The Wild Shore: Three Californias (Wild Shore Triptych) Read Online Free PDF Page B

Made me a bit surprised. But you hear odd words like that all the time. I heard someone at the swap meet say they were going to cozen up to someone, and someone else told me my sales pitch was a filibuster. Insatiate, simular—it’s amazing, the infusion of words into the spoken language. Bad news for the stomach is good news for the tongue, know what I mean?”
    “No.”
    “Well, I’m surprised at you.” He stood up, stiff and slow, and refilled the teapot. After he got it set on the rack over the fire he went to one of his bookshelves. The inside of his house was a bit like the yard: more clocks, cracked china plates, a collection of lanterns and lamps, a machine for playing music (once in a while he’d put a record on it and turn it with one bony finger, commanding us to put our ears next to it, to hear scratchy songs whispering up and down, while he said “That’s the Eroica! Listen to that!”); but most of two walls were taken up by bookshelves, overflowing with stacks of mangy books. A lot of them he wouldn’t let me read. But now he brought one over and tossed it in my lap. “Time for some sight reading. Start where I have the marker, there.”
    I opened the slim, mildewed book and began to read—an act that still gave me great trouble, great pleasure. “‘Justice is in itself powerless: what rules by nature is force. To draw this over to the side of justice, so that by means of force justice rules—that is the problem of statecraft, and it is certainly a hard one; how hard you will realize if you consider what boundless egoism reposes in almost every human breast; and that it is many millions of individuals so constituted who have to be kept within the bounds of peace, order and legality. This being so, it is a wonder the world is on the whole as peaceful and law-abiding as we see it to be’”—this caused the old man to laugh for a while—“‘which situation, however, is brought about only by the machinery of the state. For the only thing that can produce an immediate effect is physical force, since this is the only thing which men as they generally are understand and respect—’”
    “Hey!”
    It was Nicolin, busting into the house like Satan into God’s bedroom. “I’m going to kill you right here and now!” he cried, advancing on the old man.
    Tom jumped up with a whoop: “Let’s see you try!” he shouted. “You don’t stand a chance!”—and the two of them grappled a bit in the middle of the room, Steve holding the old man by the shoulders at just enough distance so that Tom’s fierce blows missed him.
    “Just what do you mean filling our heads with lies, you old son of a bitch?” Nicolin demanded, shaking Tom back and forth with genuine anger.
    “And what do you mean busting into my house like that. Besides”—losing his pleasure in their usual sport—“when did I ever lie to you?”
    Steve snorted. “When didn’t you? Telling us they used to bury their dead in silver-lined caskets. Well now we know that one’s a lie, because we went up to San Clemente last night and dug one up, and the only thing it had on it was plastic.”
    “What’s this?” Tom looked at me. “You did what?”
    So I told him about the gang’s expedition into San Clemente. When I got to the part about the coffin handles he began to laugh; he sat down in his chair and laughed, heee, heeee, hee hee heeee, all through the rest of it, including the part about the scavengers’ siren attack.
    Nicolin stood over him, glowering. “So now we know you’re lying, see?”
    “Heeeeeee, hee hee hee hee hee hee.” A cough or two. “No lies at all, boys. Only the truth from Tom Barnard. Listen here—why do you think that plastic on that coffin was silver-colored?” Steve gave me a significant look. “Because it usually was silver, of course. You just dug up some poor guy who died broke. Now, what were you doing digging up graves for, anyway?”
    “We wanted the silver,” Steve said.
    “Bad