"Paul Di Filippo - The Short Ashy Afterlife" - читать интересную книгу автора (Di Filippo Paul)

frequently congregated at my fence to gape in awe. At least I assumed their emotions were respectful,
although several times I thought to detect an out-thrust tongue swiftly withdrawn when I turned to face
them. No matter, though, for I was content.
After Aunt Denise's independence-granting demise, I enjoyed four whole luxurious years of complete
devotion to gardening. My joyful days were filled with propagating and repotting, grafting and staking,
double-digging and turf-laying. I managed the funds that had so unexpectedly become mine with care and
wisdom, investing them in U.S. Treasury Bonds at a solid one-and-a-half percent annual return.
Combined with my own personal savings, this interest income satisfied all my simple needs. Although I
admit I did once boldly dip into some of the capital to secure a new wheelbarrow, a toolshed, and some
fine handwrought British tools.
Including, in a magnificent example of life's irony, the well-honed axe that killed me.
You will have gathered by my small clues that an unexpected climacteric occurred in my life shortly after
my inheritance. That deadly turning point consisted of my meeting the irresistible Sparky Flint.
I can't say now what came over me that fatal night. Some Imp of the Perverse took hold of my lapels and
whispered evil urgings into my ear. To be short about it, I developed an instant but avid craving for a spot
of sherry.
Aunt Denise had always treated me to a small annual glass of sherry upon completion of my decorating
her house. After ten years of the ritual I grew accustomed to the taste, and actually came to look forward
to the uncommon indulgence. Now, four years without tasting a drop of sherry and my quiescent desires
suddenly came to a head. I felt an unquenchable thirst that only strong drink could satisfy. So I set out
with grim determination for a saloon.
The trolley dropped me off downtown. Walking the unfamiliar nighted streets of Central City, I tried to
gauge which establishment might prove most suitable for a gentleman of my retiring nature.
Unfortunately, my instincts were flawed. I ended up entering a most ungenteel "dive."
The "joint" was packed with smoking, sweating, cursing, laughing humanity, their voices echoing off the
garish walls and grimy ceiling. I felt like a frightened cow amidst his ignorant bovine peers on the abattoir
walkway.
Nonetheless my unnatural compulsions for the fruit of the vine still held sway. I worked my way toward
the bar, past lap-seated trollops hoisting foamy mugs of beer to their lips and brawny laborers knocking
back "boilermakers."
At the bar I secured my drink, enduring a sneer or two at my uncommon choice of beverage from my
immediate neighbors and even from the bartender himself, an ugly bruiser. I rested one foot on the brass
rail, in imitation of my fellow imbibers, but the stance felt too unsteady, and I moved off to a small empty
table.
And then the singing began.
Supernal, sirenical singing like nothing I had ever heard before, as if hundreds of calla lilies had suddenly
taken voice.
I suppose the mode employed by this diabolically angelic female voice might have been termed
"torchsong." If so, the metaphor was apt, since my whole soul was enflamed by the unseen songstress.
No doubt the alcohol coursing wildly through my veins played its part as well.
I stood up instinctively in an attempt to spot the singer and was rewarded by sight of a small, lighted
stage. And there she stood, microphone in hand.
Sparky Flint.
Her hair a tumbling mass of poppy-red curls, her cosmetic-enhanced face brazenly sensuous, her
Junoesque figure wrapped in a tight jade evening dress, the singer caressed each syllable of her lustful
song in a way that delivered the words like vernal osmosis straight to my heart.
I remained standing for the exotic chanteuse's entire hypnotic performance, learning her name only when
a coarse emcee ushered her off the stage.
Collapsing back into my seat, I downed the remaining inch of my sherry in one dynamic swallow. And as
I set the glass down, my eyes confronted the satin-swaddled bosom of Sparky Flint herself.