"Jack Dann - Voices" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dann Jack)

I had to say no to that. "I never even saw my own father after he died."

That certainly shut him up, but he had such a sorrowful look on his face that I
felt sorry for him.

"I'm Jewish," I said, "and Jews can't have open caskets. Of course, there must
be a reason for that, but I don't know what it is."

"How'd he die?" Crocker asked, fumbling around with his hands as if he wasn't
used to having them.

"Something wrong with his liver."

"Like from drinking?" he asked.

"No, it was nothing like that," I said. But I had heard my mother talking to
the doctor; maybe he did get sick from drinking, although I swear I can't
remember seeing him drunk or anything. And I had just about had it with
Crocker's questions; he was acting like Jack Webb on Dragnet. You'd think he
would have to shut up after I told him about my father. But not Crocker. He
was a nosy little bastard. After a pause, he asked, "Did you ever talk to him
after he died?"

"You're out of your freaking gourd, Crocker. Nobody but an a-hole thinks he can
talk to people after they're dead."

"If you come with me today, I'll prove it to you." "No way, sucker. I got
better things to do than act like a nimblenarm." "With your father being dead
and all, I can't blame you for being afraid," Crocker said. "I'd be, too."
"Crocker, get the hell out of my life," I said. I guess I shouted at him,
because he looked real nervous. But I didn't need him spreading it all over the
place that I was afraid to look at a dead person. Christ, Crock-a-shit had a
bigger mouth than my mother.

"Okay," I said, "but if I don't hear this dead person talk like you say, I'm
going to break your head." I said it as if I meant it.

I guess I did.

But that only seemed to make Crocker happy, for he nodded and helped me put away
my Gotha bomber.

The worst part of it was that I had to sneak into my house and put on a suit and
tie, because Crocker said you can't just walk in with jeans and a T-shirt.

But a deal was a deal.
I met him at the back of the clubhouse, and we walked to the funeral home. It
was a hot, humid summer, and boring as hell. There was never anything to do,
and even going down to the club and smoking and working on models was boring.
And to make matters worse, I thought about Marie Dickson all the time. She was