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

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That's them," Turley said.
Eddie went on making the music.
"That's them, all right," Turley said matter-of-factly.
The door closed behind the two men and they stood there turning their heads very slowly, looking from crowded tables to crowded bai back to the tables, to the bar again, looking everywhere.
Then they spotted Turley. They started forward.
"Here they come," Turley said, stifi matter-of-factly. "Look at them."
Eddie's eyes stayed on the keyboard. He had his mind on the keyboard. The warm-cool music flowed on and now it was saying to Turley, It's your problem, entirely yours, keep me out of it.
The two men came closer. They moved slowly. The tables were close-packed, blocking their path. They were trying to move faster, to force their way through.
"Here they come," Turley said. "They're really coming now."
Don't look, Eddie said to himself. You take one look and that'll do it, that'll pull you into it. You don't want that, you're here to play the piano, period. But what's this? What's happening? There ain't no music now, your fingers are off the keyboard.
He turned his head and looked and saw the two men coming closer.
They were well-dressed men. The one in front was short and very thin, wearing a pearl-gray felt hat and a white silk muffler and a single-breasted, dark blue overcoat. The man behind him was thin, too, but much taller. He wore a hat of darker gray, a black-and-silver striped muffler, and his overcoat was a dark gray six-button-benny.
Now they were halfway across the room, There was more space here between the tables. They were coming faster.
Eddie jabbed stiffened fingers into Turley's ribs. "Don't sit there. Get up and go."
"Go where?" And there it was again, the idiotic grin.
"Side door," Eddie hissed at him, gave him another finger-stiffened jab, harder this time.
"Hey, quit that," Turley said. "That hurts."
"Does it?" Another jab made it really hurt, pulled the grin off Turley's face, pulled his rump off the chair. Then Turley was using his legs, going past the stacked pyramid of beer cases, walking faster and faster and finally lunging toward the side door.
The two men took a short cut, going diagonally away from the tables. They were running now, streaking to intercept Turley. It looked as though they had it made.
Then Eddie was up from the piano stool, seeing Turley aiming at the side door some fifteen feet away. The two men were closing in on Turley. They'd pivoted off the diagonal path and now they ran parallel to the pyramid of beer cases. Eddie made a short rush that took him into the highstacked pile of bottle-filled cardboard boxes. He gave the pile a shoulder bump and a box came down and then another box, and more boxes. It caused a traffic jam as the two men collided with the fallen beer cases, tripped over the cardboard hurdles, went down and got up and tripped again. While that happened, Turley opened the side door and ran out.
Some nine beer cases had fallen off the stacked pyramid and several of the bottles had come loose to hit the floor and break. The two men were working hard to get past the blockade of cardboard boxes and broken bottles. One of them, the shorter one, was turning his head to catch a glimpse of whatever funnyman had caused this fiasco. He saw Eddie standing there near the partially crumbled pyramid. Eddie shrugged and lifted his arms in a sheepish gesture, as though to say, An accident, I just bumped into it, that's all. The short thin man didn't say anything. There wasn't time for a remark.
Eddie went back to the piano. He sat down and started to play. He hit a few soft chords, the dim and far-off smile drifting onto his lips while the two thin well-dressed men finally made it to the side door. Through the soft sound of the music he heard the hard sound of the door slamming shut behind them.
He went on playing. There were no wrong notes, no breaks in the rhythm, but he was thinking of Turley, seeing the two men going after Turley along the too-dark streets in the too-cold stillness out there that might be broken any moment now by the sound of a shot.
But I don't think so, he told himself. They didn't have that look, as though they were gunning for meat. It was more of a bargaining look, like all they want is to sit down with Turley and talk some business.
What kind of business? Well, sure, you know what kind. It's something on the shady side. He said it was Clifton's transaction and that puts it on the shady side, with Turl stooging for Clifton like he's always done. So whatever it is, they're in a jam again, your two dear brothers. It's a first-class talent they have for getting into jams, getting out, and getting in again. You think they'll get out this time? Well, we hope so. We really hope so. We wish them luck, and that about says it. So what you do now is get off the trolley. It ain't your ride and you're away from it.
A shadow fell across the keyboard. He tried not to see it, but it was there and it stayed there. He turned his head sideways and saw the bulky legs, the barrel torso and the mashed-nosed face of the bouncer.
He went on playing.
"That's pretty." Plyne said.
Eddie nodded his thanks.
"It's very pretty," Plyne said. "But it just ain't pretty enough. I don't wanna hear any more."
Eddie stopped playing. His arms came down limply at his sides. He sat there and waited.
"Tell me something," the bouncer said. "What is it with you?"
Eddie shrugged.
Plyne took a deep breath. "God damn it," he said to no one in particular. "I've known this party for three years now and I hardly know him at all."
Eddie's soft smile was aimed at the keyboard. He tapped out a few idle notes in the middle octaves.
"That's all you'll ever get from him," Plyne said to invisible listeners. "That same no-score routine. No matter what comes up, it's always I-don't-know-from-nothing."
Eddie's fingers stayed there in the middle octaves.
The bouncer's manner changed. His voice was hard. "I told you to stop playing."
The music stopped. Eddie went on looking at the keyboard. He said, "What is it, Wally? What is it bothers you?"
"You really wanna know?" Plyne said it slowly, as though he'd scored a point. "All right, take a look." His arm stretched out, the forefinger rigid and aiming at the littered floor, the overturned cardboard boxes, the bottles, the scattered glass and the spilled beer foaming on the splintered floor boards.
Eddie shrugged again. "I'll clean it up," he said, and started to rise from the piano stool. Plyne pushed him back onto it.
"Tell me," Ptyne said, and pointed again at the beerstained floor. "What's the deal on that?"
"Deal?" The piano man seemed bewildered. "No deal at all. It was an accident. I didn't see where I was going, and I bumped into--"
But it was no use going on. The bouncer wasn't buying it. "Wanna bet?" the bouncer asked mildly. "Wanna bet it wasn't no accident?"
Eddie didn't reply.
"You won't tell me, I'll tell you," Plyne said. "A tagteam play, that's what it was."