"Edward L. Ferman - Best From F&SF, 23rd Edition" - читать интересную книгу автора (Ferman Edward L)

unguarded, inquiring eyes, haven't you?
"Yes?" he asked.
I smiled. "Hello, I'm Bert Mallory. I just moved in to number five. Miss Nesbitt tells me you like to
play gin."
"Yes," be grinned, "Come on in."
He turned to move out of my way and I saw the hump. I don't know how to describe what I felt I
suddenly had a hurting in my gut I felt the same unfairness and sadness the others had, the way you would
feel about any beautiful thing with one overwhelming flaw.
Tm not disturbing you, am I? I heard the typewriter." The room was indeed identical to mine, though
it looked a hundred per cent more livable. I couldn't put my finger on what he had done to it to make it
that way. Maybe it was just the semi-darkness. He had the curtains tightly closed and one lamp lit beside
the typewriter.
"Yeah, I was working on a story, but I'd rather play gin.'' He grinned, open and artless. "If I could
make money playing gin, I wouldn't write."
"Lots of people make money playing gin."
"Oh, I couldn't I'm too unlucky."
He certainly had a right to say that, but there was no self-pity, just an observation. Then he looked at
me with slightly distressed eyes. "You... ah... didn't want to play for money, did you?"
"Not at all!" I said and his eyes cleared. "What kind of stories do you write?"
"Oh, all kinds." He shrugged. "Fantasy mostly."
"Do you sell them?"
 "Most of 'em."
"I don't recall seeing your name anywhere. Miss Nesbitt said it was Andrew Detweiler?"
He nodded. тАЬIтАЩll use another name. You probably wouldn't know it either. It's not exactly a
household word." His eyes said he'd really rather not tell me what it was. He had a slight accent, a sort of
soft slowness, not exactly a drawl and not exactly Deep South. He shoved the typewriter over and pulled
out a deck of cards.
"Where're you from?" I asked. "I don't place the accent"
He grinned and shuffled the cards. "North Carolina. Back in the Blue Ridge."
We cut and I dealt "How long have you been in Hollywood?"
"About two months.тАЭ
"How do you like it?"
He grinned his beguiling grin and picked up my discard. "ItтАЩs very . . .unusual. Have you lived here
long, Mr. Mallory?"
"Bert, all my life. I was born in Inglewood. My mother still lives there."
"It must be ... unusual . . to live in the same place all your life."
"You move around a lot?"
"Yeah. Gin."
I laughed. I thought you were unlucky."
"If we were playing for money, I wouldn't be able to do anything right"
We played gin the rest of the afternoon and talked-talked a lot Detweiler seemed eager to talk or, at
least, eager to have someone to talk with. He never told me anything that would connect him to nine
deaths, mostly about where he'd been, things he'd read. He read a lot, just about anything he could get
his hands on. I got the impression he hadn't really lived Me so much as he'd read it, that all the things he
knew about had never physically affected him. He was like an insulated island. Life flowed around him
but never touched him, I wondered if the hump on his back made that much difference, if it made him
such a green monkey he'd had to retreat into his insular existence. Practically everyone I had talked to
liked him, mixed with varying portions of pity, to be sure, but liking nevertheless. Harry Spinner liked him,
but had discovered something "peculiar" about him. Birdie Pawlowicz, Maurice Milian, David Fowler,
Lorraine Nesbitt, they all liked him.