"Goodis, David - Shoot the Piano Player" - читать интересную книгу автора (Goodis David)

"For Christ's sake--"
"And another thing," Eddie went on. "What're you doing here in Philadelphia?"
"Business."
"Like what?"
Turley didn't seem to hear the question. He took a deep breath. "Something went haywire. Next thing I know, I got these two on my neck. And then, what fixes me proper, I run clean outta folding money. It happens in a hash house on Delaware Avenue when some joker lifts my wallet. If it hadn't been for that, I coulda bought some transportation, at least a taxi to get past the city limits. As it was, all I had left was nickels and dimes, so every time I'm on a streetcar they're right behind me in a brand-new Buick. I tell you, it's been a mean Friday for me, jim. Of all the goddam days to get my pocket picked--"
"You still haven't told me anything."
"I'll give you the rundown later. Right now I'm pushed for time."
As Turley said it, he was turninghis head to have another look at the door leading to the street. Absently he lifted his fingers to the battered left side of his face, and grimaced painfully. The grimace faded as the dizziness came again, and he weaved from side to side, as though the chair had wheels and was moving along a bumpy road. "Whatsa matter with the floor?" he mumbled, his eyes half closed now. "What kinda dump is this? Can't they even fix the floor? It won't even hold the chair straight."
He began to slide from the chair. Eddie grabbed his shoulders and steadied him.
"You'll be all right," Eddie said. "Just relax."
"Relax?" It came out vaguely. "Who wantsa relax?" Turley's arm flapped wealdy to indicate the jam-packed bar and the crowded tables. "Look at the people having fun. Why can't I have some fun? Why can't I--"
It's bad, Eddie thought. It's worse than I figured it was. He's got some real damage upstairs. I think what we'll hafta do is--
"Whatsa matter with him?" a voice said.
Eddie looked up and saw the Hut's owner, Harriet. She was a very fat woman in her middle forties. She had peroxide-blonde hair, a huge, jutting bosom and tremendous hips. Despite the excess weight, she had a somewhat narrow waistline. Her face was on the Slavic side, the nose broad-based and moderately pugged, the eyes gray-blue with a certain level look that said, You deal with me, you deal straight. I got no time for two-bit sharpies, fast-hand slicksters, or any kind of leeches, fakers, and freebee artists. Get cute or cagey and you'll wind up buying new teeth.
Turley was slipping off the chair again. Harriet caught him as he sagged sideways. Her fat hands held him firmly under his armpits while she leaned closer to examine the lump on his head.
"He's sorta banged up," Eddie said. "He's really groggy. I think--"
"He ain't as groggy as he looks," Harriet cut in dryly. "If he don't stop what he's doing he's gonna get banged up more."
Turley had sent one arm around her hip, his hand sliding onto the extra-large, soft-solid bulge. She reached back, grabbed his wrist and flung his arm aside. "You're either wine-crazy, punch-crazy, or plain crazy." she informed him. "You try that again, you'll need a brace on your jaw. Now sit still while I have a look."
"I'll have a look too," Turley said, and while the fat woman bent over him to study his damaged skull, he made a serious study of her forty-four-inch bosom. Again his arm went around her hip, and again she flung it off. "You're askin' for it," she told him, hefting her big fist. "You really want it, don't you?"
Turley grinned past the fist. "I always do, blondie. Ain't no hour of the day when I don't."
"You think he needs a doctor?" Eddie asked.
"I'll settle for a big fat nurse," Turley babbled, the grin very loose, sort of idiotic. And then he looked around, as though trying to figure out where he was. "Hey, somebody tell me somethin'. I' d simply like to know--"
"What year it is?" Harriet said. "It's Nineteen fifty-six, and the city is Philadelphia."
"You'll hafta do better than that." Turley sat up straighter. "What I really wanna know is--" But the fog enveloped him and he sat there gazing vacantly past Harriet, past Eddie, his eyes glazing over.
Harriet and Eddie looked at him, then looked at each other. Eddie said, "Keeps up like this, he'll need a stretcher."
Harriet took another look at Turley. She made a final diagnosis, saying, "He'll be all right. I've seen them like that before. In the ring. A certain nerve gets hit and they lose all track of what's happening. Then first thing you know, they're back in stride, they're doing fine."
Eddie was only half convinced. "You really think he'll be okay?"
"Sure he will," Harriet said. "Just look at him. He's made of rock. I know this kind. They take it and like it and come back for more."
"That's correct," Turley said solemnly. Without looking at Harriet, he reached out to shake her hand. Then he changed his mind and his hand strayed in another direction. Harriet shook her head in motherly disapproval. A wistful smile came onto her blunt features, a smile of understanding. She lowered her hand to Turley's head, her fingers in his mussed-up hair to muss it up some more, to let him know that Harriet's Hut was not as mean-hard as it looked, that it was a place where he could rest a while and pull himself together.
"You know him?" she said to Eddie. "Who is he?"
Before Eddie could answer, Turley was off on another fogbound ride, saying, "Look at that over there across the room. What's that?"
Harriet spoke soothingly, somewhat clinically. "What is it, johnny? Where?"
Turley's arm came up. He tried to point. It took considerable effort and finally he made it.
"You mean the waitress?" Harriet asked.
Turley couldn't answer. He had his eyes fastened on the face and body of the brunette on the other side of the room. She wore an apron and she carried a tray.
"You really like that?" Harriet asked. Again she mussed his hair. She threw a wink at Eddie.
"Like it?" Turley was saying. "I been lookin' all over for something in that line. That's my kind of material. I wanna get to meet that. What's her name?"
"Lena."
"She's something," Turley said. He rubbed his hands. "She's really something."
"So what are your plans?" Harriet asked quietly, as though she meant it seriously.
"Four bits is all I need." Turley's tone was flat and technical.
"A drink for me and a drink for her. And that'll get things going."
"Sure as hell it will," Harriet said, saying it more to herself and with genuine seriousness, her eyes aimed now across the crowded Hut, focused on the waitress. And then, to Turley, "You think you got lumps now, you'll get real lumps if you make a pass at that."
She looked at Eddie, waiting for some comment. Eddie had pulled away from it. He'd turned to face the keyboard. His face shbwed the dim and far-off smile and nothing more.
Turley stood up to get a better look. "What's her name again?"
"Lena."
"So that's Lena," he said, his lips moving slowly.
"That's sheer aggravation," Harriet said. "Do yourself a favor. Sit down. Stop looking."
He sat down, but he went on looking. "How come it's aggravation?" he wanted to know. "You mean it ain't for sale or rent?"
"It ain't available, period."