"Charles L. Grant - Raven" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Charles L)

When I'm sleeping, she goes through all my pockets just to make sure I'm not holding out on her. How the hell can I?
She's always going through my pockets." A sigh of discovery. He dropped a fifty-dollar bill on the bar. "I got my
ways, though. Look at me, you wouldn't think I'm a rich man, right? Not really rich. Better than some, though, you can
bet on it." He looked in the silver-edged mirror behind the neatly tiered bottles, patted a palm over his scalp. "You
think them places in New York that does the movie stars, they know how to make a fifty-five-year-old man with no hair
to speak of look good?" He patted his scalp again, scratched at it a little. "Cost a for-tune, right?" A thin mustache
that curled down past the corners of his mouth; he stroked it with his thumbs. "I ain't got a fortune, Julia, don't get me
wrong. Better than some, though. You'd think the old crone would know that, live with it, roll with the punches. Makes
sense, right? It's gotta make sense. Stupid bitch. One of these days I'm going to leave her, let her empty her own
pockets for a change. Jesus Christ, who are those guys over there? Hookers and pimp? What the hell's this place
coming to? Where the hell's Neil, I'm gonna complain."
Julia returned with empties on her tray, dumped the glasses into the sink, wiped the tray down. Brandt prattled on.
She moved around the comer to a large open rectangle in the wall where she could get Willie's attention.
"Plate of sandwiches, Willie," she called.
He looked up, saluted.
She returned the salute and, when he wasn't watching, threw him a kiss. Then she went back to Brandt and said,
"Do me a favor and shut the hell up."
"Nice talk," he said.
She pointed at her ass.




Willie knew the bar lady had thrown him a kiss. She did it every night when she thought he hadn't seen.
His hands flew over the sandwiches, over the arrange-ment on their plates, paused over a cleaver and thought
about Nester Brandt. Even in here, with the music going and conversations, he could hear the man talking.
The cleaver waited for him.
Not now, he told it with one eye closed.
Not now.
Later.




Ken eased himself into the corner of the booth, the pane not quite touching his shoulder but feeling the cold just the
same. Trish was so close she was nearly in his lap, sitting slightly sideways, right arm resting on the table.
Her legs were crossed.
Her left hand was in his lap.
"It'll be easy," he said, swallowing, feeling his gaze wander though he wanted to be sure he could see anyone who
came close. "I'll talk to Dad in the morning, okay? He's gonna flip when he finds out, Trish, really. He loves you. He
really does." His voice hardened just a bit. "Peo-ple around here, I know they make fun of him sometimes just because
of the farm. But hell, somebody's got to make the milk. If my dad didn't do it, somebody else would and feed them
babies, make all the money. I guess they're jealous. If you look at the TV all the time, you'd think every farmer in the
country was going down the tubes." He shifted, spread his legs a little more. Trish's eyes were half closed; he didn't
know if she was really listening. He didn't care. Listening wasn't why they were going to get married. "If you really
want to know the truth, if you want to know what you're really getting into, I'd guess, and it's just a guess, that my dad
could buy and sell just about anyone in the county. That's not bragging. Watch it, hon, Maclaren's prowling around.
I'm really not bragging. It's not just the farm." He straightened, waved to Maclaren without invitation, and watched
Trish's left breast press against the seat's back. Jesus. He swallowed again. "Invest-ments, you know? Not like that
shithead Nester. Real investments. He knew things weren't always going to be great. I don't know all he owns, but you