"Allston, Aaron - Doc Sidhe 01 - Doc Sidhe" - читать интересную книгу автора (Allston Aaron)

Carlo looked at his visitor, at the manТs eager, encouraging expression, and hesitated before shaking his head. УItaly, no.Ф
УSymaithia, IТd say, to judge from your accent.Ф
CarloТs eyes widened. УYes, Symaithia. But the doctors, they said it was all imagination, that I should stop thinking about it. How you know about Symaithia?Ф
УThe doctors were wrong. Poor Carlo. I imagine no one took you seriously. It must have been impossible to keep a job, to make friends.Ф The visitor shifted, drawing even closer. УTell me, Carlo, this is very important. Have you ever met anyone like yourself? From the old country? Not just Symaithia. Anywhere.Ф
УOh, no. Never.Ф Carlo started as a tear dropped from his cheek onto his hand; shamed, he reached up to dry his eyes. УAll my life, I think that the doctors are right. That I must have been in an accident, hurt my head, dreamed everything about the old country. You are real? You are not some new dream?Ф He looked up again into his visitorТs sympathetic eyes.
УIТm no dream.Ф The visitor reached into one of his coat pockets and brought out something dark and glinting. УCarlo, I think youТre just exactly the man I want, but I need to know one more thing. Can you handle one of these?Ф
Carlo looked down at the gleaming metal object in his visitorТs hands. УA gun? Yes, of course. I fought for America in World War Two. I need gloves. Why will I need to use a gun?Ф
The visitor smiled again. УCome to think of it, you wonТt.Ф He aimed and pulled the trigger.
The blast hammered CarloТs ears and fire tore through his chest.
For a moment he could not move. He just stared uncomprehendingly at his visitor. Then he looked down at the hole over his heart.
Blood pooled slowly out of the hole. A hole in his best shirt . . . it was so hard to get bloodstains out of clothes, and there would be the hole to sew up. And another in the back of the shirt, where he felt more wetness and pain.
He looked at the man with the gun. УWhy you do this?Ф
УHush.Ф The visitor brought the barrel of the automatic to within an inch of CarloТs forehead and fired again.

The old man looked down at the body of Carlo Salvanelli. Satisfied that no life remained, he wriggled back out of the box and stood.
His two men waited a few yards off. Phipps, the small one, a mere four inches above six feet, stood in the alleyТs patch of moonlight. The big one kept back in the shadows.
Phipps stepped forward, looming solicitously over the old man. УYou okay?Ф
УOf course. I enjoy doing this sort of thing from time to time. Good for the constitution.Ф The elderly gentleman pocketed his gun, then reached up to straighten PhippsТ collar. УThough we should leave now. You just canТt count on the police not to come. Now, youТre sure about this other one?Ф
The small one nodded. УI had the meter out and on her for four or five minutes. SheТs a good, strong signal. But as far as IТve been able to determine, she really was born here.Ф
УThen I donТt think sheТll join poor Carlo right away. I may need to send her home for study first.Ф
The three moved away down the alley, leaving Carlo Salvanelli alone in the box that served him as home.

Harris Greene sat on the stool in his corner and concentrated on keeping his war-face on. It wasnТt easy; dizziness and weariness tugged at him, and Zeb was talking. Talking and talking.
УDammit, Harris, youТre being too predictable. The same combinations over and over. Mix it up more. HeТs onto your backfist; forget about it. Work on his gut. I think heТs still hurting from the Helberson fight. And watch out when you close with him. When you make the transition between your range and his, in or out, thatТs when heТs nailing you.Ф
Harris accepted a mouthful of water from the trainerТs bottle, then swallowed it instead of spitting. He stared for a long moment at the PKC banner on the auditorium wall, at the crowd that had shouted for his blood just a few minutes ago, and he turned to look at Zeb. УIТm going to lose,Ф he said.
Zeb Watson stared back at him, hard-eyed. Black, bearded, intense, heТd once been a fighter and could still project the attitude. His gaze was like a knife raking at HarrisТ face. УNo, youТre not. You can take him. You have more than he does. Just do what I say and stop thinking so much!Ф
The warning whistle sounded. Zeb cursed, slipped the plastic guard back into HarrisТ mouth, and slipped out of the ring. Harris rose. The bell sounded, announcing the fifth round.
Harris got underway, resumed his erratic up-and-down, right-and-left motion, and headed toward the Smile again.
It took only a few moments. Walters switched tactics, went on the offensive, drove Harris into a corner. Harris blocked the blows coming in at his ribs, saw an opening, and automatically threw his backfist again. He felt Walters draw away from him.
Walters, still in retreat, caught the backfist on his left glove, then kicked high. His foot slammed into HarrisТ temple, a blast of pain as sharp and distinct as a cymbal crash from a symphony, and Harris watched through gray fog as the canvas rose up to slap him.
Cheers rolled over him. The crowd loved it. Damn them.
He got up. It took a while. The referee talked to him, and Harris didnТt understand his words. Maybe it wasnТt English. Maybe he was just concentrating too hard on staying upright to make sense of his speech. Then the referee went away and the crowd roared again.
Harris saw Sonny Walters dancing around, his arms high. The Smile had won. The Smile had been right all along. Harris headed for his corner. The faces there werenТt smiling.

It took Harris a long time to tie his shoe. There didnТt seem to be any reason to do it faster. And this way he didnТt have to look up, to stare into disappointed faces.
Zeb sat on the locker-room bench in front of him and cleared his throat. УHarris, I think weТre done.Ф
УOkay. IТll see you Monday.Ф Good. Just leave. DonТt make me look at you.
УNo, thatТs not what I mean. I think you and I are done. I canТt work with you anymore.Ф
Finally Harris did look up, into ZebТs sympathetic, set expression. УWhat do you mean?Ф
УHarris, why did you get into kick-boxing?Ф
УSame reason you did.Ф
УNo, tell me.Ф
Harris thought back. УTwo Olympics on the tae kwon do team. I didnТt take any medals, but hey, I was a kid for the first one. Everybody seemed to think I could go all the way. Be a champion. ThatТs what it was. I wanted to be a champ.Ф
УWanted.Ф
УWant. I still want it.Ф
УI donТt think so.Ф Zeb sighed. УHarris, you are a champion . . . in practice. In training, nobody can match you. YouТve got more speed and power than anyone your size. But when it turns into a competition, when the fight becomes real, you just fold up.Ф
Harris felt a lump form in his throat as he realized Zeb meant it. УYouТre really cutting me loose, arenТt you?Ф
УAs a fighter, yeah. ThatТs business. I need to manage fighters who are going to have careers. ThatТs not you. But IТm not cutting you loose as a friend.Ф
УThanks.Ф Harris looked back at his shoe. He pulled the knot out and began tying it again.
УAre you seeing Gaby tonight?Ф