"Mel Gilden - Zoot Marlow 2 - Hawaiian UFO Aliens" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gilden Mel)

'I know a little place.'
'Brewski,' Bill said.
'Of course. I'll bet you know a place. OK,' I said.
He loped off, kind of hitching himself forward with each step. Bill and I caught up with him, and the
three of us walked along the walkway gathering stares, throwing the little ones back.
There were a lot more burger joints on the strand, but 1 didn't stop at any of them. Pizza also no
longer interested me. I also didn't stop to buy a T-shirt, a pair of sun glasses or something being sold by a
guy in a grey business suit who was attracting a lot of attention from a rowdy element, He watched coolly
while two enormous women wearing very little but their personalitiesтАФa mistake, trust meтАФgyrated
slowly to rhythmic music that blared from a pair of small speakers. Was he selling music? Grey suits?
Kinky sex? I never did find out, but business was brisk.
When the music had faded in the background and 1 could hear myself think again, I said, 'What's
your name?'
The guy looked at me fearfully. 'What's it to you?' he said, and glanced at a hot blonde who was
posing for an old guy who made his living drawing portraits in chalk. The blonde's overmuscled escort
watched, seeming as proud as if he were doing the work himself.
I said, 'Just taking an interest in the guy who ate my burger and who soon will be drinking my
brewski.'
'Brewski?'
'Forget it. What's your name?'
He still thought about the question, and I could see thinking wasn't easy for him. He said, 'My friends
call me Dweeb.'
'You have friends?' Bill said.
'Mouthy robot, ain't it?' Dweeb said.
'We're sending him to obedience school. Where's this bar? I have a lot of bums to interview today.'
'You shouldn't oughta call me a bum. It hurts my self esteem. Besides, you're not even a real guy.'
'You know about toxic waste?'
'Sure. The bay's full of it.'
'I had problems with it myself.'
'Gee, I'm sorry.' He really looked sorry.
'That's OK. Where's that bar?'
Dweeb gave me a two-finger salute and loped faster. He looked back once to make sure Bill and I
were coming. We were.
 I guess they knew him at the Malibu Bar and No-Grill, because when the bartender saw him, he
ordered Dweeb to get out in a voice used to giving orders.
For a moment, Dweeb stood just inside the greasy black curtain that protected the bar from the
outside world, and let his eyes adjust. He whined, 'No, wait, Charlie. My friend here has money.' He
walked across the dim room to the bar, knocking into only three or four tables as he went.
If it hadn't been for the despondent residual smell of cigarettes that had been smoked before Gino and
Darlene made their first movie, you could almost have swallowed the thick odour of ancient brewski that
filled the place. It was a free drink, but my nose didn't enjoy it.
On the wall opposite the bar was a painting of a woman surfing. She wasn't wearing any clothes, but
a lot of convenient foam and spray. It wasn't a very good painting, but then, I didn't suppose it had to be.
Under it was the legend, SURF NAKED. Signs stood on the moulding that ran around the room halfway
up the wall. One said, ABSOLUTELY NO SPITTING. Other signs suggested we not fight or bother the
other customers or ask for credit. There were a lot of signs suggesting we not ask for credit. Charlie
must have gotten a terrific crowd at the Malibu Bar and No-Grill.
Charlie stood behind the bar with his hands flat on it, not very happy to be watching us enter his
establishment. He was a big guy with a previously broken face. His black butterfly of a bowtie was a little
askew, and looked lonely and small and sorry it had landed on the white expanse of his massive chest.