Американские боги
Chapter 8
Theylookedseventyyearsold,butsmelledfresh,andhepulledonapairwhich,liketheblacksuit,fittedhimasiftheyhadbeentailoredforhim.
TherewasasmallstackofReader’sDigestsonthelittletablebesidethebed,noneofthemdatedlaterthanMarch1960.Jackson,thelibraryguy—thesameonewhohadsworntothetruthoftheKentuckyFriedMutantChickenCreaturestory,whohadtoldhimthestoryoftheblackfreighttrainsthatthegovernmentusestohaulpoliticalprisonersofftoSecretNorthernCalifornianConcentrationCamps,movingacrossthecountryinthedeadofthenight—JacksonhadalsotoldhimthattheCIAusedtheReader’sDigestasafrontfortheirbranchofficesaroundtheworld.HesaidthateveryReader’sDigestofficeineverycountrywasreallyCIA.
"Ajoke,"saidthelateMr.Wood,inShadow’smemory."HowcanwebesuretheCIAwasn’tinvolvedintheKennedyassassination?"Shadowcrackedthewindowopenafewinches—enoughforfreshairtogetin,enoughforthecattobeabletogetoutontothebalconyoutside.
Heturnedonthebedsidelamp,climbedintobedandreadforalittle,tryingtoturnoffhismind,togetthelastfewdaysoutofhishead,pickingthedullest-lookingarticlesinthedullest-lookingDigests.Henoticedhewasfallingasleephalfwaythrough"IAmJohn’sPancreas."Hebarelyhadtimeenoughtoturnoutthebedsidelightandputhisheaddownonthepillowbeforehiseyesclosedforthenight.
