"Allston, Aaron - Doc Sidhe 02 - Sidhe-Devil" - читать интересную книгу автора (Allston Aaron)

Jorg, the biggest of them, mopped a handkerchief that was as floridly red as his hair over his sweaty forehead. УThen he isnТt here.Ф
Albin fixed him with a look of contempt. УHave you even been looking among the crowd? He might be employing a disguise.Ф
УOf course I have,Ф Jorg said, his voice rising in protest. УWe all have. Right, boys? No sign of him. Maybe heТll come later.Ф
Albin still frowned. УI donТt like it. IТve done research on their weddings . . . but theyТre not doing it right.Ф
Egon, the second oldest, though he still had some blond in his hair and beard, shrugged. His hands were in his pockets; Rudi knew that one hand would be on a knife hilt even now. УPerhaps you did your research wrong.Ф
УShut up,Ф Albin said. УThe part weТve just seen, theyТre supposed to do in a temple. Then they have cameos taken. Then they have rice thrown at them as they leave the temple.Ф
Otmar, youngest of the brothers except for Rudi, young enough not to have any silver decorating the brown in his beard, laughed-giggled, rather. УMessy.Ф
Albin took a deep breath, an effort, Rudi knew, to keep his temper in check. УDry rice, you idiot. Then they go to the hall where the food is-thatТs the best place we could have taken them, on the trip from temple to hall. But these cretins have cobbled together both parts of the ceremony. They do everything wrong.Ф He looked around, directing his contempt against the other attendees instead of his brothers. УThey actually let duskers into the hall.Ф He gestured toward the head of the room, where, until the audience had stood, theyТd been able to see the tall black man standing beside the groom. УTheyТve got a dusker for the best man. I think the brideТs a dusker passing for dark.Ф
Rudi said, УThatТs not our problem. The fact that theyТre not doing things according to their own traditions is. So weТll have to improvise. Where do you want to do it?Ф
Albin curled a lip, still obviously distressed about the presence of the black man. УWhen they go to change their garments, I think. WeТll follow them and catch them in their rooms, one by one or two by two.Ф

The bride, the groom, and their families collected at the front of the room to endure the photographerТs instructions. Zeb was far enough to one side to be out of camera range but close enough to hear the photographerТs victims talk.
The brideТs mother-small-boned, more than a trifle overweight, a frown seemingly a permanent feature of her face-leaned in to whisper, УThat Minister Jones, is he a real minister?Ф
УYes, Mother.Ф Gaby kept her smile on for the camera.
УI think heТs an actor. I think I recognize him from a peanut butter commercial.Ф
УHe is an actor from a peanut butter commercial. He and Harris studied theater together in college. But heТs also a minister. He founded his own church. Government-recognized and everything.Ф
УWell, itТs not right. You should have been married by a real priest. A Catholic priest.Ф
УWell, maybe weТll do it again with a real priest next time.Ф
УHow about next week?Ф
Minutes later, the families immortalized, the photographer maneuvered them away and had the wedding party step in.
Zeb put on his photographic face. He knew his close-cropped beard and mustache gave him a distinguished look, and his eyes were expressive-but only when he put on the right face. He had other faces for other situations. There was his war-face, developed and polished for the boxing ring, his IТm-not-to-be-messed-with face for walking certain neighborhoods in New York, his IТm-so-nice face for persuading people he was no threat to them. He had a face for every occasion. He sometimes wondered if any of them was his own.
While the photographer was changing cameras, Zeb leaned forward over HarrisТs shoulder. УSorry I was so late.Ф
УDonТt worry about it,Ф Harris said. УYou got here, you didnТt lose the ring, and in the original tradition of the best man, youТre the most dangerous guy I know, so I had no worries that anyone would come and steal Gaby away.Ф
The photographer said, УAll right, bride only for a while.Ф Harris and Zeb obligingly moved to one side and relaxed.
УWe havenТt had a lot of time to talk,Ф Zeb said. He couldnТt keep a trace of suspicion from his voice. УMonths I donТt hear from you or Gaby, and then boom! YouТre living in California, youТre getting married, and youТre doing what?Ф
УFreelance consultants. WeТre hotel reviewers and inspectors.Ф
УMeaning what, exactly?Ф
УWeТre on the road most of the year, going from hotel to hotel under assumed names. We just look around, see how good the hotel staff is at doing its job, use all the hotel facilities we can without being obvious, cause a weird problem or two to see how they deal with it, and file reports to the companies that hire us. We might work for the corporation that owns the hotel, a corporation that owns rival hotels, a chain of travel agencies, a credit-card issuer, that sort of thing.Ф Harris shrugged. УItТs good work that pays well. And we like the travel.Ф
A crowd of well-wishers descended upon Harris, shaking his hand, clapping his back, and then moved on to linger in a predatory fashion around the buffet table setup.
УHarris?Ф Zeb said.
УYeah?Ф
УWhere are the pictures?Ф
Harris gestured at the photographer, still posing Gaby and members of her family. УThey wonТt be ready for weeks.Ф
УNo, not those. YouТve been travelling the last few months from hotel to hotel. The last time you and Gaby went anywhere, she came back with a lot of photographs. She was into photography and journalism in school, right? I remember she likes taking pictures when sheТs on vacation.Ф
УYou donТt forget much.Ф
УSo where are they?Ф
УHell if I know. I told her I donТt like looking at pictures. She packs them away somewhere.Ф
УBullshit.Ф
УWhat?Ф
УYou heard me.Ф
Harris frowned, but not at ZebТs remark. He watched someone toward one side of the hall. УStay here a second. ThereТs a guy I want to talk to.Ф
УYouТre avoiding the question.Ф
УNo.Ф Harris broke away and moved into the crowd.

The short, stocky man moved behind one of the columns on the long wall where chairs were stacked. Harris followed as closely as he dared. He peeked around the column, saw the manТs broad back, saw over his shoulder as the man lit a pipe.
Harris moved out from behind the column and asked, УPardon me, goodsir, whatТs the bell?Ф
The stocky man turned, revealing his bulbous nose and bushy brown beard; he automatically reached into the pocket of his vest and fetched out a large pocket watch whose lid was ornately engraved with the image of an apple tree. He opened it up. УWhy, itТs-Ф Then, guilt dawning on his features, he looked up.
He dropped the pipe, reached under his armpit. As he brushed his jacket lapel aside, Harris saw the gun butt and shoulder holster beneath.
Harris hit him, a knuckle-punch to the solar plexus. He stepped in even closer, slammed his forearm into the manТs head, driving it back into the column, and followed through with a knee to the manТs groin.
The stocky man let out a faint moan and slid, unconscious, to the floor. The plaster of the column was broken where his head had hit it.