パーカーの文体の分析は、英文サイトでそこここにありますが、しかし、私のハードボイルド調「米国物語 1985 - 2006」を英文に翻訳するのは難しい。
Robert B. Parker the Spenser Novels 22-27 (book)
https://grokipedia.com/page/robert_b_parker_the_spenser_novels_22_27_(book)
“A gallant knight”: The Renaissance charm of Robert B. Parker’s Spenser
https://www.folger.edu/blogs/shakespeare-and-beyond/the-renaissance-charm-of-robert-b-parkers-spenser/
The Best of Robert B. Parker
https://ethaniverson.com/the-best-of-robert-b-parker/
第1章 NYPD
https://x.gd/RHeIy
第2章 モルグ
https://x.gd/7b2mQ
を訳すと、ロバピ調では、こんなものなのかな？
「⚓ラムレーズンを一粒」
－∞－ －∞－ －∞－ －∞－ －∞－ －∞－
"A Rum Raisin on the Maternal Cake", The Fatal Shooting Mystery of Emi.
－∞－ －∞－ －∞－ －∞－ －∞－ －∞－
Chapter 1: NYPD
<<December 7, 1985 – Saturday>>
<<Times Square>>
It was eight in the morning, December seventh. Emi stood in the kitchen of her condo, brewing coffee and picking at a piece of toast. She wore a black turtleneck, tight jeans, and a long coat. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail.
She looked at herself in the window reflection. “Battle mode,” she said quietly. “Times Square café in December. It’s going to be cold out there. Hot coffee is not optional.”
She packed her bag carefully: notebook, pen, a few photocopies of Volume 08. She had to get the material organized, build a solid theory, before she turned anything over to the FBI.
At nine she left Peter Cooper Village and took the subway up to Times Square. The train rattled along. She scribbled notes.
Bush’s donations. Hinckley’s lawyer. The Pinkerton sniper. The dots were starting to connect. But there was no real proof yet.
Talk to Professor Kelly? No. Better to find someone at the FBI she could trust.
The train swayed. Her stomach swayed with it. She wasn’t scared, she told herself. A profiler stays calm. Especially now.
Ten o’clock. She came up into Times Square, found the outdoor café, took a window table. Ordered hot coffee.
She spread out the notebook and the copies. Pen in hand.
Hinckley’s insanity plea. Bush’s CIA years. New World Order. Conspiracy theory? Maybe. But Pinkerton’s movements…
She wrote quickly. The city roared around her—traffic, voices, horns—but her eyes stayed on the pages.
She sipped the coffee. Smiled for a moment. If Akihiko were here, he’d be ordering a pink gin.
Eleven-fifteen. The sun got bright. She looked up, shielding her eyes.
Too much glare.
And then it happened.
<<December 7, 1985 – Saturday, 11:15 a.m.>>
<<Times Square>>
“Why the hell do we have to cover a shooting on a Saturday morning?” Bob the cameraman said.
I didn’t bother answering. It was my line first. What twist of fate ever put me in the news business? My girlfriend was already furious about the canceled date.
“No choice,” I said. “Desk call. Asian woman shot. Happens every day in this city.”
“News is news,” Bob said. “Sometimes the big one’s buried in the routine.”
“Sure. Shot at eleven. Body’s probably gone by now.”
“That’s why we hustle.”
We reached the café. The victim was young, Asian. College age, looked like.
Paramedics were loading her onto the stretcher. I let Bob film it.
She was tall for an Asian woman. Long black hair. A real beauty. Hard to guess the age exactly, but college seemed right.
At her table lay a notebook and pen. Blood on the pages. The wind flipped them open for a second. Tight English notes everywhere. On the last page, something in Japanese—looked like “Akihiko.” Then a cop grabbed everything for evidence.
I left the filming to Bob and looked for witnesses. A middle-aged white woman sat at the next table. She might have seen something.
“Excuse me, ma’am. CNN. Did you see what happened?”
“Yes. I was right beside her. I saw it all.”
“Tell me.”
“She was writing, very focused. Then the sun must have bothered her. She looked up, straight into it. And that was the moment.”
“The moment?”
“It was like a trick. A red flower opened on her temple. No noise. Just blood catching the sunlight. She folded forward, like a doll with the strings cut.”
The woman put a trembling hand over her mouth. “Such beautiful black hair.”
“Did you hear a shot?”
“No. Only the sound of her falling.”
“No shot. Long range, maybe. Did you see anyone who looked like a shooter?”
“I panicked. Hit the ground. Didn’t see anyone suspicious nearby. It must have come from high up, like you said.”
“Yeah.”
“She looks up. Bullet enters the temple. Has to be from above.”
“Would you mind repeating that on camera?”
“Yes, that’s all right. But the police are coming.”
“Then let’s move. Bob! Over here.”
<<December 7, 1985 – Saturday>>
<<Norman’s Office>>
I drove down Lexington, cut over to East 52nd, circled to the back entrance of the precinct, and killed the engine.
Murders, rapes, robberies, frauds. New York never runs out of inventory. If crime ever stopped, I’d be out of work. But getting hammered like this on an inspector’s salary, especially on a Saturday, felt like a bad deal.
I’d been running since last night. Dawn became noon became evening, and only now was I back. I’d promised the kid some baseball. At this rate my wife would file for divorce.
My desk was buried under reports. So was every other desk in the place. No one was complaining. I decided the mess could wait until after Christmas.
I put my feet up and flipped through the stack. Rape. Rape. Theft. Murder. Domestic—husband kills wife. Routine. Murder. Attempted rape. Another murder.
Then: Japanese female. College student. Shot. Sniper.
I looked at the clock. Six already. Incident at eleven a.m.—right when I was busiest. Times Square. Flashy location. Random crazy, probably.
I tossed the report aside. Time to go home.
That’s when the phone rang. I thought about ignoring it. But I’m a detective. I picked up.
“Yeah.”
“Norman?”
“Margaret. Doc. Calling this late for a drink?”
“I’m still at the morgue. Work. Bodies don’t take Saturdays off.”
“You’re still down there?”
“Yes. I’ve been trying your desk all day.”
“Out in the field. Junkie shootout. Drunk husband barricaded. Another drunk stabbing his buddy. Standard Saturday.”
“Everyone has free time on weekends. They do something stupid. Did you see the report?”
“Which one? They all blur together.”
“Female. Twenty-seven. Japanese national. Sniper hit.”
“Oh, that one.” I pulled it back. “What about it?”
“Outdoor café near Times Square. Instant death.”
“Yeah. Too bad. Admin notified the consulate.”
“She’s on my table now.”
“You drew the autopsy?”
“Yes. And something bothers me.”
“Out with it, Margaret.”
“Seventh Avenue. Near the Ritz-Carlton.”
“So?”
“Entry angle about forty degrees. From above, not street level. Weapon probably ArmaLite AR-7 or a target rifle. .22 caliber.”
“.22? That’s a toy. Takes real luck to kill with one.”
“Perfect hit to the temple. From high up.”
“So not random. A contract.”
“Possible. I’ll send the certificate when I’m done.”
“Good. I’m not driving to Brooklyn tonight. Tomorrow?”
“Sunday duty. Bad luck.”
“Family stuff in the morning. Maybe I’ll come by in the afternoon.”
“Divorce isn’t far off, Norman. When it happens we’ll go drink.”
“Don’t jinx me. If it does, you going to marry me?”
“You know I don’t marry anyone in this line of work.”
“Yeah. Tomorrow, then. Night.”
I hung up and thought about it. A Japanese woman. Twenty-seven. College student. Japanese victims are rare here. Not like the Chinese gangs. Yakuza, I’d understand. But a young woman? What could she have done to get herself targeted?
It didn’t add up.
Whatever. The day was over. I’d go home, have a drink. Maybe get lucky with the wife.
<<December 8, 1985 – Sunday>>
<<The Morgue>>
Sunday morning I took the kid to the park. We played catch. I bought him a hot dog. We shared an ice cream.
The wife was out with “friends.” I didn’t ask who. Didn’t want to know. So I watched the kid.
For a moment I wondered if her friend wore cologne. I wouldn’t blame her. Being married to me would make anyone stray.
I’m no saint since the wedding either. We married late—me thirty-five, her thirty-one. Department romance. She worked admin, typing reports, filing letters. She knew the job when she signed on. Or said she did.
The kid came fast. Six years now.
We got home. She was already back.
“Nice to have you around once in a while,” she said.
You weren’t here either, I thought.
“Day off,” I said.
I had to go to the morgue. If I told her, she’d start yelling.
“Quick errand at the morgue,” I said. “Back in an hour or two.”
I didn’t lie about the precinct—she’d call and check.
“The morgue?”
“Yeah. That Japanese girl shot yesterday. Need the certificate. Family will be coming soon.”
“Who’s the ME?”
“Tanner.”
“Margaret.” Her eyes narrowed. “You’re going to see her again.”
“Margaret and I are old news.”
“You were sleeping with her before we married.”
“Before. Not now.”
“You’re going to the morgue on Sunday because she’s on duty.”
“No. The case bothers me, that’s all.”
Truth was, spending Sunday face-to-face with her bothered me more.
“I’ll be quick.”
“Stay as long as you like,” she said, and slammed the bedroom door.
I stood there a minute.
How the hell did we end up like this?
－∞－ －∞－ －∞－ －∞－ －∞－ －∞－
Chapter 2: The Morgue
<<December 8, 1985 – Sunday>>
<<Afternoon at the Morgue>>
I drove in a bad mood. The streets were quiet for a Sunday—shops shuttered, a cheap restaurant or two still open. I took the Battery Tunnel under the river, skirted Prospect Park on Caton Avenue, and pulled up at the morgue.
The morgue on a Sunday. Just the guard and whoever was on duty.
I showed the guard my badge. Told him I was here to see Dr. Tanner. He said regulations, picked up the phone. “She’s in her office.”
Third floor, admin building. Elevator up. Her door was half open. I knocked.
“Well, Norman. Earlier than I expected. I thought late afternoon.”
“Fight with the wife. Screamed about me going to work on a Sunday.”
“Not exactly peaceful.”
“No. Then I said I was coming to the morgue. Who’s the ME, she asks.”
“You told her my name?”
“Yeah. Honest, right?”
“That made her angrier. You