"Floyd, John M - King Of The City" - читать интересную книгу автора (Floyd John M)

KING OF THE CITY
By
John M. Floyd

Manny Ramirez was already there, waiting in the grassy clearing at the edge of the overlook, when the tall man arrived. Ramirez turned and watched, his elbows propped comfortably on the wooden railing behind him, while the man walked through the last of the trees and out into the sunlit clearing. As he approached he took something from his coat pocket and held it casually at his side--the object was large and black and rounded, and had a short strap attached. At the sight of it Ramirez tensed, then slowly relaxed. It was only a pair of binoculars. The tall man stopped at a distance of ten or twelve feet, and for several seconds the two of them stood facing each other in an eerie, heavy silence.

"So you're the famous Mike Valenti," Ramirez said.

The tall man -- who was also a considerably older man than Ramirez -- didn't reply. Their eyes held for a long moment; finally the newcomer turned to the wooden barrier and, like Ramirez, rested his elbows and forearms on the top rail. Below them, the city was spread out like an aerial map, and the valley stretched away into hazy blue distance. The guidebooks said you could see fifty miles from here--the old guidebooks, that is. The road to the overlook had been closed for ten years.

The man called Valenti raised the binoculars slowly to his eyes and studied the view for a moment. Without turning to look at Ramirez, he said: "Thanks for coming. I know it was short notice."

A silence passed, during which Valenti continued to examine the valley and Ramirez continued to examine Valenti.

After a moment Ramirez removed a long thin cigar from his vest pocket. Keeping his eyes on the older man, he lit the cigar with a gold lighter and inhaled deeply.

"I suppose I should be honored," Ramirez said, letting out jerky little clouds of smoke along with his words. "I'm told you don't come out of hiding very often."

Again the tall man didn't bother to reply. He kept his eyes to the glasses, his elbows on the railing. The only sounds were the sighing of the wind in the pines and the occasional faraway honk of a car horn.

"Actually I'm a little surprised," Ramirez added, watching him shrewdly. "You don't look nearly as much like a dago as I thought you would."

Valenti gave him a bored glance, then went back to the view. "You don't look like a man who might be about to die in a few minutes, either," he said. "Appearances can be deceiving."

Ramirez blinked. He was not someone who was accustomed to hearing threats -- at least not firsthand. He took his cigar from between his teeth; a slow smile spread across his face.

"Who should I be afraid of?" he asked carefully. "You?"

The tall man lowered the glasses and stared at him. "I doubt if you have sense enough to be," he observed. "But yes, you should."

Manny Ramirez laughed out loud. "You got some thick bark on you, Valenti, I'll give you that. Coming up here all alone, talking to Manuel Ramirez that way . . ."

Valenti smiled back at him. "I'm not alone," he said. "A guardian angel watches over me." He paused and looked out over the view once more, as if studying a rare work of art. "A short angel, with a bald head and only one eye." He raised the glasses again. "An eye sharp enough to put that cigar of yours out at a hundred yards, if I tell him to."

Ramirez' grin faded. Moving only his eyes, he glanced up and past the tall man's profile, up into the dark forest on the slope above the clearing. His gaze stayed there a minute, searching, then fell again to rest on Valenti. "You're lying," he said flatly. "Shorty's still in Quentin. With three years left to go."

"Not any more. He's here now. Working for me."

"I don't believe you."

Again Valenti looked up from his binoculars. "I figured you might not. He and I talked about that. So we agreed on a signal. A little demonstration, let's call it. The only problem is, you're not wearing a hat today, so I'm not sure what part of you he might choose to shoot off." He set the binoculars down carefully on the top rail and held both hands down at his sides. "Would you like me to show you?"

Manny Ramirez licked his lips. His smile was long gone now; the beginnings of a frown creased his forehead. He had known Shorty Robinson well, had even done a job or two with him over the years, and had seen the feats he could perform with a highpowered rifle. As a result Ramirez found himself faced with a dilemma. On the one hand, he seriously doubted that Valenti -- even with his obvious connections -- would be able to get a man like Shorty Robinson out of a maximum-security prison. On the other hand, Ramirez had grown rather fond of most of his body parts, and would prefer to keep them intact and working.

"You're forgetting something, Mike Valenti," he said tightly. "I'm not all alone up here either."

"Oh yes you are, Manny. I know you're not used to it, but you are."

Ramirez' frown deepened. Keeping his eyes on the older man, he turned his head to the left and called: "Pedro! Luis! Come out here."