"Benford-DoingAlien" - читать интересную книгу автора (Benford Gregory)

the locals ooze around them, curious. The Alphas don't pay any attention. Maybe
they're used to it or maybe they don't even know people are there unless they
need something. Way they act, you could believe that.

But Mitchell, he keeps eyeing them. Tries to talk to them. They don't pay him no
never mind. Buys one a drink, even, but the Alpha won't touch it.

I could see it got to him. Not the first day maybe or the second. By the third,
though, he was acting funny. Studying them. The Alphas would show up at Nan's,
suck in plenty of the sauce, then blow out of town in those limos.

News people around, crowds waiting to see them, the whole goddamn shooting
match. Made Fairhope hell to get around in. I was gone three days to Birmingham
on a commission job with International Harvester, so I didn't see what stared
him on it. I come into town all busted out from chasing tail in Birmingham and
first thing you know, phone rings and Mitchell wants help.

"I'm in that beat up shack back of Leroy's TV," he said.

"That place's no biggem a coffin and smells worse."

"They spruced it up since Briggs run that poker game in here."

"So who you pokin there now?"

"Fred, your dick fell off your I.Q. would be zero."

"That happen, what'd I need to think for?"

"Get your dumb ass over here."

So I did. Walk in on Mitchell in a chair, this brunette working on him. First I
figured she was from over Bessie's, giving him a manicure with her kit all
spread out. Turns out she's a makeup gal from clear over to New Orleans. Works
Mardi Gras and like that.

Only she's not making Mitchell up to be a devil or in blackface or anything.
This is serious. She's painting shellack all over him. He's already got a crust
on him like dried mud in a hog wallow, only it's orange.

"Christ on a crutch," is all I can say.

"Mix me a bourbon and branch." Mitchell's voice came out muffled by all these
pink pancake-size wattles on his throat, like some kind of rooster.

So I do. Only he doesn't like it, so he gets up and makes his own. "Got to add a
twist sometimes," he says.

Mitchell was always picky about drinks. He used to make coffee for the boys,
morning after a big carouse, and it had to be Colombian and ground just so and