"Dorr, James S - The Winning" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dorr James S)

It was the same two men -- it _must_ be the same two. A half block behind him. Now that he'd stopped, they'd stopped as well, one taking a cigarette out of his pocket. The other lit it.

He saw -- he was sure it was one of the people he'd seen at the racetrack -- a face pocked with acne. Not a young face, though. He saw, as the match flared out, a sneer. As if of anticipated violence.

He shivered despite the fact it was still warm. He strode, quickly now, another half block, a full block beyond that, on toward the river. He heard, behind him, the _clack_, _clack_, _clack_ of footsteps following on the pavement. He stopped again, whirled to confront his pursuers, still half a block behind him. He saw they had stopped too.

"What do you want?" he demanded. He stood and waited, his hands on his hips, one hand protecting the bulge in his pocket.

The men were in shadow. One pretended to look in a window, making no sign that they'd even heard him. The other began to whistle a soft tune. They _were_ the same men he'd seen at the track -- that much he was sure of. Who'd seen him put the bills in his pocket. Who'd followed him this far, but never approached him. As if they were waiting.

_But waiting for what?_

He backed off slowly -- the men made no move until he'd turned again, then he was sure he could once again hear their following footsteps. He thought about how, if he reached the bridge, if he crossed the river, if he reached his walk-up apartment, he'd lock the door and hide the money. He'd stay awake and guard it that night and then, the next morning, he'd find a bank and deposit it there.

He'd open up a checking account and write a check to buy decent clothes. He'd buy a bus ticket -- maybe a plane ticket -- maybe look up his sister down south. He'd find a place to stay for a while, away from the city. To make a new life.

He thought about Betty, the victim of sharks that lived by the river. The ones that lived by the river by choice. He remembered the evening he'd had to work late. His foreman calling him to to the phone. The trip to the morgue, his wife laid out, her chest ripped open. The big cop putting his hand on his shoulder.

He turned again -- the bridge was only a block away now. He saw only shadows -- no -- something was moving -- a half block behind him. Two men in the darkness, trying to be still, yet subtly moving.

"Is it the money?" he demanded.

He heard no answer.

He thought about running -- the bridge, with its lights, was just one block away -- but he was no longer that young a man if they wanted to chase him. He turned again and just kept walking, the wad of bills chafing against his thigh. The hesitant at first, then steady _clack_, _clack_, _clack_ of footsteps behind him.

He reached the abutment, then started up the sharply ramped footpath, the breeze, now that he was on the river, blowing up into a miniature gale. He crossed under the first of the bridge's lights, the first of several as he approached its center span. As soon as he got home. . . .

He heard a booming as his pursuers mounted the bridge too, their hollow footsteps amplified by the wind and the water.

_If_ he got home with his money safely, he'd leave the city the very next day. But sharks lived on both sides of the river.

The ones on his side had murdered his wife for nothing more than her shopping money.

And he had _lots_ more.

He stopped again, under a light beneath the bridge's high central arch, and confronted his followers one final time. He knew they had friends on the other side, friends who would stop him as soon as he crossed. Just as they stopped too, under their own light, their hats pulled low to hide their faces, standing, watching him. Watching and waiting.

"Is it the money?" he asked again, again hearing no answer. He pulled the folded bills from his pocket.

He rolled off the rubber band that was around them. He thought about winning.

He thought about finding a ten dollar bill.

About being lucky.

He looked down below him -- the oily river. Behind him, two shadows, already gliding out of the pool of light that was around them, moving now, ever so slowly, closer.

Ahead, more shapes moving -- now he could see them.