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一天，我从一家位于中央大街的一个不全是黑人的混合街区的三把椅理发店里走出，因为之前通过一个机构得知迪米特里奥斯·阿莱伊迪斯可能在这家理发店里当救济理发师。这算是我的一笔小生意，他的太太愿意出一笔小钱找到他让他回家。
我从未找到过他，但阿莱迪斯女士也没给过我钱就是了。
那天差不多是三月底，气候温和，我站在那家理发店门外向上看，二楼弗洛里安骰子餐厅的霓虹招牌映入眼帘。一哥们也在抬头看那个招牌。他抬头望着满是灰尘的窗户，脸上带着一种欣喜若狂的表情，就像一个中欧移民第一次看到自由女神像一样。他块头很大，但身高不超过六英尺五英寸，也不比一辆啤酒运输车宽。他离我大约十英尺远，双臂自然垂于两侧，一根冒着烟的雪茄夹在他粗大的手指之间，似乎忘了去抽。
身材消瘦的黑人们安静地在街道中来来往往，路过他时纷纷侧目凝望。他也着实惹人瞩目。他头戴一顶宽大的博尔萨利诺帽，帽带上插着几根彩色羽毛，但实际上他并不需要这些装饰；身穿一件粗糙的灰色运动外套，上面缀着高尔夫球样式的纽扣，里面是一件棕色衬衫，系着一条黄色领带，胸前的口袋垂下一块和领带一样鲜艳的黄手帕；下身穿着灰色打褶法兰绒宽松长裤，脚穿一双鳄鱼皮鞋，脚趾处的几个破洞露出里面白色的袜子。即使是处于世界最繁华的中央大街上，他也像白蛋糕上的狼蛛一样瞩目。
他肤色苍白，脸上的杂毛需要打理。像他这样应该需要经常打理。他一头黑色卷发，浓密的眉毛似乎要延伸到大鼻子上。他的耳朵小小的，相比于他的大汉体型显得格外小巧，灰色的眼睛里似乎常饱含泪水。他如雕像一般呆呆站着，良久，抿唇一笑。
他缓缓穿过人行道，走向紧闭的双开门，门后是通向二楼的楼梯。他推开门，回头冷冷地扫了一眼街道，然后走了进去。假如他个头再小一点，穿着再低调些，我可能就会以为他要进去抢劫了。但看那穿着，那帽子，那体型，显然不是。
门向外弹回，来回摆动直至静止。突然，静止的门又被粗暴地向外推开。有什么东西从里面飞出，掠过人行道，掉落进两辆停着的轿车之间的阴沟里。那人手和膝盖着地，困鼠一般尖声惨叫。而后缓缓站起，捡起帽子，走回人行道上。那是一个肤色黝黑的青年，黑发顺滑，身形削瘦，肩不宽，着一身淡紫色西装。他张嘴嚎叫了一会儿，引得人们奇怪地看向他。他神气活现地戴上帽子，溜向墙边，迈着外八步子，安安静静地沿着街区离开。
静寂中，秩序恢复正常。刚才的事与我无关，我并不在意。我走向那两扇门，站在门前，那门静静立着，我推开门往里望去。
我打算进门找个地方坐下，一片混沌中有一只手伸出，用力揽住我的肩，像是要把我挤成肉酱。那只手携着我进了门，上了一阶，眼前出现一张大脸望着我。一个低沉而柔和的声音轻声说道：
“在这抽烟，嗯？看在我的面子上，把烟掐了，兄弟。”
这里环境昏暗，很安静。楼上传来模糊的人声，但楼梯上只有我们两个。那个大个子严肃地盯着我，手上也没停，继续摧残着我的肩膀。
“一个黑鬼，”他说，“我刚把他丢出去，你刚才有看到吧？”
他放开我的肩膀。我估摸着骨头应该是没断，但手臂已经麻了。
“就这么个地方，”我一边说着一边揉着我的肩膀，“你在想啥呢？”
“别这么说，兄弟，”那壮硕的男人低语着，像只刚享受完食物的老虎，“维尔玛以前在这里工作。小维尔玛。”
说着他的手又朝着我的肩膀来了。我想躲开，但显然他的速度更快，像一只捕猎的猫。他用他的铁臂箍死了我的肩膀，我的肉都要溢出来了。
“对，”他说，“小维尔玛。我有八年没见到她了。你说这事是一个黑鬼掺和进去了？”
我哑声说是。
他提着我又上了两个台阶，我挣扎着想有个活动的空间。之前我觉得寻找迪米特里奥斯·阿莱伊迪斯并不需要带枪，所以现在我身上并没有枪。有枪可能也派不上用场，这个壮汉估计会夺走我的枪占为己有。
“你自己上去看吧，”我说道，尽量让自己的声音不那么痛苦。
他再次放开我，而后看着我，灰色的眼睛里流露出一丝悲伤。“我准备好了，”他说，“我不会让他们看出破绽的。你和我一起上去也许会有些线索。”
“他们不会招待你的，我说过这里是个灰色地带。”
“我有八年没见到过维尔玛了，”他的声音低沉且悲伤。“我最后一次和她说再见已经过去八年了，她有六年没给我写信了。那么可爱的她，曾在这工作。所以你和我一起上去，成吗？”
“行吧，”我喊道，“我跟你上去，你放我下来，我自己走。我是个成年人，四肢健全，能独立去上厕所，也能独立做其他事。所以别再提着我了。”
“小维尔玛曾经在这工作，”他温声道，对我的话充耳不闻。
他把我放下来让我自己走，我们一同上楼。我肩膀生痛，后背已被汗水浸湿。
原文：
It was one of the mixed blocks over on Central Avenue, the blocks that are not yet all Negro. I had just come out of a three-chair barber shop where an agency thought a relief barber named Dimitrios Aleidis might be working. It was a small matter. His wife said she was willing to spend a little money to have him come home.
I never found him, but Mrs. Aleidis never paid me any money either.
It was a warm day, almost the end of March, and I stood outside the barber shop looking up at the jutting neon sign of a second floor dine and dice emporium called Florian's. A man was looking up at the sign too. He was looking up at the dusty windows with a sort of ecstatic fixity of expression, like a hunky immigrant catching his first sight of the Statue of Liberty. He was a big man but not more than six feet five inches tall and not wider than a beer truck. He was about ten feet away from me. His arms hung loose at his sides and a forgotten cigar smoked behind his enormous fingers.
Slim quiet Negroes passed up and down the street and stared at him with darting side glances. He was worth looking at. He wore a shaggy borsalino hat, a rough gray sports coat with white golf balls on it for buttons, a brown shirt, a yellow tie, pleated gray flannel slacks and alligator shoes with white explosions on the toes. From his outer breast pocket cascaded a show handkerchief of the same brilliant yellow as his tie. There were a couple of colored feathers tucked into the band of his hat, but he didn't really need them. Even on Central Avenue, not the quietest dressed street in the world, he looked about as inconspicuous as a tarantula on a slice of angel food.
His skin was pale and he needed a shave. He would always need a shave. He had curly black hair and heavy eyebrows that almost met over his thick nose. His ears were small and neat for a man of that size and his eyes had a shine close to tears that gray eyes often seem to have. He stood like a statue, and after a long time he smiled.
He moved slowly across the sidewalk to the double swinging doors which shut off the stairs to the second floor. He pushed them open, cast a cool expressionless glance up and down the street, and moved inside. If he had been a smaller man and more quietly dressed, I might have thought he was going to pull a stick-up. But not in those clothes, and not with that hat, and that frame.
The doors swung back outwards and almost settled to a stop. Before they had entirely stopped moving they opened again, violently, outwards. Something sailed across the sidewalk and landed in the gutter between two parked cars. It landed on its hands and knees and made a high keening noise like a cornered rat. It got up slowly, retrieved a hat and stepped back onto the sidewalk. It was a thin, narrow-shouldered brown youth in a lilac colored suit and a carnation. It had slick black hair. It kept its mouth open and whined for a moment. People stared at it vaguely. Then it settled its hat jauntily, sidled over to the wall and walked silently splay-footed off along the block.
Silence. Traffic resumed. I walked along to the double doors and stood in front of them. They were motionless now. It wasn't any of my business. So I pushed them open and looked in.
A hand I could have sat in came out of the dimness and took hold of my shoulder and squashed it to a pulp. Then the hand moved me through the doors and casually lifted me up a step. The large face looked at me. A deep soft voice said to me, quietly:
"Smokes in here, huh? Tie that for me, pal."
It was dark in there. It was quiet. From up above came vague sounds of humanity, but we were alone on the stairs. The big man stared at me solemnly and went on wrecking my shoulder with his hand.
"A dinge," he said. "I just thrown him out. You seen me throw him out?"
He let go of my shoulder. The bone didn't seem to be broken, but the arm was numb.
"It's that kind of a place," I said, rubbing my shoulder. "What did you expect?"
"Don't say that, pal," the big man purred softly, like four tigers after dinner. "Velma used to work here. Little Velma."
He reached for my shoulder again. I tried to dodge him but he was as fast as a cat. He began to chew my muscles up some more with his iron fingers.
"Yeah," he said. "Little Velma. I ain't seen her in eight years. You say this here is a dinge joint?"
I croaked that it was.
He lifted me up two more steps. I wrenched myself loose and tried for a little elbow room. I wasn't wearing a gun. Looking for Dimitrios Aleidis hadn't seemed to require it. I doubted if it would do me any good. The big man would probably take it away from me and eat it.
"Go on up and see for yourself," I said, trying to keep the agony out of my voice.
He let go of me again. He looked at me with a sort of sadness in his gray eyes. "I'm feelin' good," he said. "I wouldn't want anybody to fuss with me. Let's you and me go on up and maybe nibble a couple."
"They won't serve you. I told you it's a colored joint."
"I ain't seen Velma in eight years," he said in his deep sad voice. "Eight long years since I said goodby. She ain't wrote to me in six. But she'll have a reason. She used to work here. Cute she was. Let's you and me go on up, huh?"
"All right," I yelled. "I'll go up with you. Just lay off carrying me. Let me walk. I'm fine. I'm all grown up. I go to the bathroom alone and everything. Just don't carry me."
"Little Velma used to work here," he said gently. He wasn't listening to me.
We went on up the stairs. He let me walk. My shoulder ached. The back of my neck was wet.
书籍信息：《FAREWELL, MY LOVELY》（《再见·吾爱》），作者：雷蒙德·索恩顿·钱德勒
原文来自古登堡计划书籍，原文地址：Farewell, My Lovely, by Raymond Chandler (gutenberg.ca)
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