"P. N. Elrod - Vampire Files 08 - The Dark Sleep" - читать интересную книгу автора (Elrod P N)

"Yes, of course, butтАФ"

"Excellent. As you stated, he will be on guard, but in a day or two he will relax and be more vulnerable
toтАФ"

"A day or two? Do you have any idea of the kind of damage he could do in that time?"

"Yes, Miss Sommerfeld, but he appears to be an intelligent man. He's not going to spoil his opportunity
to profit from his situation. Am I correct in my assessment that we are not dealing with a merely greedy
man, but a man who has been seriously injured in an affair of the heart?"

Her mouth popped open, then she looked down. I didn't need the occasional flash from a streetlight to
see she was blushing. "He took my engagement to Prince Ravellia pretty hard and wants to get back at
me. That's why he's being so mean about this."

"Then it is not so much money he wants from you as revenge?"

"He's a pigheaded idiot!"

I could almost say the same for Escott. The bonfire in my skull subsided enough to allow me to think
again, and react, and I wasn't too happy with him. He should have let me handle McCallen, and not just
from when things fell apart, but from the very first. I could have looked him right in the eye, told him to
hand over the stuff and walked out, saving us a load of bruising and the client a truckload of annoyance.
I'd tell Escott so, too, but not in front of Miss Sommerfeld.

It would be a repeat of what I'd said to him many times before and probably have the same impact as
everтАФnone at all. His agency was his business; he called the shots. I was, in a manner of speaking, only
the hired help and did what was asked of me. Though I could do a hell of a lot more and with much less
risk, the danger was what he loved about his work. All it did for me was inspire a lot of hair-tearing
worry that he'd someday get himself killed.

Ninety-nine percent of the time business was of the quiet sort; only rarely did things get rough, but when
they did, Escott always put himself in the middle of it. He used to be an actor once upon a time; maybe
he'd never gotten over that craving to be stage center with the spotlight burning on him. The trouble with
that is you can't see who in the audience is about to toss the first tomato.

We made it to his office, and as though to put the last nail in our coffin, the wind had changed, saturating
the area with the unique stench of the nearby Chicago Stockyards. Mary Sommerfeld wrinkled her
well-bred nose and hauled out a sodden handkerchief to block the stuff. As usual, I just stopped any
pretense of breathing. Escott was on his own. After all, it was his office. At least the rent was cheap.

Our client decided to hop into her own car and go home. Escort's talk on the drive back had persuaded
her to keep us on for one more try. She threw a hasty good evening to us, hurriedly revved up her
brand-new Pierce-Arrow, and sped off into the night. I hoped she'd think to roll the windows down to
flush the inside air once she was upwind.

Escott was already trudging up the steps to the second-floor rooms that were the official address of the
Escott Agency. The name itself was neatly painted in gold and black lettering on the pebbled glass insert
of the front door. He unlocked and walked in, shedding his hat and topcoat, placing both on a hall tree