The King is Dead. Jim Lewis

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      One hot night nine years previously, Walter Selby had found himself alone in the parking lot outside of a baseball stadium, a vast concrete pool set in acres of asphalt down by the river. The game was done and the crowds were leaving but he’d become separated from his companion, a pyknic reporter from the Press-Scimitar, in a ruckus that had begun when an elderly woman suddenly struck her cane down on the head of a passing teenager. Now he was wandering between and among the parked cars, trying to find his man. Thirty minutes had passed since the last out had been made, and still the crowds were milling. Every so often the headlights on an exiting car would swing by, causing shadows to wheel across the way; he wasn’t sure which gate he and the reporter had used to enter the stadium, earlier in the evening, still less where they’d parked the reporter’s car. And the lights, and the groups of ghosts, marked only by their voices, which passed him in the summer darkness.

      There, about thirty yards away, stood a rounded figure, much like the rounded figure he had lost. The man was standing in silhouette against the downward raking light of a stanchion; Walter started that way, but as he approached the figure turned, smiling at a passing woman with a mouth full of gold, and it was another man, no one he knew. He stopped again and sighed. A car went by, boys and girls hanging out the open windows and cheering loudly.

      The woman, a woman-shadow, was coming his way. She came closer and closer, until she was within touching distance; then she stopped and looked up at him, though her face was still hidden in the shadows. Well, said the woman, shaking her head. I can’t find mine. You can’t find yours, either, can you?

      He said nothing, because he could think of nothing to say. An old sedan approached them, its lights illuminating her for just a moment; she had dark hair and pale skin, and fine, taut features, and she was about to smile, but the car passed and her amusement was given into the darkness again, leaving him with the impression that he’d barely missed seeing something uncommon, a notion nudged a little further on by a trace of her perfume, loosened by the passing car from the kingdom beneath her clothes. He hesitated; she was still smiling in the night. At length he said, No. I was right behind him, but we got separated coming out.

      The moon was half round; occasionally its shine would be slowly occluded and then revealed by a night cloud, and the slow shuttering of the moonlight added to the woman’s superlunar appeal. I had some friends here, she said solemnly. They could be anywhere. I don’t even know how I lost them. She spoke quickly and cleanly, with a kind of confidence that she might have learned from the movies. For that matter, she continued, I don’t really know where I am. I came along because I didn’t want to sit home. She made a wry face with such force that he could feel it in the darkness.

      You’re in Memphis, Tennessee, said Walter. Where the lost can hardly be distinguished from the found.

      She started at the sharpness of the sentiment and then settled. I think you’re right, she said. I think you’re right. I’ll tell you what, then: You look for my friends, and I’ll look for yours. With that she took him by the arm and began to walk him in the same direction from which she’d come. Now, don’t tell me your name, she said. But tell me what your friends look like.

      My friend … He had almost forgotten his friend altogether, and now he could hardly picture the man. There’s just one, a little round fellow. I don’t know. He looks like everybody else, only a bit more so. And yours? If I’m going to look for yours, I’m going to have to know.

      Oh, she said. I lied about that. I don’t really have any friends here.

      Came all by yourself, did you? Halfway through the sentence it occurred to him that she might be telling the truth, however improbable it may have been, and he pitched the tone of the last words down, so she could take them for sympathy or take them for mockery, either way if she wanted.

      Yes, she said sadly, protruding her lower lip in a facetious sulk. No friends. Oh, well. Who needs friends? All of these people.—She stopped in her tracks and gestured around the parking lot and then widened her eyes at him. And only you are gallant enough to help me. No, she said again. Which, after all, means you’re going to have to take me home.

      I have no way to get home myself, he reminded her.

      Well then, we’d better find who we’re looking for or we’ll have to walk, she said.

      They began to wander this way and that, they stopped to let a honking car pass, and he stole another look at her in the ruby glow of its taillights. Then they were walking again. There was СКАЧАТЬ