"Franz, Darren - Where The Wind Blows" - читать интересную книгу автора (Franz Darren)

WHERE THE WIND BLOWS
By Darren Franz

In the sputtering glow of a match, Slat Rickson's face was briefly illuminated as he lit up his smoke. Normally, he wouldn't have given the boys in blue even that long to make him, especially while on the job. But his partner, Johnny Ringa, had been inside The Four Aces Club for nearly three minutes, and that was two minutes too long. Something was wrong.

Slat listened as he sat behind the wheel of the stolen 1948 Packard. Not to the car's purring engine, or to the Andrews Sisters harmonizing on the radio; he was straining to hear Johnny inside the club. The Four Aces was supposed to be a cakewalk; the type of place he and Johnny hit on an off day. It was strictly low-end stuff, and hardly worth the effort. The only reason they had even considered such a dive was on account of being tipped by "Snitch" McGinn.

"A lot of lettuce coming through The Four Aces on Friday night," Snitch had told them over a friendly game of eight ball.

Johnny's eyes lit up. "How much is a lot?" he asked.

Slat played it down. He tried not to seem too over-eager. Lining up a bank shot, he squinted and gruffly stated, "Shut your yaps, both of you. You're breaking my concentration."

Slat took his shot. The eight ball dropped effortlessly into a corner pocket.

Johnny nudged Snitch. "Aww, c'mon. Spill. You look like you're gonna bust wide open."

Snitch racked up the balls for another round. Johnny and Slat leaned in close; the walls had ears.

"I got the tip from Lester over on 28th Street. He says a shitload of unmarked bills are coming down from Chicago on the Cannonball Flyer."

"What's the dough for?" Slat asked, chalking up his stick. His trademark snap-brim felt fedora was cocked far back on his head.

"Some Kansas City high-roller broke the bank of The Aces crap game... Took 'em for the ride of their lives."

Johnny snickered. "That's all fine and dandy, Snitch. But you still haven't told us what we wanted to hear."

"Yeah," Slat said. "How much are they into this guy for?"

Snitch's ferret-like eyes gleamed. "Word's out on the street it's 40 grand. I'd say it's more like 25."

Johnny whistled through his teeth. "25 G's?"

Slat poked him in the chest with the cue, leaving a powder blue circle on his shirt. Draining his beer and placing the stein on the shelf near the pool table, he turned towards Snitch.

"Who put up the money?"

Snitch shrugged. "There's a tight lid on that. If you're interested, I might be able to pry it open and find out... for my usual cut, of course."

Slat and Johnny glanced at each other, and grinned.

"Of course," they said in unison.

And that had been that.

Slat dragged deeply on his cigarette. His fingers drummed a somewhat nervous beat on the steering wheel as he blew twin jets of smoke from his nostrils.

Two men in trench coats rounded the corner; their heels were clicking against the asphalt as they headed in his direction.

Slat quickly tipped the brim of his fedora forward, while simultaneously reaching for his .45 under his coat.