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

and said, "1 think maybe they're going to want some real food in a while, Mr. Maclaren. Those little sandwiches don't
fill nobody, not for long."
He chopped.
Neil forced a laugh. "Willie, you're killing the damn thing."
"Has to be dead, Mr. Maclaren. Has to be dead before you eat it. The prick."
Neil moved closer. He had no idea what was wrong, but whoever had set the cook off, whatever was on his mind, it
had to stop. Despite the gibes and concerns of some who had met him, Willie Ennin was not retarded; but there were
infrequent moments when he temporarily lost his current connection with the world. The cook called them temporary
vacations, with a sheepish grin. A flicker. A waver. The world was gone and he was alone, all the rules and standards
his. Like when he had to bury a mouse. Bury a baby bird. And one other time, when Bally Holgate had clipped him
with a rock and he'd started to cry and suck his thumb. But not like this; never while he was cooking.
The cleaver caught in the butcher's block, and Neil took gentle hold of the wrist before the blade was freed.
"Enough, Willie, that's enough, it looks fine."
The man resisted weakly; Neil tightened his grip.
"Forget it. It's a good idea, but most of them will be gone in a few minutes. They're going to want to beat the storm."
' He looked up then and saw Julia peering anxiously through the service window. A reassuring smile.
"Company, Willie," he said in a low voice.
Ennin saw her. The cleaver toppled sideways. "You want a steak?" he asked.
Julia saw the mess and shook her head. "Not tonight, okay?" She smiled apologetically. "It gives me gas if I eat too
late."
Neil backed away, reaching around the cook to pick up the cleaver and drop it into the sink. There was blood on the
floor.
Willie saw it and wrung his hands. "Lord, what a mess!" Quickly he grabbed a metal bucket from a stacked pile by
one of the ovens and scooped the meat into it with his hands. "I'll get my mop, Mr. Maclaren. Clean in no time."
"No problem, Willie."
"Snow looks bad. You think 1 can leave early?"
Neil hoped his relief didn't show. "Whenever you want. The sander's been by, but if the road's not right by the time
you're ready, you can use one of the cabins. Nester's going to have to, I think, he's half in the bag already."
Willie didn't answer.
A drum solo from the speaker.
Thumping slow.
Like the cleaver.
I am making too much of this, Neil decided as he left the kitchen; Willie's not dangerous, Curt's being his usual
asshole self, Brandt's getting stinking, nothing more, noth-ing less.
One of those nights, that's all.
One of those goddamn nights.
He stepped into the bar just as the solo ended, Davies dropped Trish in an old-fashioned dip, grinned wolfishly and
kissed her. On the lips.
"Hey!" Havvick struggled to his feet. "Hey, damnit!"
The couple straightened, Trish flushed and fussing with her hair, Davies smoothing his cummerbund with a palm.
"My apologies, Mr. Havvick," he said in his best, late-night voice. "Carried away by the music. Swing does that to
me."
"Yeah, right," Havvick muttered, grabbed Trish's arm and said, "C'mon, let's go before we get damn snowed in
here."
"But it's my party!" she whined, dug in and refused to move. "I don't want to go."
"Ten minutes ago you were ready."
She pouted and adjusted her sweater.
Havvick looked around the room, smiling gamely. "Women," he said with a slow shake of his head. "Can't live with
'era, you know what I mean?" He took her hands in his, tugged gently until she came to him. "One more glass of
champagne, okay? Then we have to go."