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

cigarettes, Brandt lurching in place as he tried not to fall.
"Looks like some kind of cowboy or something," Trish said, clearly puzzled. "Doesn't he look like a cowboy, Ken?"
"Ain't Curt," Brandt declared loudly. He blinked as he looked at Neil. "That ain't Curt the sonofabitch." He frowned
as he concentrated. "Who the hell is it?"
"A drunk," Davies suggested blandly. "Some poor pa-thetic slob in his cups, still thinks it's Halloween." He turned
away, lips darker, flesh more pale. "A drunk. You're wasting your time."
Julia agreed as she rubbed her arms briskly. "We stand here, he gets his rocks off. This is dumb." She didn't move.
"Maybe," she said to Davies, "you could have him on your show."
Davies looked over his shoulder. "I doubt it. 1 doubt very seriously the poor wretch can even speak."
"My real name," said Ceil, sipping champagne, "is Llewelyn."
"Spoilsport," Davies scolded.




The wind blew much harder and the glass trembled, the snow thickened.
Large wet flakes slapped against the wall and melted, ran erratically toward the bottom, merging, splitting, vanishing
beneath the sill.
Ceil brushed the glass with a palm as if to clear it.
The wind died.




No one moved.




Until Neil said, "I've had enough of this bullshit," and stalked away, realizing before he was halfway across the room
that he was probably acting like a jerk, but he didn't care. Nester was wrong. That idiot outside was Curt Hol-gate, and
he wasn't going to take the little shit's nonsense anymore. As he snatched up his jacket from where it had fallen, he
looked at the wall phone, half tempted to call the police and have them haul Curt's ass away. But the kid still hadn't
done anything yet, and the cops would only laugh and tell him to throw a snowball at the creep. He probably would
have done the same. Hell, he had done the same, pretty much, years ago, to more than one exasperated civilian being
pestered by someone not exactly breaking the law. It felt lousy being on the other side. It felt worse than lousy.
 He took the steps into the restaurant at a jump and kicked out when his left arm caught in its sleeve.
"Hey," Brandt called, "you want the goddamn gun?"
He almost stopped.
And the moment the thought crossed his mindтАФsure, why not?тАФhe banished it with an angry slash of the air with
his hand.
Stupid was one thing, which was what he was, taking Holgate's juvenile bait; but really stupid was something else
again.
He threw open the door and immediately slipped on the icy stoop, pitching over the two steps and landing on his
knees on the gravel, spitting his rage at the snow. On his feet again, he ran as best he could, batting the flakes from
his eyes, holding on to the building as he rounded the corner. Slower now so he wouldn't fall, one hand brushing the
wall as a potential brace, squinting at the spot where Holgate was last seen.
Into the light suddenly, his shadow swinging ahead of him toward the water. Wind slapped his back.
His ears began to sting.
He slipped again, to one knee, and took a moment to catch his breath and calm down.