Девять рассказов

           Actually,IwasnottheonlylegitimatelivingdescendantoftheLaughingMan.Thereweretwenty-fiveComanchesintheClub,ortwenty-fivelegitimatelivingdescendantsoftheLaughingMan—allofuscirculatingominously,andincognito,throughoutthecity,sizingupelevatoroperatorsaspotentialarchenemies,whisperingside-of-the-mouthbutfluentordersintotheearsofcockerspaniels,drawingbeads,withindexfingers,ontheforeheadsofarithmeticteachers.Andalwayswaiting,waitingforadecentchancetostriketerrorandadmirationinthenearestmediocreheart.

           OneafternooninFebruary,justafterComanchebaseballseasonhadopened,IobservedanewfixtureintheChief’sbus.Abovetherear-viewmirroroverthewindshield,therewasasmall,framedphotographofagirldressedinacademiccapandgown.Itseemedtomethatagirl’spictureclashedwiththegeneralmen-onlydecorofthebus,andIbluntlyaskedtheChiefwhoshewas.Hehedgedatfirst,butfinallyadmittedthatshewasagirl.Iaskedhimwhathernamewas.Heansweredunforthrightly,"MaryHudson."Iaskedhimifshewasinthemoviesorsomething.Hesaidno,thatsheusedtogotoWellesleyCollege.Headded,onsomeslow-processedafterthought,thatWellesleyCollegewasaveryhighclasscollege.Iaskedhimwhathehadherpictureinthebusfor,though.Heshruggedslightly,asmuchastoimply,itseemedtome,thatthepicturehadmoreorlessbeenplantedonhim.