"Goodis, David - The Burglar" - читать интересную книгу автора (Goodis David)

Harbin crossed in front of the aquamarine eyes of the young cop. He opened the rear door of the car, climbed in, curled up on the upholstery and closed his eyes. Around a minute later he heard the engine of the red car starting up. He heard the red car going away.
The long hand on his wristwatch traveled for seven minutes before he raised his head to peer through the car window. Turning the handle that brought the window down, he listened for engine noise, but the night air was empty of sound. He inhaled the quiet, enjoying it. Then, climbing out of the Chevrolet, he put another cigarette in his mouth and moved toward the mansion.
Gladden was at the window as he climbed in. He gave her a grin while she handed him the tools. He turned on his flashlight, aimed it at the wall safe, followed the path of white light across the room to the square of hammered brass, and beyond the brass, the emeralds.


2

They were looking at the haul. The four of them were on the second floor of a small dingy house in the Kensington section of Philadelphia. The house was in Dohmer's name and it was very small, part of a narrow street of row houses hemmed in by factories. The house was their dwelling place, their headquarters, and they called it the Spot. Dust and dirty air from the mills was always coming in even when the windows were closed. Gladden had a habit of throwing a cleaning-rag at the windows and saying it was no use trying to fight this dust. After a while she would sigh and pick up the rag and go on with the cleaning.
The table in Baylock's room on the second floor was in the center of the room and they stood around and watched Baylock as he examined the emeralds. Baylock's fingers were pincers of thin metal as he picked up the gems one by one and held them against the glass fitted into his left eye. Dohmer had beer going down his throat from a quart bottle, and Gladden's hands were clasped behind her back, her shoulder resting slightly against Harbin's chest, the smoke from his cigarette spraying through the yellow hair of Gladden and floating toward the center of the table where the stones flamed green.
After a while Baylock took the glass from his eye and picked up a piece of paper on which he had been making an itemized list with the estimated value of each jewel. "Come in around a hundred and ten thousand. Cut the stones down, melt the platinum, shape it up again and it ought to bring around forty."
"Forty thousand," Dohmer said.
Baylock frowned. "Less the expenses."
"What expenses?" Dohmer said.
"Overhead," Baylock said, biting at the corner of his mouth.
Harbin looked at the emeralds. He told himself it was a nice haul and he ought to feel good about it. He wondered why he didn't feel good about it.
Baylock said, "We better move thIs rapid." He got up from the table, walked up and down, came back to the table. "I figure we go tomorrow. Pack up in the morning and start out. Take it down to Mexico."
Harbin was shaking his head.
"Why not?" Baylock asked.
Harbin didn't answer. He had his wallet out and he was tearing the operator's license and registration card in little pieces. He turned to Dohmer. "Get new cards printed and take care of the Chevvie. Get it done fast. Get new upholstery, now, new paint job, melt the license plates. Everything."
Dohmer nodded, and then he said, "What color you want it?"
Gladden said, "I like orange."
Harbin looked at her. He was waiting for Baylock to commence an argument about Mexico. He knew Baylock would have something to say about Mexico.
"Make it a dull orange," Gladden said. "I don't like bright colors. They're cheap. They're common. When I buy dresses, I buy them in soft colors. With good taste. With class. Make the car a smoky orange or a gray orange or a burnt orange."
Dohmer took the beer bottle from his mouth. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"I wish," Gladden said, "sometime I could get to talk with women. If once a month I could talk lady talk with ladies I'd be happy."
Baylock rubbed fingers across his balding head. He frowned down at the emeralds. "I figure we, go tomorrow and head for Mexico City."
"I said no," Harbin let it come cool.
As though Harbin had not spoken, Baylock said, "Tomorrow's the best time to go. Soon as we get the car changed over. Go down to Mexico City and get the stuff to a fence. Get it done rapid."
"Not tomorrow," Harbin said. "Not next week. Not next month."
Baylock looked up. "How long you want to wait?"
"Between six months and a year."
"That's too long," Baylock said. "Too many things can happen." And then for some unknown reason he looked directly at Gladden and his eyes became almost closed. "Like stupid moves. Like painting the car bright orange."
"I didn't say bright orange," Gladden said. "I told you I didn't like bright orange."
"Like getting up in society," Baylockwenton. "Like getting in with the servants on the Main Line."
"You leave me alone," Gladden said. She turned to Harbin. "Tell him to leave me alone."
"Like getting high ideas," Baylock went on. "With good taste. With class. First thing we know she'll be in circulation."
"Now you shut up, Joe," Gladden cried. "You got no right to talk like that. I got in with the servants 'cause that's the only way I could case the place." Again she turned to Harbin. "Why does he pick on me all the time?"
"God, first thing we know," Baylock said, "she'll be up in the world with Main Line society. We'll have rich people coming up here to play bridge and have tea and look at our emeralds."
Harbin turned to Gladden, "Go out in the hail."
"No," Gladden said.
"Go on," Harbin said, "go out and wait in the hall."
"I'll stay right here." Gladden was quivering.
Baylock frowned at Gladden and said, "Why don't you do like he tells you?"
Gladden turned fully upon Baylock. "You shut your God damn lousy face."
Harbin felt something twisting around in his insides, something getting started in there. He knew what it was. It had happened before. He didn't want it to happen again. He tried to work it down and stifle it, but it kept moving around in there and now it began to climb.
Baylock said, "I claim we start tomorrow. I claim--"
"Drop it," Harbin's voice sliced the room. "Drop it, drop it."
Gladden said, "Hey, Nat--"
"You, too," Harbin was up from the chair, he had the chair in his hand, up in the air, high up, then heaving the chair against the wall, moving toward the dresser and picking up a half-empty bottle of beer, bashing it to the floor. He took his fist and slammed it into the air. His breathing sounded like broken machinery. He was pleading with himself to stop it, but he couldn't stop it. They stood there and looked at him as they had looked at him many times when it had happened before. They didn't move. They stood there and waited for the thing to die down.
"Get out," he shouted. "All of you, get out of here." He threw himself on Baylock's cot, his fingernails cutting through the sheet, then the sheet underneath, his fingers tearing at both sheets as he arched his back to destroy the fabric in his hands. "Get out," he screamed, "get out and leave me alone."