"Dick, Phillip - 1987 - Mary And The Giant" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dick Phillip K)

"Because of this town. Here there's everything I want."
"Such as girls with big knockers."
They had reached the edge of the park. Stepping from the curb, Schilling crossed the street. "You can go find yourself a beer, if you prefer."
"Where are you going?" Max asked suspiciously.
Ahead of them was a row of modern stores. In the center of the block was a real estate office. GREB AND POTTER, the sign read. "I'm going in there," Schilling said. "Think it over."
"I've thought it over."
"You can't open your store here; you won't make any money in a town like this."
"Maybe not," Schilling said absently. "But-" He smiled. "I can sit in the park and feed bread to the duck."
"I'll meet you back at the car wash," Max said, and shambled resignedly off toward the bar.
Joseph Schilling paused a moment, and then entered the real estate office. The single large room was dark and cool. A long counter blocked off one side; behind it, at a desk, sat a tall young man.
"Yes, sir?" the young man said, making no move to rise.
"What can I do for you?"
"You handle business rentals?"
"Yes, we do."
Joseph Schilling moved to the end of the counter and regarded a wall map of Santa Clara County. "Let me see your listings." From between his fingers appeared the white edge of his business card. "I'm Joseph R. Schilling."
The young man had risen to his feet. "I'm Jack Greb. Glad to meet you, Mr. Schilling." He extended his hand warily. "Business property? You're looking for a long-term lease on a retail outlet?" From under the counter he got a thick, stave-bound book and laid it open before him.
"Without fixtures," Schilling said.
"You're a merchant? You have a California Retail Sales License?"
"I'm in the music business." Presently he added, "I used to be in the publishing end; now I've decided to try my hand at record retailing. It's been a sort of dream of mine-to have my own shop."
"We already have a record shop," Greb said. "Hank's Music Bar."
"This will be a different type of thing. This will be music for connoisseurs."
"Classical music, you mean."
"That's what I mean."
Wetting his thumb, Greb began spiritedly turning the stiff yellow pages of his listings book. "I think we have just the place for you. Nice little store, very modern and clean. Tilted front, fluorescent lighting, built only a couple of years ago. Over on Pine Street, right in the heart of the business section. Used to be a gift shop. Man and his wife, nice middle-aged couple. He sold out when she died. Died of stomach cancer, as I understand."
"I'd like to see the place," Joseph Schilling said.
Greb smiled slyly back across the counter at him. "And I'd like to show it to you."




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At the edge of the concrete loading platform of California Readymade Furniture an express truck was taking on stacks of chrome chairs. A second truck, a P.I.E. van, waited to take its place.
In faded blue jeans and a cloth apron, the shipping clerk was lethargically hammering together a chrome dinner table. Sixteen bolts held the plastic top in place; seven bolts kept the hollow metal legs from wobbling loose.
"Shit," the shipping clerk said.
He wondered if anybody else in the world was assembling chrome furniture. He thought over all the things people could be imagined doing. In his mind appeared the image of the beach at Santa Cruz, the image of girls in bathing suits, bottles of beer, motel cabins, radios playing soft jazz. The pain was too much. Abruptly he descended on the welder, who, having slid up his mask, was searching for more tables.
"This is shit," the shipping clerk said. "You know it?"
The welder grinned, nodded, and waited.
"You done?" the shipping clerk demanded. "You want another table? Who the hell would have one of these tables in his house? I wouldn't give them toilet space."
One gleaming leg slipped from his fingers and fell to the concrete. Cursing, the shipping clerk kicked it into the litter under his bench, among the bits of rope and brown paper. He was bending to pluck it back out when Miss Mary Anne Reynolds appeared with more order sheets ready for his attention.
"You shouldn't have done that," she said, knowing how clearly he could be heard in the office.
"The hell with it," the shipping clerk said, as he got down a fresh leg. "Hold this, will you?"
Mary Anne put down her papers and held the leg while he bolted it onto the chair frame. The smell of his unhappiness reached her, and it was a thin smell, acrid, like sweat that had soured. She felt sorry for him, but his stupidity annoyed her. He had been like this a year and a half ago, when she started.
"Quit," she told him. "Why keep a job you don't like?"