"Jerry Davis - Scuba (2)" - читать интересную книгу автора (Davis Jerry)

him, holding him and rocking as he pulled desperate breaths from
the regulator. He made more connections, opened valves, and handed
one to her. She took it, put it to her mouth and breathed.

#

Neil Cromwell opened the envelope and spread the color 8 X
10's across his desk. Beautiful pictures. Beautiful woman. Jack
Buchman looked like a child under her. His skin was so white in
the glare of the flash pictures that he looked like a gawky little
teenager who was raised underground by moles. Christie had phoned
him last night when she got the room, and he'd sent the
photographer right over. The photographer had developed the
pictures immediately and delivered them this morning at sunrise.
In his mind Cromwell saw them scurrying about on the floor at
his feet, little wind-up people, one with a camera and one with
large breasts. They were pushing the anomalous, misshapen figure
of Jack Buchman off of the playing board. Out of the game! he
thought, and laughed.
He looked at his watch. It was 8:00 AM sharp. Any second now,
he thought. Any second . . .
At 8:20 AM Cromwell was fuming. In his head he was kicking
the misshapen balloon-like character of Jack Buchman around the
room, bouncing him off walls and the furniture, but there wasn't a
sharp enough object anywhere to rupture him . . .
Damn it, he thought. Where are you? He's doing this just to
make me angry. He'll show up. He's not that big a fool.
At 8:40 AM Cromwell was getting depressed. He was concluding
that Jack was not going to show up, and that he was going to have
to go through with the ugly business of displaying copies of the
photographs to Jack's wife. He was scooping the photos up and
dismally putting them back in the manila envelope when he heard
someone in the outer offices let out a sharp exclamation, and then
laughter. The laughter grated on his nerves. He got up and went to
the door, opening it. His receptionist was gone. Grim-faced and in
an evil temper he tramped out into the common to find everybody in
the office crowded around someone in a full frogman outfit. The
frogman was walking slowly toward Cromwell's office, his every
step making a flopping sound and his breathing amplified to where
it sounded like a steam gate switching one way then another;
keessshh-pooooo, keessshh-pooooo . . .
The frogman was Jack Buchman. Cromwell was dumbfounded. This
is inexcusable, he thought. I must regain control of this
situation.
"Okay everyone, Jack's little joke is funny but it's over
now," Cromwell said. "I would like you all to get back to work,
and you," he said to Jack, "I want you in my office right now!"
Jack plodded toward him, his enormous flippers making the
most ridiculous noise. He entered Cromwell's office amid
child-like giggles from the secretaries and sales people. Cromwell