"P. N. Elrod - Vampire Files 07 - A Chill In The Blood" - читать интересную книгу автора (Elrod P N)

I sighed. "I'll think of something."
 Our drive finally ended somewhere in the middle of Chicago's Bronze Belt, and I was wondering if this
was such a good idea. If Coldfield wanted to keep a low profile he was doing it with the wrong people
what with our white skinsтАФ well, Escort's was gone fairly gray by now. I hoped he wasn't buying trouble
for himself taking us in.

The entry to sanctuary was in a trash can-lined alley between some drab structures that must have been
built right after the O'Learys' cow changed all the real-estate values. Coldfield stopped, cut the engine,
and got out, telling us to wait. As he went up a couple steps to the rear of an old brick building I checked
my watch, but the water had screwed the works. Damn. I wanted to know how long until dawn. He
came back a minute later, opened the passenger side, and tried to help Escott out.

"I'm fine," Escott insisted. "Just let me take it slow." But the wind was cruel, and I still had his coat. He
hissed when the cold hit him and started to double over against it, then hissed again as his ribs protested.

"Slow is the only way you can take it, you fool."

"Hah," agreed Escott, and allowed himself to be steadied on the steps. The screen door popped open to
receive him. By then I'd climbed out and shut up the car. The shift from slouching comfortably in the
warmth to standing tall in the winter air the took me by surprise. Something unpleasant suddenly burbled
deep in my belly. I hurriedly staggered to one side, stopping short at a frozen puddle, and threw up.

Nasty, but mercifully brief. I'd swallowed some of the lake and my inside works hate that kind of thing.
Pain lanced behind my eyes as I spat out the last of it and wondered how far we were from the
Stockyards. I needed a drink. The right kind of drink.

"Fleming?" Coldfield waited at the door for me, peering at what to him would be thick shadows.

I raised a feeble wave. "Coming."

"That bad stomach of yours?" he asked when I joined him.

"Yeah." It was as good a story as any to explain peculiarities in my behavior.

"Ulcers?"

"Don't know, don't care."

We pressed ahead and the screen banged behind me. I shut the inner door and was buffeted by a wall
of moist warmth, bright light, and the smell of fish and grease. We were in a kitchen, a pretty big one:
three stoves with oversized cooking pots on them were going at full steam and made the air like August
again. Some kind of eatery, then, that was either still open from the night before or getting ready for
breakfast, or maybe it just never closed at all. Several black people wearing stained white aprons were
gathered by one of the stoves, their watchful faces displaying a variety of expressions ranging from alarm
to annoyance.

"Sal," said Coldfield, addressing one of the men, "I need you toтАФ"

"The hell you do!"