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

"Mind if I pull up a chair, honey?"
"Nuh-no, nuh-not at all."
She took up her seat so closely to mine that our knees almost touched, and I could see the very weave of
her silk stockings where they caressed her ankle above the strap of her shoe. Conquering the reek of
spilled ale and tobacco and human musk, a whiff of her sharp synthetic floral scent carried to my nostrils.
The barroom seemed to spin in circles about me.
"Care to buy a girl a drink, sport?"
"I-- that is-- why, certainly." I tried to adopt a dapper manner. "I fear I must have misplaced my manners
in my other suit."
I summoned a barmaid and Sparky ordered a cocktail unfamiliar to me. Once she had refreshed her tired
vocal cords, she fixed me with an inquisitive yet friendly stare.
"I never had no guy stand up for my whole show before. Most of these bums wouldn't know if the
management had a hyena cackling up there. You musta really liked my singing, huh?"
"Why, yes, most assuredly. Such dulcet yet thrilling tones have never before laved my ears."
Sparky drained her drink and began toying with a toothpick-pierced olive. "You're a regular charmer,
fella. Say, what's your name?"
"Hiram. Hiram P. Dottle."
"Well, Hiram, let me let you in on a little secret. A lady likes to be appreciated for her talents, you know.
She can get mighty friendly with the right guy, if he shows a little gen-u-wine interest. And even though
I've got a swell set of pipes, that ain't all the assets Sparky Flint's got hidden. Say, speaking of assets --
why doncha tell me a little more about yourself."
I gulped, swallowing some kind of sudden lump big as an iris corm, and began to recount my life history.
Sparky brightened considerably when I described my home, and became positively overwrought when I
detailed the clever way I had invested Aunt Denise's money. By this point she was practically sitting in my
lap, and I confess that I had indulged in two more glasses of sherry.
"Oh, Dottie, you've led such a fascinating life! You don't mind if I call you Dottie, do you?"
No one had ever employed such a diminuitive variant of my name before. But then again, never had I
established such a quick bond with any female of the species. "Why, I --"
"I thought you'd be jake with that! You're such a broad-minded character. Did anyone ever tell you that
your mustache is so attractively wispy, Dottie? I bet it tickles just like a caterpillar when you kiss."
And then to test her proposition, she planted her lips directly upon mine, in the most thrilling moment of
my life, comparable only to my success in breeding a pure-white pansy, a feat written up as a sidebar in
Horticulture Monthly.
We were married one month later. Only upon securing the marriage license did I learn Sparky Flint's
birthname. Christened Maisie Grumbach, she had been raised in Central City's orphanage, and
possessed no kin of any degree.
"A girl on her own's gotta be fast on her feet, Dottie. I learned that early on at the orphanage. When it's
slopping time at the hog trough, the slow piglet goes to bed hungry. The main chance just don't linger.
Grab what you can, when you can -- that's Sparky Flint's motto."
The first six months of our marriage offered all the connubial and domestic joys imaginable. Sparky
lavished her affections on me. If I could blush in my present state I certainly would, to recall how she
twisted her "little Dottie-wottie" around her slim fingers, with honeyed words and lascivious attentions.
And all the while, behind her facade of love lurked the heartless viper of greed and treachery.
The first rift in our romance developed when I proposed to spend one thousand dollars to put in an
elaborate carp pond. I realized that this constituted a large sum, but felt justified in devoting this amount
to my harmless hobby. After all, hadn't I given Sparky the elaborate wedding she desired, spending
liberally on her gown and jewelry, as well as providing a feast for those few guests we could summon up
between us? (Sparky's friends I found rather unsavory, and spent as little time with them as possible.)
"Ten Ben Franklins on a fishing hole!" shrieked Sparky, abusing her nightingale's throat most horridly.
"And I haven't had a new pair of shoes in a month! What the hell are you thinking? Do I look like the