五線小城黑幫地產商地方書記支委公安緊急召開董事會探討掃黑除惡專項鬥爭(china’s
final solution)的因應之策老周正在讀海明威的殺手
The
Killers
The
Killers
by
Ernest Hemingway
The
door of Henry’s lunchroom opened and two men came in. They sat down at the
counter.
“What’s
yours?” George asked them.
“I
don’t know,” one of the men said. “What do you want to eat, Al?”
“I
don’t know,” said Al. “I don’t know what I want to eat.”
Outside
it was getting dark. The streetlight came on outside the window. The two men at
the counter read the menu. From the other end of the counter Nick Adams watched
them. He had been talking to George when they came in.
“I’ll
have a roast pork tenderloin with apple sauce and mashed potatoes,” the first
man said.
“It
isn’t ready yet.”
“What
the hell do you put it on the card for?”
“That’s
the dinner,” George explained. “You can get that at six o’clock.”
George
looked at the clock on the wall behind the counter.
“It’s
five o’clock.”
“The
clock says twenty minutes past five,” the second man said.
“It’s
twenty minutes fast.”
“Oh,
to hell with the clock,” the first man said. “What have you got to eat?”
“I
can give you any kind of sandwiches,” George said. “You can have ham and eggs,
bacon and eggs, liver and bacon, or a steak.”
“Give
me chicken croquettes with green peas and cream sauce and mashed potatoes.”
“That’s
the dinner.”
“Everything
we want’s the dinner, eh? That’s the way you work it.”
“I
can give you ham and eggs, bacon and eggs, liver—”
“I’ll
take ham and eggs,” the man called Al said. He wore a derby hat and a black
overcoat buttoned across the chest. His face was small and white and he had
tight lips. He wore a silk muffler and gloves.
“Give
me bacon and eggs,” said the other man. He was about the same size as Al. Their
faces were different, but they were dressed like twins. Both wore overcoats too
tight for them. They sat leaning forward, their elbows on the counter.
“Got
anything to drink?” Al asked.
“Silver
beer, bevo, ginger-ale,” George said.
“I
mean you got anything to drink?”
“Just
those I said.”
“This
is a hot town,” said the other. “What do they call it?”
“Summit.”
“Ever
hear of it?” Al asked his friend.
“No,”
said the friend.
“What
do they do here nights?” Al asked.
“They
eat the dinner,” his friend said. “They all come here and eat the big dinner.”
“That’s
right,” George said.
“So
you think that’s right?” Al asked George.
“Sure.”
“You’re
a pretty bright boy, aren’t you?”
“Sure,”
said George.
“Well,
you’re not,” said the other little man. “Is he, Al?”
“He’s
dumb,” said Al. He turned to Nick. “What’s your name?”
“Adams.”
“Another
bright boy,” Al said. “Ain’t he a bright boy, Max?”
“The
town’s full of bright boys,” Max said.
George
put the two platters, one of ham and eggs, the other of bacon and eggs, on the
counter. He set down two side dishes of fried potatoes and closed the wicket
into the kitchen.
“Which
is yours?” he asked Al.
“Don’t
you remember?”
“Ham
and eggs.”
“Just
a bright boy,” Max said. He leaned forward and took the ham and eggs. Both men
ate with their gloves on. George watched them eat.
“What
are you looking at?” Max looked at George.
“Nothing.”
“The
hell you were. You were looking at me.”
“Maybe
the boy meant it for a joke, Max,” Al said.
George
laughed.
“You
don’t have to laugh,” Max said to him. “You don’t have to laugh at all, see?’
“All
right,” said George.
“So
he thinks it’s all right.” Max turned to Al. “He thinks it’s all right. That’s
a good one.”
“Oh,
he’s a thinker,” Al said. They went on eating.
“What’s
the bright boy’s name down the counter?” Al asked Max.
“Hey,
bright boy,” Max said to Nick. “You go around on the other side of the counter
with your boy friend.”
“What’s
the idea?” Nick asked.
“There
isn’t any idea.”
“You
better go around, bright boy,” Al said. Nick went around behind the counter.
“What’s
the idea?” George asked.
“None
of your damned business,” Al said. “Who’s out in the kitchen?”
“The
nigger.”
“What
do you mean the nigger?”
“The
nigger that cooks.”
“Tell
him to come in.”
“What’s
the idea?”
“Tell
him to come in.”
“Where
do you think you are?”
“We
know damn well where we are,” the man called Max said. “Do we look silly?”
“You
talk silly,” A1 said to him. “What the hell do you argue with this kid
for? Listen,” he said to George, “tell the nigger to come out here.”
“What
are you going to do to him?”
“Nothing.
Use your head, bright boy. What would we do to a nigger?”
George
opened the slit that opened back into the kitchen. “Sam,” he called. “Come in
here a minute.”
The
door to the kitchen opened and the nigger came in. “What was it?” he asked. The
two men at the counter took a look at him.
“All
right, nigger. You stand right there,” Al said.
Sam,
the nigger, standing in his apron, looked at the two men sitting at the
counter. “Yes, sir,” he said. Al got down from his stool.
“I’m
going back to the kitchen with the nigger and bright boy,” he said. “Go on back
to the kitchen, nigger. You go with him, bright boy.” The little man walked
after Nick and Sam, the cook, back into the kitchen. The door shut after them.
The man called Max sat at the counter opposite George. He didn’t look at George
but looked in the mirror that ran along back of the counter. Henry’s had been
made over from a saloon into a lunch counter.
2
“Well,
bright boy,” Max said, looking into the mirror, “why don’t you say something?”
“What’s
it all about?”
“Hey,
Al,” Max called, “bright boy wants to know what it’s all about.”
“Why
don’t you tell him?” Al’s voice came from the kitchen.
“What
do you think it’s all about?”
“I
don’t know.”
“What
do you think?”
Max
looked into the mirror all the time he was talking.
“I
wouldn’t say.”
“Hey,
Al, bright boy says he wouldn’t say what he thinks it’s all about.”
“I
can hear you, all right,” Al said from the kitchen. He had propped open the
slit that dishes passed through into the kitchen with a catsup bottle. “Listen,
bright boy,” he said from the kitchen to George. “Stand a little further along
the bar. You move a little to the left, Max.” He was like a photographer
arranging for a group picture.
“Talk
to me, bright boy,” Max said. “What do you think’s going to happen?”
George
did not say anything.
“I’ll
tell you,” Max said. “We’re going to kill a Swede. Do you know a big Swede
named Ole Anderson?”
“Yes.”
“He
comes here to eat every night, don’t he?”
“Sometimes
he comes here.”
“He
comes here at six o’clock, don’t he?”
“If
he comes.”
“We
know all that, bright boy,” Max said. “Talk about something else. Ever go to
the movies?”
“Once
in a while.”
“You
ought to go to the movies more. The movies are fine for a bright boy like you.”
“What
are you going to kill Ole Anderson for? What did he ever do to you?”
“He
never had a chance to do anything to us. He never even seen us.”
And
he’s only going to see us once,” Al said from the kitchen:
“What
are you going to kill him for, then?” George asked.
“We’re
killing him for a friend. Just to oblige a friend, bright boy.”
“Shut
up,” said Al from the kitchen. “You talk too goddamn much.”
“Well,
I got to keep bright boy amused. Don’t I, bright boy?”
“You
talk too damn much,” Al said. “The nigger and my bright boy are amused by themselves.
I got them tied up like a couple of girl friends in the convent.”
“I
suppose you were in a convent.”
“You
never know.”
“You
were in a kosher convent. That’s where you were.”
George
looked up at the clock.
“If
anybody comes in you tell them the cook is off, and if they keep after it, you
tell them you’ll go back and cook yourself. Do you get that, bright boy?”
“All
right,” George said. “What you going to do with us afterward?”
“That’ll
depend,” Max said. “That’s one of those things you never know at the time.”
George
looked up at the dock. It was a quarter past six. The door from the street
opened. A streetcar motorman came in.
“Hello,
George,” he said. “Can I get supper?”
“Sam’s
gone out,” George said. “He’ll be back in about half an hour.”
“I’d
better go up the street,” the motorman said. George looked at the clock. It was
twenty minutes, past six.
“That
was nice, bright boy,” Max said. “You’re a regular little gentleman.”
“He
knew I’d blow his head off,” Al said from the kitchen.
“No,”
said Max. “It ain’t that. Bright boy is nice. He’s a nice boy. I like him.”
At
six-fifty-five George said: “He’s not coming.”
Two
other people had been in the lunchroom. Once George had gone out to the kitchen
and made a ham-and-egg sandwich “to go” that a man wanted to take with him.
Inside the kitchen he saw Al, his derby hat tipped back, sitting on a stool
beside the wicket with the muzzle of a sawed-off shotgun resting on the ledge.
Nick and the cook were back to back in the corner, a towel tied in each of
their mouths. George had cooked the sandwich, wrapped it up in oiled paper, put
it in a bag, brought it in, and the man had paid for it and gone out.
“Bright
boy can do everything,” Max said. “He can cook and everything. You’d make some
girl a nice wife, bright boy.”
“Yes?”
George said, “Your friend, Ole Anderson, isn’t going to come.”
“We’ll
give him ten minutes,” Max said.
Max
watched the mirror and the clock. The hands of the clock marked seven o’clock,
and then five minutes past seven.
“Come
on, Al,” said Max. “We better go. He’s not coming.”
“Better
give him five minutes,” Al said from the kitchen.
In
the five minutes a man came in, and George explained that the cook was sick.
“Why
the hell don’t you get another cook?” the man asked. “Aren’t you running a
lunch-counter?” He went out.
“Come
on, Al,” Max said.
“What
about the two bright boys and the nigger?”
“They’re
all right.”
“You
think so?”
“Sure.
We’re through with it.”
“I
don’t like it,” said Al. “It’s sloppy. You talk too much.”
“Oh,
what the hell,” said Max. “We got to keep amused, haven’t we?”
“You
talk too much, all the same,” Al said. He came out from the kitchen. The
cut-off barrels of the shotgun made a slight bulge under the waist of his too
tight-fitting overcoat. He straightened his coat with his gloved hands.
“So
long, bright boy,” he said to George. “You got a lot of luck.”
“That’s
the truth,” Max said. “You ought to play the races, bright boy.”
The
two of them went out the door. George watched them, through the window, pass
under the arc-light and across the street. In their tight overcoats and derby
hats they looked like a vaudeville team. George went back through the swinging
door into the kitchen and untied Nick and the cook.
“I
don’t want any more of that,” said Sam, the cook. “I don’t want any more of
that.”
Nick
stood up. He had never had a towel in his mouth before.
“Say,”
he said. “What the hell?” He was trying to swagger it off.
“They
were going to kill Ole Anderson,” George said. “They were going to shoot him
when he came in to eat.”
“Ole
Anderson?”
“Sure.”
The
cook felt the corners of his mouth with his thumbs.
“They
all gone?” he asked.
“Yeah,”
said George. “They’re gone now.”
“I
don’t like it,” said the cook. “I don’t like any of it at all”
3
“Listen,”
George said to Nick. “You better go see Ole Anderson.”
“All
right.”
“You
better not have anything to do with it at all,” Sam, the cook, said. “You
better stay way out of it.”
“Don’t
go if you don’t want to,” George said.
“Mixing
up in this ain’t going to get you anywhere,” the cook said. “You stay out of
it.”
“I’ll
go see him,” Nick said to George. “Where does he live?”
The
cook turned away.
“Little
boys always know what they want to do,” he said.
“He
lives up at Hirsch’s rooming-house,” George said to Nick.
“I’ll
go up there.”
Outside
the arc-light shone through the bare branches of a tree. Nick walked up the
street beside the car-tracks and turned at the next arc-light down a
side-street. Three houses up the street was Hirsch’s rooming-house. Nick
walked up the two steps and pushed the bell. A woman came to the door.
“Is
Ole Anderson here?”
“Do
you want to see him?”
“Yes,
if he’s in.”
Nick
followed the woman up a flight of stairs and back to the end of a corridor. She
knocked on the door.
“Who
is it?”
“It’s
somebody to see you, Mr. Anderson,” the woman said.
“It’s
Nick Adams.”
“Come
in.”
Nick
opened the door and went into the room. Ole Anderson was lying on the bed with
all his clothes on. He had been a heavyweight prizefighter and he was too long
for the bed. He lay with his head on two pillows. He did not look at Nick.
“What
was it?” he asked.
“I
was up at Henry’s,” Nick said, “and two fellows came in and tied up me and the
cook, and they said they were going to kill you.”
It
sounded silly when he said it. Ole Anderson said nothing.
“They
put us out in the kitchen,” Nick went on. “They were going to shoot you when
you came in to supper.”
Ole
Anderson looked at the wall and did not say anything.
“George
thought I better come and tell you about it.”
“There
isn’t anything I can do about it,” Ole Anderson said.
“I’ll
tell you what they were like.”
“I don’t want to know what they were
like,” Ole Anderson said. He looked at the wall. “Thanks for coming to
tell me about it.”
“That’s
all right.”
Nick
looked at the big man lying on the bed.
“Don’t
you want me to go and see the police?”
“No,”
Ole Anderson said. “That wouldn’t do any good.”
“Isn’t
there something I could do?”
“No.
There ain’t anything to do.”
“Maybe
it was just a bluff.”
“No.
It ain’t just a bluff.”
Ole
Anderson rolled over toward the wall.
“The
only thing is,” he said, talking toward the wall, “I just can’t make up my mind
to go out. I been here all day.”
“Couldn’t
you get out of town?”
“No,”
Ole Anderson said. “I’m through with all that running around.”
He
looked at the wall.
“There
ain’t anything to do now.”
“Couldn’t
you fix it up some way?”
“No.
I got in wrong.” He talked in the same flat voice. “There ain’t anything to do.
After a while I’ll make up my mind to go out.”
“I
better go back and see George,” Nick said.
“So
long,” said Ole Anderson. He did not look toward Nick. “Thanks for coming
around.”
Nick
went out. As he shut the door he saw Ole Anderson with all his clothes on,
lying on the bed looking at the wall.
“He’s
been in his room all day,” the landlady said downstairs. “I guess he don’t feel
well. I said to him: ‘Mr. Anderson, you ought to go out and take a walk on a
nice fall day like this,’ but he didn’t feel like it.”
“He
doesn’t want to go out.”
“I’m
sorry he don’t feel well,” the woman said. “He’s an awfully nice man. He was in
the ring, you know.”
“I
know it.”
“You’d
never know it except from the way his face is,” the woman said.
They
stood talking just inside the street door. “He’s just as gentle.”
“Well,
good night, Mrs. Hirsch,’ Nick said.
“I’m
not Mrs. Hirsch,” the woman said. “She owns the place. I just look after it for
her. I’m Mrs. Bell.”
“Well,
good night, Mrs. Bell,” Nick said.
“Good
night,” the woman said.
Nick
walked up the dark street to the corner under the arc-light, and then along the
car-tracks to Henry’s eating-house. George was inside, back of the counter.
“Did
you see Ole?”
“Yes,”
said Nick. “He’s in his room and he won’t go out.”
The
cook opened the door from the kitchen when he heard Nick’s voice.
“I
don’t even listen to it,” he said and shut the door.
“Did
you tell him about it?” George asked.
“Sure.
I told him but he knows what it’s all about.”
“What’s
he going to do?”
“Nothing.”
“They’ll
kill him.”
“I
guess they will.”
“He
must have got mixed up in something in Chicago.”
“I
guess so,” said Nick.
“It’s
a hell of a thing!”
“It’s
an awful thing,” Nick said.
They
did not say anything. George reached down for a towel and wiped the counter.
“I
wonder what he did?” Nick said.
“Double-crossed
somebody. That’s what they kill them for.”
“I’m
going to get out of this town,” Nick said.
“Yes,”
said George. “That’s a good thing to do.”
“I
can’t stand to think about him waiting in the room and knowing he’s going to
get it. It’s too damned awful.”
“Well,”
said George, “you better not think about it.”
