"Dann,_Jack_-_The_Diamond_Pit" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dann Jack)

"No, I can't," said Carl.
"As I've asked you before, do you want me to have your wives and girlfriends brought here? I'll extend your accommodations. Y'all would have everything you could wish for."
"Except freedom," said Eddie Barthelmet. "What would it take to buy that?"
"You can't _buy_ anything from me," said Mr. Jefferson. "All that I give is as a gift. When last we spoke -- how long ago was that? Perhaps a few months ago? -- I asked if you could come up with a better solution. Well, this is your chance. Propose."
"So you can dispose," said Eddie.
"Very good, very good indeed. The newer members seem to be quicker than the rest of you. You'll need to study to keep up."
"Then let us have some newspapers," shouted Crocker.
"Yeah, is prohibition repealed yet?"
"What would you care?" Mr. Jefferson said. "Whatever spirits you request are sent to you. What more could you ask for?"
That elicited shouting and swearing, and Mr. Jefferson just smiled and held up his hands. "Well, gentlemen, I see that we're finished."
"We do care about whether prohibition has been repealed," Eddie shouted up to Mr. Jefferson. "Just as we care about what the stock market is doing, what's the new dance, what's happening with the Fascists in Italy, what's the latest Zane Grey, is Dempsey still heavyweight champion, who won the World Series?"
"Giants over the Yankees, 5-3 in the fifth," I said in a low voice. Eddie nodded to me, and a few of the other boys started to argue the merits of the Giants and the Yankees.
"There's your answer," Mr. Jefferson said. He could only have heard me if he had listening devices planted in here, which, of course, he would.
"We need access to newspapers -- and the radio," Eddie said.
"It will only stir you up, son, and make you yearn for what you can't have," Jefferson said. "You've got a library of the great classics of literature. That should be edification enough."
"I want _The Saturday Evening Post_," Crocker said.
"I want _The Strand_."
"I want Phoebe."
"Good-bye, gentlemen," Jefferson said.
"Wait," shouted Eddie. "Why not at least give us leave? At least, let one or two of us out for a few days. You could have your slaves guard us to make sure we couldn't run for it. We could at least see a ball game, or a movie. Then you could bring us back, and take another group out. As you are always fond of telling us, 'Money's no object.'"
Jefferson made a clucking noise and said, "That's a new twist, Mr. Barthelmet. Very good, indeed. Except my slaves would have to gag you and bind you so you wouldn't shout for help or make a run for it, and the constabulary might look askance at that. But even if you were a model parolee, you'd come back and yearn for what you'd seen. No, it would just deepen the pain of your circumstances. Allow me to bring your wives or lovers or friends to you."
"No," shouted Rick Moss, and he was echoed by the others.
"It's bad enough you've buried us."
"Let us the hell out of here, you bastid."
"Well, gentlemen, I think that's more than enough," Jefferson said. "Come on, Phoebe, enough diversion for you." He stood up, and I could see then that he had been holding a golf club, not a cane. We were buried under his golf course, and he and his daughter were just out playing eighteen holes. The sonovabitch!
There was a grating noise, and the opening above went black.
"Wait," I shouted reflexively.
The ceiling irised open, and Jefferson and his beautiful Phoebe looked down at us. "Yes, Mr. Orsatti?" he asked.
"I'd like a piano."
Jefferson laughed and said, "Done."
"That's all we need, more noise -- "
"We could use some of that -- "
"You boys can dance with each other -- "
"It beats what we're doin' now -- "
But before the ceiling closed, I could see Phoebe looking down -- right at _me_ -- and smiling.
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*Three*
The piano arrived, as promised. It was a special-edition, pearl-white Steinway grand, which produced a huge, full orchestral sound, yet the keys had such an incredibly fast action that I couldn't help but open up with a boogie-woogie medley. My feet stomped on the floor as my left hand flew over the keys beating out syncopated rhythms that were so tricky that I dared not watch what I was doing, lest I falter; and my right hand, weaving various melodies through the rhythms of my left, might as well have had a mind of its own.
I was a one-man band.
I was also, needless to say, half in the proverbial bag. But so was everyone else, except Cissy Schneck and Farley James, a nice British fellow who had been an Oxford don before the war. I found out from Skip that he had been an ace pilot. He'd come over here to compete in the ocean-to-ocean air race in '19, the same year the Cincinnati Reds beat the Sox in the eighth game, which was a miracle. So was Farley James, I guess, because he'd come in second place and decided to stay and start an air flying company with Charlie Lindbergh. That surprised the hell out of me because Joel, may God rest his soul, said he'd worked for Lindbergh for a while.
"Hey, Farley," I called, and he dutifully came over to the piano, where Skip formally introduced us.
"Fahley, z'ish is Pauhhzzotti -- "
"Skip tells me you had some business with Charlie Lindbergh."
Farley nodded, smiling at Skip who then began to lead everyone in another chorus of another new song I had played for them.
"_Do you have any bananas_?"
"_Yes! We have no bananas!_"
"Do you know Charlie?" Farley asked.
"Yeah, I met him through a friend of mine, Joel Wagner. Ring any bells?"
"Small world. Sure, I remember Joel. Good aviator. Dependable. What's he doing with himself these days?"
"He's dead."