"L. Timmel Duchamp - Quinn's Deal" - читать интересную книгу автора (Duchamp L Timmel)

(and just about the only one at that). Courtney was the least judgmental person he'd ever met; and he'd
never heard her telling him someone else's secrets. He thought of her, fondly and with a slight bit of
condescension, as a ? saint"-meaning someone naively self-sacrificing and moral. And so all of the first
bus home, and half of the second, Quinn imagined plopping himself down-late as it would be-on
Courtney's old battered leather sofa and telling the astonishing tale of his evening's mishap, the reason for
his having not come home directly after work (as he usually did). ? You wouldn't believe this guy,? he
imagined himself telling her, while of course knowing she would know ? his type? well enough to make
much explicit description unnecessary. But as the bus glided into the U District and stopped before
University Hospital, it struck him like a blow in the gut that anyone who knew he was having a
spy-device implanted in his head would never feel safe around him again. Though they might not be
thinking about it all the time, whenever they remembered they'd pull themselves up short, swamped with
self-consciousness, wondering who might be watching them through Quinn's eye at that very moment.

And he lived in Courtney's house.

No. It might be dishonest of him, but no way could he tell people about that spy-eye. Anyway, he
reasoned, it couldn't much matter since whoever was paying to have the thing implanted wouldn't know
the identities of any of the persons he would be seeing. It wasn't like some secret police or intelligence
agency would be using him. Even if the ? patron? hadn't been telling the truth about why he wanted the
spy-eye, visuals were just not that good, especially compared to audio transmissions.

And he, Quinn, was just an ordinary kind of guy. He didn't know anyone important. He didn't work in ?
sensitive? areas. And he suspected that the patron would soon become disappointed with the yield of
the spy-eye, since in his work his visual input tended to be robots, empty buildings, and squatters. In his
private life he mostly sat in front of the television or hung out with Courtney, who was no great shakes to
look at for chrissakes.

Still, he got a major case of the guilts the second he fit his key into the back door. The spy-eye wasn't yet
installed, and he felt as though he were sneaking an unwelcome intruder into Courtney's house. His guilt
increased when he saw the note on the refrigerator, saying there was soup, and to help himself. Most of
Courtney's soups were good, and he was famished, so he hauled the huge old stockpot out onto the
table, ladled some lentil soup into a plastic container, and warmed it in the microwave.

Soon the kitchen was full of the fragrance of spices and vegetables. Courtney appeared just as the
microwave beeped and said, ? There are cheese muffins in the basket, Quinn,? then busied herself filling
the teakettle from the slow-as-molasses filtered faucet.

Quinn grabbed a couple of muffins and considered what-if anything-he should say to explain his lateness.
Courtney knew he didn't have a real social life. He did sometimes work this late, especially on Fridays,
so he supposed he'd just let her assume that was what had happened.

Courtney thumped the kettle onto the burner. ? When I saw you were going to be late, I set your VCR
to tape your faves,? she said.

Soup, sitcoms, the works. That was Courtney for you. (And she didn't even like sitcoms herself.) ? Oh,
man, thanks, Court,? he said, shaking a few drops of hot sesame oil into the steaming bowl of soup. ? I
mean, that's really, really cool. I do appreciate it.?

Courtney frowned. ? You look like you've been up three days and three nights. You must have had one
hell of a shift.?