"Thomas M. Disch M - Casablanca" - читать интересную книгу автора (Disch Thomas M)

"What do you mean? I've cashed checks here before. Look, I've noted it down: on
November 28, forty dollars; on December 1, twenty dollars."
The man shook his head. "I'm sorry, Mr. Richmon, but we are not able to cash these
checks."
"I'd like to see the manager."
"I'm sorry, Mr. Richmon, it is not possible for us to cash your checks. Thank you very
much." He turned to go.
"I want to see the manager!" Everybody in the bank, the tellers and the other clients, was
staring at Fred, who had turned quite red.
"I am the manager," said the man in the striped suit. "Good-bye, Mr. Richmon."
"These are American Express Travelers' Checks. They're good anywhere in the world!"
The manager returned to his office, and the teller began to wait on another customer. Fre
returned to the post office.
"We'll have to return here later, darling," he explained to his wife. She didn't ask why, a
he didn't want to tell her.
They bought food to bring back to the hotel, since Mrs. Richmond didn't feel up to dressi
for dinner.
The manager of the hotel, a thin, nervous man who wore wire-framed spectacles, was
waiting at the desk to see them. Wordlessly he presented them a bill for the room.
Fred protested angrily. "We're paid up. We're paid until the twelfth of this month. What
you trying to pull?"
The manager smiled. He had gold teeth. He explained, in imperfect English, that this wa
bill.
"Nous sommes pay├йe," Mrs. Richmond explained pleasantly. Then, in a diplomatic whi
to her husband, "Show him the receipt."
The manager examined the receipt. "Non, non, non," he said, shaking his head. He hande
Fred, instead of his receipt, the new bill.
"I'll take that receipt back, thank you very much." The manager smiled and backed away
from Fred. Fred acted without thinking. He grabbed the manager's wrist and pried the recei
out of his fingers. The manager shouted words at him in Arabic. Fred took the key for their
room, 216, off its hook behind the desk. Then he took his wife by the elbow and led her up
stairs. The man with the red fez came running down the stairs to do the manager's bidding.
Once they were inside the room, Fred locked the door. He was trembling and short of
breath. Mrs. Richmond made him sit down and sponged his fevered brow with cold water.
Five minutes later, a little slip of paper slid in under the door. It was the bill.
"Look at this!" he exclaimed. "Forty dirham a day. Eight dollars! That son of a bitch." Th
regular per diem rate for the room was twenty dirham, and the Richmonds, by taking it for a
fortnight, had bargained it down to fifteen.
"Now, Freddy!"
"That bastard!"
"It's probably some sort of misunderstanding."
"He saw that receipt, didn't he? He made out that receipt himself. You know why he's do
it. Because of what's happened. Now I won't be able to cash my travelers' checks here eithe
That son of a bitch!"
"Now, Freddy." She smoothed the ruffled strands of white hair with a wet sponge.
"Don't you now-Freddy me! I know what I'm going to do. I'm going to the American
Consulate and register a complaint."
"That's a good idea, but not today, Freddy. Let's stay inside until tomorrow. We're both t
tired and upset. Tomorrow we can go there together. Maybe they'll know something about
Cleveland by then." Mrs. Richmond was prevented from giving further council by a new on