"Eliot Fintushel - Izzy and the Father of Terror" - читать интересную книгу автора (Fintushel Eliot)

Everyone kept right on eating, while
IzzyтАЩs voice spilled from the jukes. A
lean, sunburned trucker with faded tattoos
on each bicep was drinking coffee in front
of me, staring meditatively into his own
cigarette smoke. A few tables bubbled with
tourist families, whom every twang and
gewgaw set chattering. A very fat old
hippie in tie-dyes and cut-offs walked in
and leaned against the mother juke near
the cashier; he scanned the listings, the
families, the trucker, and me. Nobody but
me heard Izzy.

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"Can you hear me?" I whispered into the
Wurlitzer.

"No," he said, and laughed. From the left
speaker?Izzy was in stereo?I heard an
angry cadence, SarvaduhkaтАЩs. "Okay, okay,"
Izzy told him, "IтАЩll be nice. I couldnтАЩt
help myself." Then to me: "The guy that
just walked in, the zaftiger in
flip-flops, heтАЩs from Sanduleak, but heтАЩs
on our side. Just be careful about giving
him anything of yours." Static. ". . . in
Memphis, I told you. Give me a break,
Vaduhka; this is intergalactic stuff here
for crissakes and after all you said and
done, put me flat out on the run, now you
think you got a mess of love to shove in
my face?well, take a bite of this!" It was
Johnny Abilene. IzzyтАЩs voice was swallowed
into the pedal string guitar. I seemed to
get a whiff of SarvaduhkaтАЩs jasmine, then
nothing. The Haymakers.

The big man came to my table. "Mind if I
sit down here?" I shrugged. He sat.
Maneuvering into the chair, he had to push
against the next table to accommodate his
gut.

The table slid back into the tattooed
trucker. "Hey!"?as his coffee splashed