"Sunglasses After Dark v1.0" - читать интересную книгу автора (Collins Nancy A)

Officer Golson: Marks? You mean the type left by hypodermic needles?
Burdette: Yeah, I guess, so. I didn't get too good a look. And she was wearing a pair of tan workpants a size too big for her. They were seriously gross . . . smeared with mud and. God knows what else. I noticed she weren't wearing no shoes. Her hair was hanging down in her face and it was real long and dirty, like it hadn't been washed in a month of Sundays. She was one fucked-up chick, I can tell you. I'm used to the junkies wandering in at all hours. But what was weird about this chick was what she didn't do. Most junkies usually head straight for the snacks and load up on Cheetos, Chocodiles, Suzy Qs, Popsicle Bombs . . . that kind of crap.
But this one went to the far aisle, where we got this carousel rack full of sunglasses, and started trying on shades. She had her back to me and hair in her face, so I never got a real good look at her head-on, but I watched her try on a few of them. She moved kind of jerky. Real weird. I knew she was going to try to steal some shades. Didn't have to be Sherlock to figure that one out. I was so busy watching her, I didn't notice the guy who walked in at, oh, I guess it must have been half-past.
I heard the door chime and glanced up, long enough to see it was some white guy. I was keeping an eye on the junkie when the next thing I know there's this sawed-off staring me right in the face. The white guy says, "Hand over what's in the register." I forgot all about the girl. All I could see is that damned shotgun. So's I open the till. I got forty bucks and some food stamps, and that's about it. I give it to the holdup man and he says, "That's all?" I know right then he's going to wipe me. I can hear it in his voice and see it in his eyes. He was going to blow me away because I didn't have enough money. I had this picture of my brains getting splattered all over the cigarette display and dripping off the funny-book rack.
Then I hear this . . . noise. Sounds like cats being boiled alive. For a minute I think the cops are coming. Then I realize it's coming from inside the store! I remembered the junkie was still there. I don't think the holdup guy even knew she was in the store. He turns around and shoots blind, blowing hell out of my Dr Pepper display. That's how I got this cut on my cheek, from flying Dr Pepper glass.
Anyways, the junkie chick runs at the dude like she's going to tackle him, and all I can think is that she's going to get us both killed. She's screaming her head off when she plows into him. Now you got to understand, this guy was big. An ex-jock or a biker or something. And she takes him out! Drives her left shoulder blade into his gut and grabs his gun hand at the same time and forces it back. That's when the second barrel went off, knocking that damn big hole in the ceiling. Damn thing went off inches from my head. Felt like someone up and hit me with a two-by-four! Guess that's when I blacked out, because the next thing I know there's a cop bending over me asking me if I'd been hurt. My ears were still ringing pretty bad and it took me a while before I could hear good enough to understand what people were asking me. I guess I was in shock or something, because I kept asking the paramedics about the girl. They didn't know what the fuck I was talking about.
When I got up off the floor, all I saw was a bunch of shattered Dr Pepper bottles. No dead girl. No blood. The stickup man's gun was on top of the counter, wrapped in a plastic bag. The cop that found me said it had been on the floor. I couldn't figure it out. Then I saw the doors.
You see, the store's got these swinging glass doors. During the day both of them are unlocked, but after midnight I lock one side so's I can keep better track of who's coming in and going out, see? Both them doors were hanging off their hinges and there was busted glass all over the parking lot! Looked like someone rode a motorcycle through them . . . from inside the store!
I don't know what the hell she was on, but judging from them doors, I'm glad I didn't get in her way. That's all I can tell you about what went on, save that I never saw her before and I hope I'll never see her again. I'm quitting this chickenshit job.
Officer Golson: Mr. Burdette, what exactly was stolen from your store?
Burdette: Well, the money the holdup guy took from the till was scattered on the floor, near the gun. So the only thing I know for sure was taken from the store was a pair of sunglasses. The mirrored kind. And that's only because I saw her wearing them just before she plowed into the asshole.
Officer Golson: You're sure that's all that was stolen? A pair of mirrored sunglasses?
Burdette: You got it.
Irma Clesi opened the door to her apartment. She was dressed in a shapeless housecoat and fluffy houseshoes, her head lumpy with rollers.
Five-thirty in the god-damned morning! Every day for twelve years she woke up at five-thirty so she could fix that lazy slob's breakfast. And what thanks did she get for sending him off to the factory with something beside cold cereal in his gut? A kiss? A hug? A simple "Thanks, honey"? No fucking way. The bastard didn't even have the common decency to offer to take out the garbage.
Irma Clesi struggled down the front stairs, cursing her husband, Stan, under her breath, the shiny black bag bouncing against her thighs with each step. Metal cans and glass bottles clanked in the predawn quiet.
The trash cans for their apartment complex were set flush with the pavement, the lids opened by foot pedals. It was an old, uniquely urban form of trash collection. Irma wasn't sure how the garbage men got the cans out; Stan claimed they used special hooks to lift the aluminum containers out of their dens. Irma didn't really care, just as long as it kept the neighborhood dogs from scattering trash all over the sidewalk.
Irma's left houseshoe, a wad of pink synthetic cotton candy, slammed down on the pedal and the trash can's lid popped up. Irma caught the lip of the cover with her hand and opened it further, leaning over to drop the plastic bag full of coffee grounds, beer bottles, and chili cans into the hole in the sidewalk.
There was someone looking up at her from inside the trash can.
A man in his early thirties, his long hair bunched around his face, lay crumpled in the Clesis' rubbish bin. Whatever it was that killed him had stuffed his corpse into the garbage bin a couple of hours earlier, for now his limbs were stiffened into obtuse angles, like those of an abstract sculpture.
Irma dropped the lid and her bag of garbage. Her screams were short but explosive as she ran back to the safety of her apartment.
The neighborhood dogs, drawn by the aroma of chili, tore at the plastic bag, spilling garbage all over the sidewalk.
Claude Hagerty sat in his booth at the Cup 'n' Saucer, a greasy spoon specializing in the early breakfast trade. He'd been taking his breakfast there for twelve years and the waitresses knew him on sight. A plate with two eggs sunny-side-up, biscuits, and hash browns with country gravy appeared without his having to order.
The morning newspaper was unfolded before him, the updated edition having hit the stands just after he got off work. He stared at the front page while his eggs congealed, searching for traces of her passing. He found it on page three: Man Sought In Connection With Armed Robbery Found Dead In Trash Can.
Claude shut the newspaper, resting his brow on the heel of his palm. His stomach roiled and the sight of breakfast made him even queasier. He was back at Elysian Fields, listening to Dr. Wexler have hysterics.
Wexler was a tall, tanned, conventionally handsome man in his late fifties who looked like his dust jackets. Except when he was angry. And he'd been real angry at four o'clock in the morning. Angry enough to fire Claude for "not doing his job."
Tired as he was, Hagerty couldn't bring himself to go home and sleep. Something was eating at him. He couldn't help but feel that he'd been given a clue, but he was too stupid to recognize it. His dream had faded during the excitement and recriminations following Blue, S.'s escape, and his attempts to recall the details met with frustration. As he sat and stared at the columns of newsprint, Claude's vision blurred and his mind began to drift.
"Denise Thorne. "
The voice sounded as if someone had spoken in his ear. Claude started
awake with a muffled shout. Several of the Cup'n' Saucer's patrons stared at him. He pulled himself out of the booth and left a ten-dollar bill next to his untouched meal.
His mother, bless her, had tried her best to get him to use his brains and not just rely on his brawn. And, to a certain extent, she had succeeded. Claude was a voracious reader, and he was familiar with the public library.
He was the first one through the library doors. He'd had to wait an hour before they opened, but he used the time to read the newspaper from front to back, attempting to find further evidence of her activities. He'd even scrutinized the want ads and lost-dog notices. Except for the dead man stuffed in the trash, he could not find anything he could link to her. That made him feel a little better.
He checked in the subject catalog and found a single entry for Thorne,
Denise. It was a nonfiction book called The Vanishing Heiress. When he had no luck locating it in the stacks, he asked one of the librarians where it might be. The woman checked her computer terminal and scowled.
"I'm sorry, sir. That book was checked out over six months ago and it's
never been returned. People can be so thoughtless. The computer says it's an out-of-print book, so there's no chance of us being able to reorder it . . ."
"There aren't any other books on Denise Thorne?"
"No. That's the only one I've ever heard of."
Hagerty's hands curled into fists. It was all he could do to keep from
smashing them against the countertop.
"However, you could check our newspaper morgue. Everything's on
microfiche. I'm afraid I couldn't give you the exact date. Late 60's, early 70's.
That's all I can recall."
"You know something about her?"
G The librarian, an older woman, nodded. "I remember when it happened.
I had a daughter the same age, so I guess that's why. Those things have a way of making you stop and thank God it wasn't you."
"What happened to her?"
The librarian shrugged. "No one knows."
Wexler was shaking. He moved to the wet bar and fixed himself a Scotch
on the rocks, eyeing his surroundings with distaste.