make my living."
Wednesday's smile when he saw the waitress approaching was huge and predatory. "Ah, the hot chocolate! Brought to me by my Christmas Angel! Tell me my dear, could I have some more of your delicious bread when you get a moment?"
The waitress-what was she, Shadow wondered: sixteen, seventeen?-looked at the floor and her cheeks flushed crimson23. She put down the chocolate with shaking, hands and retreated to the edge of the room, by the slowly rotating display of pies, where she stopped and stared at Wednesday. Then she slipped into the kitchen to fetch Wednesday his bread.
"So. The violin-old, unquestionably, perhaps even a little battered-is placed away in its case, and our temporarily impecunious24 Abraham sets off in search of his wallet. But a well-dressed gentleman, only just done with his own dinner, has been observing this exchange, and now he approaches our host: could he, perchance, inspect the violin that honest Abraham left behind?
"Certainly he can. Our host hands it over, and the well-dressed man-let us call him Barrington-opens his mouth wide, then remembers himself and closes it, examines the violin reverentially, like a man who has been permitted into a holy sanctum to examine the bones of a prophet. 'Why!' he says, 'this is-it must be-no, it cannot be-but yes, there it is-my lord! But this is unbelievable!" and he points to the maker's mark, on a strip of browning paper inside the violin-but still, he says, even without it he would have known it by the color of the varnish25, by the scroll26, by the shape.
"Now Barrington reaches inside his pocket and produces an engraved27 business card, proclaiming him to be a preeminent28 dealer29 in rare and antique musical instruments. 'So this violin is rare?' asks mine host. 'Indeed it is,' says Barrington, still admiring it with awe30, 'and worth in excess of a hundred thousand dollars, unless I miss my guess. Even as a dealer in such things I would pay fifty-no, seventy-five thousand dollars, good cash money, for such an exquisite31 piece. I have a man on the West Coast who would buy it tomorrow, sight unseen, with one telegram, and pay whatever I asked for it.' And then he consults his watch, and his face falls. 'My train-' he says. 'I have scarcely enough time to catch my train! Good sir, when the owner of this inestimable instrument should return, please give him my card, for, alas32, I must be away.' And with that, Barrington leaves, a man who knows that time and the train wait for no man.
"Mine host examines the violin, curiosity mingling33 with cupidity in his veins34, and a plan begins to bubble up through his mind. But the minutes go by, and Abraham does not return. And now it is late, and through the door, shabby but proud, comes our Abraham, our fiddle player, and he holds in his hands a wallet, a wallet that has seen better days, a wallet that has never contained more than a hundred dollars on its best day, and from it he takes the money to pay for his meal or his stay, and he asks for the return of his violin.
"Mine host puts the fiddle in its case on the counter, and Abraham takes it like a mother cradling her child. 'Tell me,' says the host (with the engraved card of a man who'll pay fifty thousand dollars, good cash money, burning his inside breast pocket), 'how much is a violin like this worth? For my niece has a yearning35 on her to play the fiddle, and it's her birthday coming up in a week or so.'
" 'Sell this fiddle?' says Abraham. 'I could never sell her. I've had her for twenty years, I have, fiddled36 in every state of the union with her. And to tell the truth, she cost me all of five hundred dollars back when I bought her.'
"Mine host keeps the smile from his face. 'Five hundred dollars? What if I were to offer you a thousand dollars for it, here and now?'
"The fiddle player looks delighted, then crestfallen37, and he says, 'But lordy, I'm a fiddle player, sir, it's all I know how to do. This fiddle knows me and she loves me, and my fingers know her so well I could play an air upon her in the dark. Where will I find another that sounds so fine? A thousand dollars is good money, but this is my livelihood38. Not a thousand dollars, not for five thousand."
"Mine host sees his profits shrinking, but this is business, and you must spend money to make money. 'Eight thousand dollars,' he says. 'It's not worth that, but I've taken a fancy to it, and I do love and indulge my niece.'
"Abraham is almost in tears at the thought of losing his beloved fiddle, but how can he say no to eight thousand dollars?-especially when mine host goes to the wall safe and removes not eight but nine thousand dollars, all neatly40 banded and ready to be slipped into the fiddle player's threadbare pocket. 'You're a good man,' he tells his host. 'You're a saint! But you must swear to take care of my girl!' and, reluctantly, he hands over his violin."
"But what if mine host simply hands over Barrington's card and tells Abraham that he's come into some good fortune?" asked Shadow.
"Then we're out the cost of two dinners," said Wednesday. He wiped the remaining gravy42 and leftovers43 from his plate with a slice of bread, which he ate with lip-smacking relish44.
"Let me see if I've got it straight," said Shadow. "So Abraham leaves, nine thousand dollars the richer, and in the parking lot by the train station he and Barrington meet up. They split the money, get into Barrington's Model A Ford45, and head for the next town. I guess in the trunk of that car they must have a box filled with hundred-dollar violins."
"I personally made it a point of honor never to pay more than five dollars for any of them," said Wednesday. Then he turned to the hovering46 waitress. "Now, my dear, regale47 us with your description of the sumptuous48 desserts available to us on this, our Lord's natal49 day." He stared at her-it was almost a leer-as if nothing that she could offer him would be as toothsome a morsel50 as herself. Shadow felt deeply uncomfortable: it was like watching an old wolf stalking a fawn19 too young to know that if it did not run, and run now, it would wind up in a distant glade51 with its bones picked clean by the ravens52.
The girl blushed once more and told them that dessert was apple pie à la mode-"That's with a scoop54 of vanilla55 ice cream"-Christmas cake à la mode, or a red-and-green whipped pudding. Wednesday stared into her eyes and told her that he would try the Christmas cake à la mode. Shadow passed.
"Now, as grifts go," said Wednesday, "the fiddle game goes back three hundred years or more. And if you pick your chicken correctly you could still play it anywhere in America tomorrow."
"I thought you said that your favorite grift was no longer practical," said Shadow.
"I did indeed. However, that is not my favorite. No, my favorite was one they called the Bishop56 Game. It had everything: excitement, subterfuge57, portability, surprise. Perhaps, I think from time to time, perhaps with a little modification58, it might..." he thought for a moment, then shook his head. "No. Its time has passed. It is, let us say, 1920, in a city of medium to large size-Chicago, perhaps,-or New York, or Philadelphia. We are in a jeweler's emporium. A man dressed as a clergyman-and not just any clergyman, but a bishop, in his purple-enters and picks out a necklace-a gorgeous and glorious confection of diamonds and pearls, and pays for it with a dozen of the crispest hundred-dollar bills.
"There's a smudge of green ink on the topmost bill and the store owner, apologetically but firmly, sends the stack of bills to the bank on the corner to be checked. Soon enough, the store clerk returns with the bills. The bank says they are none of them counterfeit59. The owner apologizes again, and the bishop is most gracious, he well understands the problem, there are such lawless and ungodly types in the world today, such immorality60 and lewdness61 abroad in the world and shameless women, and now that the underworld has crawled out of the gutter62 and come to live on the screens of the picture palaces, what more could anyone expect? And the necklace is placed in its case, and the store owner does his best not to ponder why a bishop of the church would be purchasing a twelve-hundred-dollar diamond necklace, nor why he would be paying good cash money for it.
"The bishop bids him a hearty63 farewell, and walks out on the street, only for a heavy hand to descend64 on his shoulder. 'Why Soapy, yez spalpeen, up to your old tricks, are you?' and a broad beat cop with an honest Irish face walks the bishop back into the jewelry65 store.
" 'Beggin' your pardon, but has this man just bought anything from you?' asks the cop. 'Certainly not,' says the bishop. 'Tell him I have not.' 'Indeed he has,' says the jeweler. 'He bought a pearl and diamond necklace from me-paid for it in cash as well.' 'Would you have the bills available, sir?' asks the cop.
"So the jeweler takes the twelve hundred-dollar bills from the cash register and hands them to the cop, who holds them up to the light and shakes his head in wonder. 'Oh, Soapy, Soapy,' he says, 'these are the finest that you've made yet! You're a craftsman66, that you are!'
"A self-satisfied smile spreads across the bishop's face. 'You can't prove nothing,' says the bishop. 'And the bank said that they were on the level. It's the real green stuff.' 'I'm sure they did,' agrees the cop on the beat, 'but I doubt that the bank had been warned that Soapy Sylvester was in town, nor of the quality of the hundred-dollar bills he'd been passing in Denver and in St. Louis.' And with that he reaches into the bishop's pocket and pulls out the necklace. "Twelve hundred dollars' worth of diamonds and pearls in exchange for fifty cents' worth of paper and ink,' says the policeman, who is obviously a philosopher at heart. 'And passing yourself off as a man of the church. You should be ashamed,' he says, as he claps the handcuffs on the bishop, who is obviously no bishop, and he marches him away, but not before he gives the jeweler a receipt for both the necklace and the twelve hundred counterfeit dollars. It's evidence, after all."
"Was it really counterfeit?" asked Shadow.
"Of course not! Fresh banknotes, straight from the bank, only with a thumbprint and a smudge of green ink on a couple of them to make them a little more interesting."
Shadow sipped67 his coffee. It was worse than prison coffee. "So the cop was obviously no cop. And the necklace?"
"Evidence," said Wednesday. He unscrewed the top from the salt shaker, poured a little heap of salt on the table. "But the jeweler gets a receipt, and assurance that he'll get the necklace straight back as soon as Soapy comes to trial. He is congratulated on being a good citizen, and he watches proudly, already thinking of the tale he'll have to tell at the next meeting of the Oddfellows tomorrow night, as the policeman marches the man pretending to be a bishop out of the store, twelve-hundred-dollars in one pocket, a twelve hundred dollar diamond necklace in the other, on their way to a police station that'll never see hide nor hair of either of them."
The waitress had returned to clear the table. "Tell me my dear," said Wednesday. "Are you married?"
She shook her head.
"Astonishing that a young lady of such loveliness has not yet been snapped up." He was doodling with his fingernail in the spilled salt, making squat68, blocky, runelike shapes. The waitress stood passively beside him, reminding Shadow less of a fawn and more of a young rabbit caught in an eighteen-wheeler's headlights, frozen in fear and indecision.
Wednesday lowered his voice, so much so that Shadow, only across the table, could barely hear him. "What time do you get off work?"
"Nine," she said, and swallowed. "Nine-thirty latest."
"And what is the finest motel in this area?"
"There's a Motel 6," she said. "It's not much."
Wednesday touched the back of her hand, fleetingly69, with the tips of his fingers, leaving crumbs70 of salt on her skin. She made no attempt to wipe them off. "To us," he said, his voice an almost inaudible rumble71, "it shall be a pleasure palace."
The waitress looked at him. She bit her thin lips, hesitated, then nodded and fled for the kitchen.
"C'mon," said Shadow. "She looks barely legal."
"I've never been overly concerned about legality," Wednesday told him. "And I need her, not as an end in herself, but to wake me up a little. Even King David knew that there is one easy prescription72 to get warm blood flowing through an old frame: take one virgin73, call me in the morning."
Shadow caught himself wondering if the girl on night duty in the hotel back in Eagle Point had been a virgin. "Don't you ever worry about disease?" he asked. "What if you knock her up? What if she's got a brother?"
"No," said Wednesday. "I don't worry about diseases. I don't catch them. Unfortunately-for the most part-people like me fire blanks, so there's not a great deal of interbreeding. It used to happen in the old days. Nowadays, it's possible, but so unlikely as to be almost unimaginable. So no worries there. And many girls have brothers, and fathers. It's not my problem. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, I've left town already."
"So we're staying here for the night?"
Wednesday rubbed his chin. "I shall stay in the Motel 6," he said. Then he put his hand into his coat pocket. He pulled out a front door key, bronze-colored, with a card tag attached on which was typed an address: 502 Northridge Rd, Apt #3. "You, on the other hand, have an apartment waiting for you, in a city far from here." Wednesday closed his eyes for a moment. Then he opened them, gray and gleaming and fractionally mismatched, and he said, "The Greyhound bus will be coming through town in twenty minutes. It stops at the gas station. Here's your ticket." He pulled out a folded bus ticket, passed it across the table. Shadow picked it up and looked at it.
"Who's Mike Ainsel?" he asked. That was the name on the ticket.
"You are. Merry Christmas."
"And where's Lakeside?"
"Your happy home in the months to come. And now, because good things come in threes..." He took a small, gift-wrapped package from his pocket, pushed it across the table. It sat beside the ketchup74 bottle with the black smears75 of dried ketchup on the top. Shadow made no move to take it.
"Well?"
Reluctantly, Shadow tore open the red wrapping paper to reveal a fawn-colored calfskin wallet, shiny from use. It was obviously somebody's wallet. Inside the wallet was a driver's license76 with Shadow's photograph on it, in the name of Michael Ainsel, with a Milwaukee address, a MasterCard for M. Ainsel, and twenty crisp fifty-dollar bills. Shadow closed the wallet, put it into an inside pocket.
"Thanks," he said.
"Think of it as a Christmas bonus. Now, let me walk you down to the Greyhound. I shall wave to you as you ride the gray dog north."
They walked outside the restaurant. Shadow found it hard to believe how much colder it had gotten in the last few hours. It felt too cold to snow, now. Aggressively cold. This was a bad winter.
"Hey. Wednesday. Both of the scams you were telling me about-the violin scam and the bishop one, the bishop and the cop-" He hesitated, trying to form his thought, to bring it into focus.
"What of them?"
Then he had it. "They're both two-man scams. One guy on each side. Did you used to have a partner?" Shadow's breath came in clouds. He promised himself that when he got to Lakeside he would spend some of his Christmas bonus on the warmest, thickest winter coat that money could buy.
"Yes," said Wednesday. "Yes. I had a partner. A junior partner. But, alas, those days are gone. There's the gas station, and there, unless my eye deceives me, is the bus." It was already signaling its turn into the parking lot. "Your address is on the key," said Wednesday. "If anyone asks, I am your uncle, and I shall be rejoicing in the unlikely name of Emerson Borson. Settle in, in Lakeside, nephew Ainsel. I'll come for you within the week. We shall be traveling together. Visiting the people I have to visit. In the meantime, keep your head down and stay out of trouble."
"My car...?" said Shadow.
"I'll take good care of it. Have a good time in Lakeside," said Wednesday. He thrust out his hand, and Shadow shook it. Wednesday's hand was colder than a corpse77's.
"Jesus," said Shadow. "You're cold."
"Then the sooner I am making the two-backed beast with the little hotsy-totsy lass from the restaurant in a back room of the Motel 6, the better." And he reached out his other hand and squeezed Shadow's shoulder.
Shadow experienced a dizzying moment of double vision: he saw the grizzled man facing him, squeezing his shoulder, but he saw something else: so many winters, hundreds and hundreds of winters, and a gray man in a broad-brimmed hat walking from settlement to settlement, leaning on his staff, staring in through windows at the firelight and a joy and a burning life he would never be able to touch, never even be able to feel...
"Go," said Wednesday, his voice a reassuring78 growl79. "All is well, and all is well, and all shall be well."
Shadow showed his ticket to the driver. "Hell of a day to be traveling," she said. And then she added, with a certain grim satisfaction, "Merry Christmas."
The bus was almost empty. "When will we get into Lakeside?" asked Shadow.
"Two hours. Maybe a bit more," said the driver. "They say there's a cold snap coming." She thumbed a switch and the doors closed with a hiss80 and a thump81.
Shadow walked halfway82 down the bus, put the seat back as far as it would go, and he started to think. The motion of the bus and the warmth combined to lull83 him, and before he was aware that he was becoming sleepy, he was asleep.
***
In the earth, and under the earth. The marks on the wall were the red of wet clay: handprints, fingermarks, and, here and there, crude representations of animals and people and birds.
The fire still burned and the buffalo84 man still sat on the other side of the fire, staring at Shadow with huge eyes, eyes like pools of dark mud. The buffalo lips, fringed with matted brown hair, did not move as the buffalo voice said, "Well, Shadow? Do you believe yet?"
"I don't know," said Shadow. His mouth had not moved either, he observed. Whatever words were passing between the two of them were not being spoken, not in any way that Shadow understood speech. "Are you real?"
"Believe," said the buffalo man.
"Are you..." Shadow hesitated, and then he asked, "Are you a god too?"
The buffalo man reached one hand into the flames of the fire and he pulled out a burning brand. He held the brand in the middle. Blue and yellow flames licked his red hand, but they did not burn.
"This is not a land for gods," said the buffalo man. But it was not the buffalo man talking anymore, Shadow knew, in his dream: it was the fire speaking, the crackling and the burning of the flame itself that spoke85 to Shadow in the dark place under the earth.
"This land was brought up from the depths of the ocean by a diver," said the fire. "It was spun86 from its own substance by a spider. It was shat by a raven53. It is the body of a fallen father, whose bones are mountains, whose eyes are lakes.
"This is a land of dreams and fire," said the flame.
The buffalo man put the brand back on the fire.
"Why are you telling me this stuff?" said Shadow. "I'm not important. I'm not anything. I was an okay physical trainer, a really lousy small-time crook87, and maybe not so good a husband as I thought I was..." He trailed off.
"How do I help Laura?" Shadow asked the buffalo man. "She wants to be alive again. I said I'd help her. I owe her that."
The buffalo man said nothing. He pointed88 up toward the roof of the cave. Shadow's eyes followed. There was a thin, wintery light coming from a tiny opening far above.
"Up there?" asked Shadow, wishing that one of his questions would be answered. "I'm supposed to go up there?"
The dream took him then, the idea becoming the thing itself, and Shadow was crushed into the rock and earth. He was like a mole89, trying to push through the earth, like a badger90, climbing through the earth, like a groundhog, pushing the earth out of his way, like a bear, but the earth was too hard, too dense91, and his breath was coming in gasps92, and soon he could go no farther, dig and climb no more, and he knew then that he would die somewhere in the deep place beneath the world.
His own strength was not enough. His efforts became weaker. He knew that though his body was riding in a hot bus through cold woods if he stopped breathing here, beneath the world, he would stop breathing there as well, that even now his breath was coming in shallow panting gasps.
He struggled and he pushed, ever more weakly, each movement using precious air. He was trapped: could go no farther, and could not return the way that he had come.
"Now bargain," said a voice in his mind.
"What do I have to bargain with?" Shadow asked. "I have nothing." He could taste the clay now, thick and mud-gritty in his mouth.
And then Shadow said, "Except myself. I have myself, don't I?"
It seemed as if everything was holding its breath.
"I offer myself," he said.
The response was immediate93. The rocks and the earth that had surrounded him began to push down on Shadow, squeezed him so hard that the last ounce of air in his lungs was crushed out of him. The pressure became pain, pushing him on every side. He reached the zenith of pain and hung there, cresting94, knowing that he could take no more, at that moment the spasm95 eased and Shadow could breathe again. The light above him had grown larger.
He was being pushed toward the surface.
As the next earth-spasm hit, Shadow tried to ride with it. This time he felt himself being pushed upward.
The pain, on that last awful contraction96, was impossible to believe, as he felt himself being squeezed, crushed, and pushed through an unyielding rock gap, his bones shattering, his flesh becoming something shapeless. As his mouth and ruined head cleared the hole he began to scream, in fear and pain.
He wondered, as he screamed, whether, back in the waking world, he was also screaming-if he was screaming in his sleep back on the darkened bus.
And as that final spasm ended Shadow was on the ground, his fingers clutching the red earth.
He pulled himself into a sitting position, wiped the earth from his face with his hand and looked up at the sky. It was twilight97, a long, purple twilight, and the stars were coming out, one by one, stars so much brighter and more vivid than any stars he had ever seen or imagined.
"Soon," said the crackling voice of the flame, coming from behind him, "they will fall. Soon they will fall and the star people will meet the earth people. There will be heroes among them, and men who will slay98 monsters and bring knowledge, but none of them will be gods. This is a poor place for gods."
A blast of air, shocking in its coldness, touched his face. It was like being doused99 in ice water. He could hear the driver's voice saying that they were in Pinewood, "anyone who needs a cigarette or wants to stretch their legs, we'll be stopping here for ten minutes, then we'll be back on the road."
Shadow stumbled off the bus. They were parked outside another rural gas station, almost identical to the one they had left. The driver was helping100 a couple of teenage girls onto the bus, putting their suitcases away in the luggage compartment101.
"Hey," the driver said, when she saw Shadow. "You're getting off at Lakeside, right?"
Shadow agreed, sleepily, that he was.
"Heck, that's a good town," said the bus driver. "I think sometimes that if I were just going to pack it all in, I'd move to Lakeside. Prettiest town I've ever seen. You've lived there long?"
"My first visit."
"You have a pasty at Mabel's for me, you hear?"
Shadow decided102 not to ask for clarification. "Tell me," said Shadow, "was I talking in my sleep?"
"If you were, I didn't hear you." She looked at her watch. "Back on the bus. I'll call you when we get to Lakeside."
The two girls-he doubted that either of them was much more than fourteen years old-who had got on in Pinewood were now in the seat in front of him. They were friends, Shadow decided, eavesdropping103 without meaning to, not sisters. One of them knew almost nothing about sex, but knew a lot about animals, helped out or spent a lot of time at some kind of animal shelter, while the other was not interested in animals, but, armed with a hundred tidbits gleaned104 from the Internet and from daytime television, thought she knew a great deal about human sexuality. Shadow listened with a horrified105 and amused fascination106 to the one who thought she was wise in the ways of the world detail the precise mechanics of using Alka-Seltzer tablets to enhance oral sex.
Shadow started to tune41 them out, blanked everything except the noise of the road, and now only fragments of conversation would come back every now and again.
Goldie is, like, such a good dog, and he was a purebred retriever, if only my dad would say okay, he wags his tail whenever he sees me.
It's Christmas, he has to let me use the snowmobile.
You can write your name with your tongue on the side of his thing.
I miss Sandy.
Yeah, I miss Sandy too.
Six inches tonight they said, but they just make it up, they make up the weather and nobody ever calls them on it....
And then the brakes of the bus were hissing107 and the driver was shouting "Lakeside!" and the doors clunked open. Shadow followed the girls out into the floodlit parking lot of a video store and tanning salon108 that functioned, Shadow guessed, as Lakeside's Greyhound station. The air was dreadfully cold, but it was a fresh cold. It woke him up. He stared at the lights of the town to the south and the west, and pale expanse of a frozen lake to the east.
The girls were standing109 in the lot, stamping and blowing on their hands dramatically. One of them, the younger one, snuck a look at Shadow, smiled awkwardly when she realized that he had seen her do so.
"Merry Christmas," said Shadow.
"Yeah," said the other girl, perhaps a year or so older than the first, "Merry Christmas to you too." She had carroty red hair and a snub nose covered with a hundred thousand freckles110.
"Nice town you got here," said Shadow.
"We like it," said the younger one. She was the one who liked animals. She gave Shadow a shy grin, revealing blue rubber-band braces111 stretching across her front teeth. "You look like somebody," she told him, gravely. "Are you somebody's brother or somebody's son or something?"
"You are such a spaz, Alison," said her friend. "Everybody's somebody's son or brother or something."
"That wasn't what I meant," said Alison. Headlights framed them all for one brilliant white moment. Behind the headlights was a station wagon112 with a mother in it, and in moments it took the girls and their bags away, leaving Shadow standing alone in the parking lot.
"Young man? Anything I can do for you?" The old man was locking up the video store. He pocketed his keys. "Store ain't open Christmas," he told Shadow cheerfully. "But I come down to meet the bus. Make sure everything was okay. Couldn't live with myself if some poor soul'd found 'emselves stranded113 on Christmas Day." He was close enough that Shadow could see his face: old but contented114, the face of a man who had sipped life's vinegar and found it, by and large, to be mostly whiskey, and good whiskey at that.
"Well, you could give me the number of the local taxi company," said Shadow.
"I could," said the old man, doubtfully, "but Tom'll be in his bed this time of night, and even if you could rouse him you'll get no satisfaction-I saw him down at the Buck115 Stops Here earlier this evening, and he was very merry. Very merry indeed. Where is it you're aiming to go?"
Shadow showed him the address tag on the door key.
"Well," he said, "that's a ten-, mebbe a twenty-minute walk over the bridge and around. But it's no fun when it's this cold, and when you don't know where you're going it always seems longer-you ever notice that? First time takes forever, and then ever after it's over in a flash?"
"Yes," said Shadow. "I've never thought of it like that. But I guess it's true."
The old man nodded. His face cracked into a grin. "What the heck, it's Christmas. I'll run you over there in Tessie."
Shadow followed the old man to the road, where a huge old roadster was parked. It looked like something that gangsters116 might have been proud to drive in the Roaring Twenties, running boards and all. It was a deep dark color under the sodium117 lights that might have been red and might have been green. "This is Tessie," the old man said. "Ain't she a beaut?" He patted her proprietorially118, where the hood39 curved up and arched over the front nearside wheel.
"What make is she?" asked Shadow.
"She's a Wendt Phoenix119. Wendt went under in '31, name was bought by Chrysler, but they never made any more Wendts. Harvey Wendt, who founded the company, was a local boy. Went out to California, killed himself in, oh, 1941, '42. Great tragedy."
The car smelled of leather and old cigarette smoke-not a fresh smell, but as if enough people had smoked enough cigarettes and cigars in the car over the years that the smell of burning tobacco had become part of the fabric121 of the car. The old man turned the key in the ignition and Tessie started first time.
"Tomorrow," he told Shadow, "she goes into the garage. I'll cover her with a dust sheet, and that's where she'll stay until spring. Truth of the matter is I shouldn't be driving her right now, with the snow on the ground."
"Doesn't she ride well in snow?"
"Rides just fine. It's the salt they put on the roads. Rusts122 these old beauties faster than you could believe. You want to go door to door, or would you like the moonlight grand tour of the town?"
"I don't want to trouble you-"
"It's no trouble. You get to be my age, you're grateful for the least wink123 of sleep. I'm lucky if I get five hours a night nowadays-wake up and my mind is just turning and turning. Where are my manners? My name's Hinzelmann. I'd say, call me Richie, but around here folks who know me just call me plain Hinzelmann. I'd shake your hand, but I need two hands to drive Tessie. She knows when I'm not paying attention."
"Mike Ainsel," said Shadow. "Pleased to meet you, Hinzelmann."
"So we'll go around the lake. Grand tour," said Hinzelmann.
Main Street, which they were on, was a pretty street, even at night, and it looked old-fashioned in the best sense of the word-as if, for a hundred years, people had been caring for that street and they had not been in a hurry to lose anything they liked.
Hinzelmann pointed out the town's two restaurants as they passed them (a German restaurant and what he described as "part Greek, part Norwegian, and a popover at every plate"); he pointed out the bakery and the bookstore ("What I say is, a town isn't a town without a bookstore. It may call itself a town, but unless it's got a bookstore, it knows it's not fooling a soul"). He slowed Tessie as they passed the library so Shadow could get a good look at it. Antique gaslights flickered124 over the doorway-Hinzelmann proudly called Shadow's attention to them. "Built in the 1870s by John Henning, local lumber125 baron126. He wanted it called the Henning Memorial Library, but when he died they started calling it the Lakeside Library, and I guess it'll be the Lakeside Library now until the end of time. Isn't it a dream?" He couldn't have been prouder of it if he had built it himself. The building reminded Shadow of a castle, and he said so. "That's right," agreed Hinzelmann. "Turrets127 and all. Henning wanted it to look like that on the outside. Inside they still have all the original pine shelving. Miriam Shultz wants to tear the insides out and modernize128, but it's on some register of historic places, and there's not a damn thing she can do."
They drove around the south side of the lake. The town circled the lake, which was a thirty-foot drop below the level of the road. Shadow could see the patches of white ice dulling the surface of the lake with, here and there, a shiny patch of water reflecting the lights of the town.
"Looks like it's freezing over," he said.
"It's been frozen over for a month now," said Hinzelmann. "The dull spots are snowdrifts and the shiny spots are ice. It froze just after Thanksgiving in one cold night, froze smooth as glass. You do much ice-fishing, Mr. Ainsel?"
"Never."
"Best thing a man can do. It's not the fish you catch, it's the peace of mind that you take home at the end of the day."
"I'll remember that." Shadow peered down at the lake through Tessie's window. "Can you actually walk on it already?"
"You can walk on it. Drive on it too, but I wouldn't want to risk it yet. It's been cold up here for six weeks," said Hinzelmann. "But you also got to allow that things freeze harder and faster up here in northern Wisconsin than they do most anyplace else there is. I was out hunting once-hunting for deer, and this was oh, thirty, forty years back, and I shot at a buck, missed him, and sent him running off through the woods-this was over acrost the north end of the lake, up near where you'll be living, Mike. Now he was the finest buck I ever did see, twenty point, big as a small horse, no lie. Now, I'm younger and feistier back then than I am now, and though it had started snowing before Halloween that year, now it was Thanksgiving and there was clean snow on the ground, fresh as anything, and I could see the buck's footprints. It looked to me like the big fellow was heading for the lake in a panic.
"Well, only a damn fool tries to run down a buck, but there am I, a damn fool, running after him, and there he is, standing in the lake, in oh, eight, nine inches of water, and he's just looking at me. That very moment, the sun goes behind a cloud, and the freeze comes-temperature must have fallen thirty degrees in ten minutes, not a word of a lie. And that old stag, he gets ready to run, and he can't move! He's frozen into the ice.
"Me, I just walk over to him slowly. You can see he wants to run, but he's iced in and it just isn't going to happen. But there's no way I can bring myself to shoot a defenseless critter when he can't get away-what kind of man would I be if I done that, heh? So I takes my shotgun and I fires off one shell, straight up into the air.
"Well, the noise and the shock is enough to make that buck just about jump out of his skin, and seein' that his legs are iced in, that's just what he proceeds to do. He leaves his hide and his antlers stuck to the ice, while he charges back into the woods, pink as a newborn mouse and shivering fit to bust129.
"I felt bad enough for that old buck that I talked the Lakeside Ladies' Knitting Circle into making him something warm to wear all the winter, and they knitted him an all-over one-piece woolen130 suit, so he wouldn't freeze to death. 'Course, the joke was on us, because they knitted him a suit of bright orange wool, so no hunter ever shot at it. Hunters in these parts wear orange at hunting season," he added, helpfully. "And if you think there's a word of a lie in that, I can prove it to you. I've got the antlers up on my rec room wall to this day."
Shadow laughed, and the old man smiled the satisfied smile of a master craftsman. They pulled up outside a brick building with a large wooden deck, from which golden holiday lights hung and twinkled invitingly131.
"That's five-oh-two," said Hinzelmann. "Apartment three would be on the top floor, around the other side, overlooking the lake. There you go, Mike."
"Thank you, Mr. Hinzelmann. Can I give you anything toward gas?"
"Just Hinzelmann. And you don't owe me a penny. Merry Christmas from me and from Tessie."
"Are you sure you won't accept anything?"
The old man scratched his chin. "Tell you what," he said. "Sometime in the next week or so I'll come by and sell you some tickets. For our raffle132. Charity. For now, young man, you can be getting onto bed."
Shadow smiled. "Merry Christmas, Hinzelmann," he said.
The old man shook Shadow's hand with one red-knuckled hand. It felt as hard and as callused as an oak branch. "Now, you watch the path as you go up there, it's going to be slippery. I can see your door from here, at the side there, see it? I'll just wait in the car down here until you're safely inside. You just give me the thumbs-up when you're in okay, and I'll drive off."
He kept the Wendt idling until Shadow was safely up the wooden steps on the side of the house and had opened the apartment door with his key. The door to the apartment swung open. Shadow made a thumbs-up sign, and the old man in the Wendt-Tessie, thought Shadow, and the thought of a car with a name made him smile one more time-Hinzelmann and Tessie swung around and made their way back across the bridge.
Shadow shut the front door. The room was freezing. It smelled of people who had gone away to live other lives, and of all they had eaten and dreamed. He found the thermostat133 and cranked it up to seventy degrees. He went into the tiny kitchen, checked the drawers, opened the avocado-colored refrigerator, but it was empty. No surprise there. At least the fridge smelled clean inside, not musty.
There was a small bedroom with a bare mattress134 in it, beside the kitchen, next to an even tinier bathroom that was mostly shower stall. An aged120 cigarette butt135 sat in the toilet bowl, staining the water brown. Shadow flushed it away. He found sheets and blankets in a closet, and made the bed. Then he took off his shoes, his jacket, and his watch, and he climbed into the bed fully15 dressed, wondering how long it would take him to get warm.
The lights were off, and there was silence, mostly, nothing but the hum of the refrigerator, and, somewhere in the building, a radio playing. He lay there in the darkness, wondering if he had slept himself out on the Greyhound, if the hunger and the cold and the new bed and the craziness of the last few weeks would combine to keep him awake that night.
In the stillness he heard something snap like a shot. A branch, he thought, or the ice. It was freezing out there.
He wondered how long he would have to wait until Wednesday came for him. A day? A week? However long he had, he knew he had to focus on something in the meantime. He would start to work out again, he decided, and practice his coin sleights and palms until he was smooth as anything (practice all your tricks, somebody whispered inside his head, in a voice that was not his own, all of them but one, not the trick that poor dead Mad Sweeney showed you, dead of exposure and the cold and of being forgotten and surplus to requirements, not that trick. Oh, not that one).
But this was a good town. He could feel it.
He thought of his dream, if it had been a dream, that first night in Cairo. He thought of Zorya...what the hell was her name? The midnight sister.
And then he thought of Laura...
It was as if thinking of her opened a window in his mind. He could see her. He could, somehow, see her.
She was in Eagle Point, in the backyard outside her mother's big house.
She stood in the cold, which she did not feel anymore or which she felt all the time, she stood outside the house that her mother had bought in 1989 with the insurance money after Laura's father, Harvey McCabe, had passed on, a heart attack while straining on the can, and she was staring in, her cold hands pressed against the glass, her breath not fogging it, not at all, watching her mother, and her sister and her sister's children and husband in from Texas, home for Christmas. Out in the darkness, that was where Laura was, unable not to look.
Tears prickled in Shadow's eyes, and he rolled over in his bed.
He felt like a Peeping Tom, turned his thoughts away, willed them to come back to him: he could see the lake spread out below him as the wind blew down from the arctic, prying136 jack-frost fingers a hundred times colder than the fingers of any corpse.
Shadow's breath came shallowly now. He could hear a wind rising, a bitter screaming around the house, and for a moment he thought he could hear words on the wind.
If he was going to be anywhere, he might as well be here, he thought, and then he slept.
MEANWHILE. A CONVERSATION.
Dingdong.
"MizCrow?"
"Yes."
"Miz Samantha Black Crow?"
"Yes."
"Do you mind if we ask you a few questions, ma'am?"
"Are you cops? What are you?"
"My name is Town. My colleague here is Mister Road. We're investigating the disappearance137 of two of our associates."
"What were their names?"
"I'm sorry?"
"Tell me their names. I want to know what they were called. Your associates. Tell me their names and maybe I'll help you."
"...Okay. Their names were Mister Stone and Mister Wood. Now, can we ask you some questions?"
"Do you guys just see things and pick names? 'Oh, you be Mister Sidewalk, he's Mister Carpet, say hello to Mister Airplane'?"
"Very funny, young lady. First question: we need to know if you've seen this man. Here. You can hold the photograph."
"Whoah. Straight on and profile, with numbers on the bottom...And big. He's cute, though. What did he do?"
"He was mixed up in a small-town bank robbery, as a driver, some years ago. His two colleagues decided to keep all the loot for themselves and ran out on him. He got angry. Found them. Came close to killing138 them with his hands. The state cut a deal with the men he hurt: they testified against him. Shadow here got six years. He served three. You ask me, guys like that, they should just lock them up and throw away the key."
"I've never heard anyone say that in real life, you know. Not out loud."
"Say what, Miz Crow?"
" 'Loot.' It's not a word you ever hear people say. Maybe in movies people say it. Not for real."
"This isn't a movie, Miz Crow."
"Black Crow. It's Miz Black Crow. My friends call me Sam."
"Got it, Sam. Now about this man-"
"But you aren't my friends. You can call me Miz Black Crow."
"Listen, you snot-nosed little-"
"It's okay, Mister Road. Sam here-pardon, ma'am-I mean, Miz Black Crow wants to help us. She's a law-abiding citizen."
"Ma'am, we know you helped Shadow. You were seen with him, in a white Chevy Nova. He gave you a ride. He bought you dinner. Did he say anything that could help us in our investigation139? Two of our best men have vanished."
"I never met him."
"You met him. Please don't make the mistake of thinking we're stupid. We aren't stupid."
"Mm. I meet a lot of people. Maybe I met him and forgot already."
"Ma'am, it really is to your advantage to cooperate with us."
"Otherwise, you'll have to introduce me to your friends Mister Thumbscrews and Mister Pentothal?"
"Ma'am, you aren't making this any easier on yourself."
"Gee140. I'm sorry. Now, is there anything else? 'Cos I'm going to say 'Buh-bye now' and close the door and I figure you two are going to go and get into Mister Car and drive away."
"Your lack of cooperation has been noted141, ma'am."
"Buh-bye now."
Click.
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1
rubble
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| n.（一堆）碎石，瓦砾 | |
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illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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grunted
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| （猪等）作呼噜声( grunt的过去式和过去分词 )； （指人）发出类似的哼声； 咕哝着说 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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cranberry
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| n.梅果 | |
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smacked
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| 拍，打，掴( smack的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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flirting
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| v.调情，打情骂俏( flirt的现在分词 ) | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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mightily
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| ad.强烈地；非常地 | |
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festive
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| adj.欢宴的，节日的 | |
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giggled
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| v.咯咯地笑( giggle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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shoveled
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| vt.铲，铲出（shovel的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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flicked
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| （尤指用手指或手快速地）轻击( flick的过去式和过去分词 )； （用…）轻挥； （快速地）按开关； 向…笑了一下（或瞥了一眼等） | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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fawn
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| n.未满周岁的小鹿；v.巴结，奉承 | |
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fiddle
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| n.小提琴；vi.拉提琴；不停拨弄，乱动 | |
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cupidity
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| n.贪心，贪财 | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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impecunious
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| adj.不名一文的，贫穷的 | |
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varnish
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| n.清漆；v.上清漆；粉饰 | |
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scroll
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| n.卷轴，纸卷；(石刻上的)漩涡 | |
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27
engraved
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| v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的过去式和过去分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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preeminent
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的 | |
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dealer
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| n.商人，贩子 | |
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awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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31
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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fiddled
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| v.伪造( fiddle的过去式和过去分词 )；篡改；骗取；修理或稍作改动 | |
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crestfallen
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| adj. 挫败的，失望的，沮丧的 | |
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livelihood
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| n.生计，谋生之道 | |
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hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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gravy
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| n.肉汁；轻易得来的钱，外快 | |
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leftovers
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| n.剩余物，残留物，剩菜 | |
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relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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Ford
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| n.浅滩，水浅可涉处；v.涉水，涉过 | |
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46
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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regale
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| v.取悦，款待 | |
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sumptuous
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| adj.豪华的，奢侈的，华丽的 | |
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natal
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| adj.出生的，先天的 | |
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morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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glade
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| n.林间空地，一片表面有草的沼泽低地 | |
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ravens
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| n.低质煤；渡鸦( raven的名词复数 ) | |
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raven
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| n.渡鸟，乌鸦；adj.乌亮的 | |
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scoop
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| n.铲子，舀取，独家新闻；v.汲取，舀取，抢先登出 | |
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vanilla
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| n.香子兰，香草 | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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subterfuge
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| n.诡计；藉口 | |
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58
modification
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| n.修改，改进，缓和，减轻 | |
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59
counterfeit
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| vt.伪造，仿造；adj.伪造的，假冒的 | |
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60
immorality
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| n. 不道德, 无道义 | |
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61
lewdness
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| n. 淫荡, 邪恶 | |
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62
gutter
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| n.沟，街沟，水槽，檐槽，贫民窟 | |
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63
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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64
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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jewelry
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| n.（jewllery）（总称）珠宝 | |
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66
craftsman
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| n.技工，精于一门工艺的匠人 | |
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67
sipped
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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68
squat
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| v.蹲坐，蹲下；n.蹲下；adj.矮胖的，粗矮的 | |
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69
fleetingly
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| adv.飞快地，疾驰地 | |
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70
crumbs
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| int. (表示惊讶)哎呀 n. 碎屑 名词crumb的复数形式 | |
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71
rumble
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| n.隆隆声；吵嚷；v.隆隆响；低沉地说 | |
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72
prescription
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| n.处方，开药；指示，规定 | |
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73
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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74
ketchup
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| n.蕃茄酱，蕃茄沙司 | |
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75
smears
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| 污迹( smear的名词复数 )； 污斑； （显微镜的）涂片； 诽谤 | |
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76
license
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| n.执照，许可证，特许；v.许可，特许 | |
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77
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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78
reassuring
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| a.使人消除恐惧和疑虑的，使人放心的 | |
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79
growl
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| v.（狗等）嗥叫，（炮等）轰鸣；n.嗥叫，轰鸣 | |
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80
hiss
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| v.发出嘶嘶声；发嘘声表示不满 | |
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81
thump
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| v.重击，砰然地响；n.重击，重击声 | |
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82
halfway
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| adj.中途的，不彻底的，部分的；adv.半路地，在中途，在半途 | |
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83
lull
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| v.使安静，使入睡，缓和，哄骗；n.暂停，间歇 | |
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84
buffalo
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| n.(北美)野牛；(亚洲)水牛 | |
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85
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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86
spun
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| v.纺，杜撰，急转身 | |
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87
crook
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| v.使弯曲；n.小偷，骗子，贼；弯曲(处) | |
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88
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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89
mole
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| n.胎块；痣；克分子 | |
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90
badger
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| v.一再烦扰，一再要求，纠缠 | |
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91
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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92
gasps
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| v.喘气( gasp的第三人称单数 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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93
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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94
cresting
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| n.顶饰v.到达山顶（或浪峰）( crest的现在分词 )；到达洪峰，达到顶点 | |
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95
spasm
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| n.痉挛，抽搐；一阵发作 | |
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96
contraction
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| n.缩略词，缩写式，害病 | |
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97
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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98
slay
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| v.杀死，宰杀，杀戮 | |
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99
doused
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| v.浇水在…上( douse的过去式和过去分词 )；熄灯[火] | |
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100
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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101
compartment
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| n.卧车包房，隔间；分隔的空间 | |
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102
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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103
eavesdropping
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| n. 偷听 | |
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104
gleaned
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| v.一点点地收集（资料、事实）( glean的过去式和过去分词 )；（收割后）拾穗 | |
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105
horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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106
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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107
hissing
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| n. 发嘶嘶声, 蔑视 动词hiss的现在分词形式 | |
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108
salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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109
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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110
freckles
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| n.雀斑，斑点( freckle的名词复数 ) | |
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111
braces
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| n.吊带，背带；托架( brace的名词复数 )；箍子；括弧；（儿童）牙箍v.支住( brace的第三人称单数 )；撑牢；使自己站稳；振作起来 | |
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112
wagon
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| n.四轮马车，手推车，面包车；无盖运货列车 | |
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113
stranded
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| a.搁浅的，进退两难的 | |
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114
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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115
buck
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| n.雄鹿，雄兔；v.马离地跳跃 | |
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116
gangsters
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| 匪徒，歹徒( gangster的名词复数 ) | |
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117
sodium
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| n.（化）钠 | |
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118
proprietorially
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| 所有（权）的 | |
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119
phoenix
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| n.凤凰，长生(不死)鸟；引申为重生 | |
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120
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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121
fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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122
rusts
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| n.铁锈( rust的名词复数 )；（植物的）锈病，锈菌v.（使）生锈( rust的第三人称单数 ) | |
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123
wink
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| n.眨眼，使眼色，瞬间；v.眨眼，使眼色，闪烁 | |
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124
flickered
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| （通常指灯光）闪烁，摇曳( flicker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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125
lumber
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| n.木材，木料；v.以破旧东西堆满；伐木；笨重移动 | |
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126
baron
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| n.男爵；(商业界等)巨头，大王 | |
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127
turrets
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| （六角）转台( turret的名词复数 )； （战舰和坦克等上的）转动炮塔； （摄影机等上的）镜头转台； （旧时攻城用的）塔车 | |
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128
modernize
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| vt.使现代化，使适应现代的需要 | |
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129
bust
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| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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130
woolen
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| adj.羊毛(制)的；毛纺的 | |
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131
invitingly
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| adv. 动人地 | |
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132
raffle
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| n.废物，垃圾，抽奖售卖；v.以抽彩出售 | |
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133
thermostat
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| n.恒温器 | |
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134
mattress
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| n.床垫，床褥 | |
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135
butt
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| n.笑柄；烟蒂；枪托；臀部；v.用头撞或顶 | |
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136
prying
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| adj.爱打听的v.打听，刺探（他人的私事）( pry的现在分词 )；撬开 | |
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137
disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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138
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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139
investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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140
gee
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| n.马；int.向右！前进！，惊讶时所发声音；v.向右转 | |
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141
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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