"Gardner Dozois - Flash Point" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dozois Gardner)

of a piece out of a block of graniteтАФhis shoulders seemed to be the same width as his hips, his
square-skulled, square-jawed head thrust belligerently up from his monolithic body without any hint of a
neck. He looked like an old snapping turtle: ugly, mud colored, powerful. His hair was snow-white, and
his eyes were bloodshot and ill-tempered. He glared at Jacobs dangerously out of red-rimmed eyes with
tiny pupils. He looked ready to snap.

"Good morning," Jacobs said coldly.

"Morning," Riddick grunted. "You want to fill me in on this?"

Jacobs did. Riddick listened impassively. When Jacobs finished, Riddick snorted and brushed a hand
back over his close-cropped snowy hair. "Some damn fool skylark more'n likely," he said, sourly,
shaking his head a little. "O-kay, then," he said, suddenly becoming officious and brisk. "If this turns out
to be anything serious, we may need you as a witness. Understand? All right." He looked at his watch.
"All right. We're waiting for the state boys. I don't think you're needed anymore." Riddick's face was
hard and cold and dullтАФas if it had been molded in lead. He stared pointedly at Jacobs. His eyes were
opaque as marbles. "Good day."

Twenty minutes later Jacobs was passing a proud little sign, erected by the Skowhegan Chamber of
Commerce, that said: HOME OF THE LARGEST SCULPTED WOODEN INDIAN IN THE
WORLD! He grinned. Skowhegan had grown a great deal in the last decade, but somehow it was still a
small town. It had resisted the modern tropism to skyscrape and had sprawled instead, spreading out
along the banks of the Kennebec River in both directions. Jacobs parked in front of a dingy storefront on
Water Street, in the heart of town. A sign in the window commanded: EAT; at night it glowed an
imperative neon red. The sign belonged to an establishment that had started life as the Colonial Cafe, with
a buffet and quaint rustic decor, and was finishing it, twenty years and three recessions later, as a greasy
lunchroom with faded movie posters on the wallтАФowned and operated by Wilbur and Myna Phipps, a
cheerful and indestructible couple in their late sixties. It was crowded and hot insideтАФthe place had a
large number of regulars, and most of them were in attendance for lunch. Jacobs spotted Will Sussmann
at the counter, jammed in between an inverted glass bowl full of doughnuts and the protruding rear-end
of the coffee percolator.

SussmannтАФchief staff writer for the Skowhegan Inquirer, stringer and columnist for a big Bangor
weeklyтАФhad saved him a seat by piling the adjacent stool with his hat, coat, and briefcase. Not that it
was likely he'd had to struggle too hard for room. Even Jacobs, whose father had moved to Skowhegan
from Bangor when Jacobs was three, was regarded with faint suspicion by the real oldtimers of the town.
Sussmann, being originally an outer-stater and a "foreigner" to boot, was completely out of luck; he'd
only lived here ten years, and that wasn't enough even to begin to tip the balance in his favor.

Sussmann retrieved his paraphernalia; Jacobs sat down and began telling him about the car.
Sussmann said it was weird. "We'll never get anything out of Riddick," he said. He began to attack a
stack of hotcakes. "He's hated my guts ever since I accused him of working over those gypsy kids last
summer, putting one in the hospital. That would have cost him his job, except the higher echelons were
being 'foursquare behind their dedicated law enforcement officers' that season. Still, it didn't help his
reputation with the town any."

"We don't tolerate that kind of thing in these pa'ts," Jacobs said grimly. "Hell, Will, those kids are a
royal pain in the ass, butтАФ" But not in these pa'ts, he told himself, not that. There are decent limits. He
was surprised at the depth and ferocity of his reaction. "This a'n't Alabama," he said.
 "Might as well be, with Riddick. His idea of law enforcement's to take everybody he doesn't like