"Thomas A. Easton - Movers and Shakers" - читать интересную книгу автора (Easton Thomas A)

arms wiggling in the air except for the two that braced the glass on his chest. His head was between my
feet, so that his eyes looked up at me whenever I looked down. I kept my eyes on my own glass as
much as I could.

As soon as he was comfortable, he said, "Some ideas from you, yes? What do you wish to move and
shake?"

I didn't have any use for politics, and -- really -- I was okay without gobs of money. It would just go for
more booze, until I drowned in the stuff. But here he was, looking like a whole can of angle worms
escaped from a fish factory. If I could just get him to run across the sidewalk when . . .. "Well, there's this
broad lives down the street . . .."

"The one you were watching three nights ago, yes?"

Yeahh! "That's right."

"No." He waved his glass at me. "More, please, yes." I poured. I gave myself a splash more while I was
at it. "That is not what I mean. A mover and shaker affects the world, not individuals, yes? You need to
have bigger plans."

Bigger plans. And I was pretty happy the way I was. But that wouldn't do. This alien, this Wirtz, he
called himself, wanted to make something of me. I hadn't run into that since my mom died. "But I don't
want that much," I said. "I've got about all I need right now."

He sighed, I swear it. Then he shrugged and opened another pocket. He reached in and pulled out a little
sac. He opened the sac and spilled it out onto the floor beside him. I stared, even more than when I'd
first seen him. Gold nuggets. Diamonds. Rubies. Jewels I'd never heard the names for. Small ones,
though. Nothing big. Nothing flashy.

"First you will sell these. I have more if you need them, in my ship. Ben you will buy some good clothes.
Suits and shirts and shiny shoes, yes? More of this excellent ethanol, too. Then you will expand your
business."

I must have looked blank, for he sighed again. "You collect garbage, yes? So you will buy a real garbage
truck." And he laid it out. He had it all figured. He would make me the garbage king of the county, even
the state. First the clothes, to make me look like a prosperous business man. Then the truck, business
loans, more trucks, drivers, until I was a goddam monopolist. And then I'd bid to handle the city landfill,
cheap, bring in sorting equipment, and start selling scrap metal, glass, and so on. The perfect garbage
operation. No dump problem, total recycling, and we could even process the garbage that had already
been buried. All I needed was him to steer me along and his diamonds to finance it all.

By now the bottle was almost empty and my head was whirling, more from Wirtz than the booze. I'd had
less than half the bottle. Considerably less. He'd had the rest. So I agreed. I'd go along. I'd stooge for
him, and I wouldn't have any illusions about it all. He'd really wanted my ideas? Don't make me laugh!

It went just the way he'd laid it out. I sold a small diamond to a fence I knew, no questions, bought the
clothes, and took the rest of the sparklers to a legit jeweler in another town. Got a good price that way.
Bought the truck then, hired a man, and spent my time bidding cheap on restaurant contracts. Got enough
of them so I needed more trucks and talked the bank into buying them. Had the city monopoly in a year,
took over the landfill, and that was when Wirtz crawled out from under my couch, where he'd been