"Foster, Alan Dean - Cat-a-lyst" - читать интересную книгу автора (Foster Alan Dean)

34 Alan Dean Foster
start for a number of months either. It's supposed to shoot in the Amazon somewhere. I wonder if Manaus is close to Peru?"
She made a face. "Not hardly." She tapped the screen. "Where I'm going there won't be any air-conditioned, bugproof rooms or eager gofers waiting on call with iced drinks." "It would still be like research for the picture." "What would be like research?" she asked guardedly. "If I went with you. You can't really be thinking of going by yourself "Matter of fact that's just what I was thinkin'." "I could help. Except . . . I'm up for a lead in an Ibsen revival in New York. If I get the part that'll tie me down until the next picture. If I don't . . . how do I get hold of you?"
She ripped a page from a notepad in one of the open boxes next to the laptop, scrawled numbers. "This is my home phone. I'm in the Valley. I ain't gonna wait around for you."
He pocketed the slip. "I still think you're crazy for even thinking about doing something like this on your own." "Me, I think it's the people who don't do stuff like this who are the crazy ones. I'm fifty-three. What am 1, saving myself for the Miss Senior America contest? You go do your Ibsen and let me worry about me." "You're a nice lady, Maijorie. I'd hate to think I had a part in you doing anything that got you hurt." "Thanks for the concern, cuddles." She walked him to the door. "But I usually ain't the one who ends up hurt."
He didn't get the part. His reading was as good as that of any of the actors who auditioned, and he had his growing marquee value going for him. But the producers were of the subspecies that concerned itself more
with notices than box office, and they ultimately decided that casting hunky Jason Carter in the role of a mentally tormented intellectual was a
cultural risk they weren't prepared to take.
On the day after his latest rejection he picked up the phone and dialed the number he'd brought from Georgia. He was puzzled to learn that it had been disconnected. That was nothing compared to his surprise when upon further investigation he learned that it had not been in service for almost a year, which implied that Madorie Ashwood had deliberately given him a wrong number.
He was simultaneously confused and angry, sufficiently so to begin calling all over L.A. in search of her business manager.
When he finally tracked him down the man was reluctant to provide any information. "I'm telling you," Carter said smoothly, "she told me to call."
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"She didn't say anything about you to me." There was hesitation at the other end. "Tell you what: I'll call her and tell her you called." "I can't spare the time. We worked together on her last picture," he said imploringly. "I was the lead." "Wait a minute. Jason Carter. Yeah, I know you. You were in -that Old World summer hit last year, Black Steel Guts or something."
Carter winced. The man was not talking Ibsen. "Sure, I know you." The manager evinced some interest for the first time since he'd answered his phone. "You played the big cop who crashed the police car into the truckload of chemicals at the end." "I want to surprise her." Carter was at his most persuasive. "I'm in New York. I promise you, I'll give her several days' notice before I show UP."
The man sounded wary again. "What's the big rush?" "I might have a job for her." "Are you putting me on? The only time an actor wants to discuss wardrobe is when his costume binds in the crotch."
441t1s just that we got along so well on my last film and . . . Look, if you don't want to give me her number, we'll just forget it, okay?" "Hold on." Clearly the man was torn between propriety and greed. "If you just want to talk to her "That's all I want to do." "Okay. But don't tell her where you got the number. Even though I'm acting in her own best interests." "No problem," Carter assured him.
As soon as he was off the phone he called a service he knew and used the telephone number the manager had given him to trace Ashwood's address.
He was in L.A. the next day. After a brief stop at his own place up in the hills he rolled out the Corvette and crossed down into the Valley. Eventually he found himself in a quaint foothill neighborhood where the trees had matured almost as fast as the property values.
The startled look on Ashwood's face when she opened the door was
worth the trouble it had taken to find her. She recovered quickly, though. "Hello, cuddles." "Can I come in?" "Sure, why not?"
The older home was furnished with overstuffed furniture and modest bric-a-brac. On the way to the den they passed a small study whose walls were completely covered with autographed photos of the actors and ac-
tresses she had dressed over the years. "How'd you find me?" She sat down in a big flesh-toned armchair.
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"I'm not as dumb as people think. Does it matter?" "I reckon not." "I thought you'd be in South America by now." She shook her head. "Can't leave for another week. There's preparations to be made, packing to be done. It ain't like I'm goin' down to La Jolla for the weekend."
Carter sat on the edge of the couch. "I still want to go." "I don't recall invitin' you." She stared hard at him, taking the measure of something more critical than his chest dimensions. "It'd be nice to have company, though, and the muggers'd be less likely to pick on me with you hangin' around, but you could be a hindrance, too. How spoiled are you, handsome?" "I'm not spoiled at all," he said angrily. "I don't mind roughing it. And I could use the break from work. Might even get a treatment out of it," he added, thereby contradicting himself. "I dunno." She still looked dubious. "Where I'm fixin' to go y'all won't be able to use your credit cards, your reputation won't get you out of any scrapes, and you're gonna need a strong constitution and a stronger stomach." "Are you saying you'll be able to handle it and I won't?" "Okay," she said tightly, "you're in. You found me. That shows resourcefulness and independence. Just keep in mind there's probably nothing to this. "You'll have to get your own kit together. I've got other things to do. We leave this comin' Sunday. Varig's only got one flight a week out of LAX and I ain't gonna miss it."
She tried to brief him during the long flight, extrapolating upon the maps and information she'd copied out. He'd never been much on geography and recognized little of what she showed him. But the name of one tiny town in the region they were to enter jogged his memory. "Fitzcarrald?" "What about it?" she said. "Herzog made a movie about a guy named Fitzcarraldo. Kinski was in it. They shot most of it on location. Horrible conditions. I didn't know it was a real place. " "This ain't a movie, hotshot, and where we're goin' there won't be any towns." She traced a huge section of map. "This whole area's called the Infierno Verde. The Green Hell." She grinned. "You can always hop a turnaround flight after we land."

THEY didn't linger long in Lima, hanging around the foggy airport only until they could recover their luggage and catch the first flight to Cuzco on an antique Aeroperu 707.
That's when they learned that their confirmed onward reservations meant nothing. Fortunately a few persuasive words from Carter to the female sump block of a scheduling clerk cleared the way, leaving Ashwood to grudgingly admit as how her companion might be of some
use on the journey after all.
Nothing fell off the flying vibrator during the short flight, and the landing was smoother than it should have been, given the powerful cross-
winds that usually scoured the high Andean plateau. The air on the tarmac was thin but free of the familiar pollutants. To the east the snowy peaks of the Andes delineated a pale horizon.
By afternoon they were both slightly woozy and nauseous. Their hotel provided cups of coca tea, the traditional remedy for altitude sickness. Carter drank only after being assured that there wasn't enough serious stimulant in the brew to get a gerbil high. Within a few hours they felt well enough to try dinner.
Still, lingering aftereffects compelled him to keep his eyes averted from Ashwood as she hungrily devoured a disgustingly rare chunk of steak.
She smirked across the table at him. "Remind me again later how fortunate I am to have you along." He responded with a wan smile. "Hey, if you want to puke, feel free. But not while I'm eating, okay?" She put her knife and fork down and rose.
"I'm goin' up to my room. Y'all ought to get some sleep. Tomorrow we've got to try and find us a guide who won't lead us around in circles to run up his bill." "I'm not sleepy," he told her. "Mom."
She started to respond, caught herself. "All right, sonny-boy. Truce. Do whatever you want, so long as you're ready to go at sunup. But if
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you're plannin' on waiting around to sign autographs, you're wastin' your time. There's no audience here for y'all."
But she was wrong. The woman who approached the table half an hour later did not ask for an autograph, nor did she gape simperingly at him as so many of his female fans were wont to do. Staring boldly and not waiting for permission, she sat down in the chair Ashwood had vacated.
The salubrious effects of the hot tea having banished the last traces of dizziness, he found himself debating whether to follow Ashwood's advice and do the sensible thing or let his present situation continue to evolve. The woman was extraordinarily tall, almost his height. She towered over
everyone else in the hotel. Her features were classical Castilian, her eyes saturnine. Shoulder-length black hair, black eyes, a slim upper body, and slightly wide hips completed his initial impression. Her attitude was a not unattractive mix of the sophisticated and the girlish: a twelve-year-old trapped in the body of an Amazon. "Buenos . . . good evening," he ventured. His Spanish bordered on
the nonexistent. As it happened, his linguistic ignorance was not a hindrance. Her English was fluent, mellifluously accented. "I'm Francesca. I live here. You don't. You're a nortearnericano." "That's right." He was used to forwardness in women. "You a tourist?" "Yes." "You just get in?" She lit a cigarette. Everyone here smoked, he'd noticed. "I don' mean to pry. You don' have to talk to me if you don' want to." Her gestures, like her speech, were abrupt, hyperactive. "I'm not a whore. I just like talking to people. You here to see the ruins?"
Her energy was formidable. "Yes." It was easier to let her ramble on like a runaway rocket than try to intedect more than a simple acknowledgment or denial. "I live here. Cuzco's my home. What do you do?" "I'm an actor."
She nodded. "When I first see you I think that might be it. You are
very good to look at." "Thanks. You're quite a knockout yourself."
She smiled, cocked her head sideways. "Mutual admiration is good." She eyed the plate in front of her. "You not alone." "I'm traveling with a friend." He saw no reason to elaborate. "I unnerstand." She looked around the nearly deserted dining room.
"I come in here a lot, to talk with people. Cuzco is very provincial. The people here are either very poor or think they are very rich. Those who think they are rich are arrogant. Arrogance makes them dull. Tourists
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