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

Violins again.
Ken sat in the corner with Ceil and Mandy, a large glass in his hand.
Trouble, he wondered, or not.
He stood by Brandt, who was finishing off another snifter. "Curt's playing games."
"Who cares?"
Brandt swiveled the stool around too fast and nearly slipped off. Neil caught him, pulled back his hands when the
gambler angrily twisted away. A look to Julia, don't serve him anymore, before he said, loudly enough for the others
to hear, "The Sander's just gone by. 1 think it's probably all right to hit the road if you want to, before it ices up again."
Davies and Trish danced on.
"Who cares?" Brandt muttered. "She ain't gonna be there anyway, who gives a shit?" He thumped the bar with a
fist. "Where the hell's my whiskey?"
Julia ignored him.
"Goddamnit, where's my drink?"
"Hey," Ken called, "shut up, okay?"
Brandt squirmed off the stool, swayed, and would have charged across the room if Neil hadn't grabbed his shoulder
and yanked him back down. The gambler grumbled but didn't move again, not even when Havvick laughed shrilly,
suggested to Trish that she not get any closer or else he'd have to sue the ass off the radio man before she got into
his pants.
Trish, without moving her cheek from Davies's chest, took her hand from his neck and gave Ken a slow waggling
finger.
Havvick laughed, and forced a belch.
so what more do you want
Sure as hell not this.
"Back in a minute," he said to Julia, and walked into the kitchen.
A little sanity. A little simplicity. Willie standing at the butcher's block with a cleaver, working on some meat.
Watery blood running in thin streaks into the gutter that ran around the counter's edge, the cleaver streaked with it,
not a drop on the cook's apron or shirt.
The blade rose and fell.
From a speaker over the service window, Benny Good-man.
Rose and fell.
And Neil realized that Willie was chopping the meat to shreds, not steaks or strips.
"Willie."
Rose and fell.
The fluorescent lights made everything too bright. Ev-erything bleached. The little man's skin had no color, the
meat had no color, or the floor, the ceiling. Only the blood, and it was pale.
"Willie."
Ennin stared at the meat.
Too cold.
A draft that made Neil roll his shoulders and frown.
"Prick," Ennin whispered.
Neil saw the side door wide open and hurried to close it, peered out at the snow and sighed resignation when he
also saw that the ground was at last fully covered. In a while he'd have to go down into the cellar storeroom, drag out
the blower and decide when he would start clearing the lot and the flagstone pathтАФnow, to keep up with the weather,
or later, when the storm ended. Most of the rime he waited. Tonight he wasn't sure he wanted to stay inside.
The cleaver rose and fell.
"Willie."
The floor trembled as the furnace bellowed on.
"Willie!"
Ennin froze, the cleaver level with his shoulder. He turned his head, slow enough for Neil to imagine he could hear
 each bone and tendon creak. Mannequin. Sideshow dummy. The man breathed deeply once, and smiled, looked down