"Joe Haldeman - No Future In It" - читать интересную книгу автора (Haldeman Joe)

NO FUTURE IN I T
It's not easy to keep exactly one-eighth inch of beard on your face. For a writer, though,
it's good protective coloration. With a suit and tie, you look like a gentleman who's decided
to grow a beard. With rumpled old Salvation Army clothes, you look like a down-and-out
rummy. It depends on the class of people you want to listen to, study.
I was in the rummy outfit when I met Bill Caddis and heard his incredible story. At first I
thought Bill was on the same scam I was; he talked too well to be in the dreg business. He
was for real, though.
There's this wonderful sleaze bar in downtown Tampa. No name, just a bunch of beer
signs in the window. The one for Pearl has a busted laser that flutters stroboscopically. You
don't want to sit too near the window. It's a good bar for private conversations because it's
right under the twelve-laner that sweeps out over the bay, and there's a constant moan of
traffic, all day and all night. There's a fine gritty layer of plaster dust everywhere, and not too
much light. The bartender is missing an eye and ten front teeth, and smiles frequently. The
booze is cheap; they make most of their money upstairs, and like to have lots of customers in
the bar, for camouflage.
I sat down at the bar and the bartender polished glasses while one of the whores, a pretty
boy-girl, sidled in for the kill. When I said no she pleaded mechanically, saying she was
saving for a real pair of tits and the Operation. I hesitatedтАФI string for the Bad News wire
service sometimes, and they like sexy pathosтАФbut turned her down more finally. Bad News
doesn't pay that well.
When she left the bartender came over and I ordered a Myers's with a beer chaser, suitable
hard-core combination. I'd taken two Flame-outs before I came, though, so I could drink a
dozen or so without too ill effect. Until morning.
"Little early in the day for that, isn't it?" The man next to me chuckled hoarsely. "Not to
criticize." He was nursing a double bourbon or scotch, neat.
"Dusty," I said. The man was dressed a little more neatly than I, in faded work clothes. He
looked too old to be a laborer, shock of white hair with a yellowish cast. But he did have the
deep tan and permanent squint of one who's spent decades in the Florida sun. I tossed back
the jigger of rum and sipped the beer. "Come here often?"
"Pretty often," he said. "When my check comes in I put a few bucks on a number.
Otherwise . . ." He shrugged. "Cheap whiskey and pretty women. To look at."
"How many of them do you think are women?"
"Just looking, who cares?" He squinted even more, examining me. "Could I see your
palms?"
Oh, boy, I thought, a fortuneteller. Might be a story if he actually believes in it. I held out
my hands.
He glanced at them and stared at my face. "Yeah, I could tell by the eyes," he said softly.
"You're no alcoholic. You're not as old as you look, either. Cop?"
"No. Used to be a teacher." Which was true. "Every now and then I go on these binges."
He nodded slowly. "Used to be a teacher, too. Until '83. Then I worked the sponge boats
twenty years." When he picked up his glass, his hand had the regular slow shake of a
confirmed alky. "It was good work."
I reached in my pocket and turned on the tape recorder. "Why was it you stopped
teaching? Booze?"
"No . . . who drank in the eighties?" I didn't, but I wasn't old enough. "It's an interesting
sort of pancake. You want to hear a story?"
"Sure." I signaled the bartender for two drinks.
"Now, you don't have to buy me anything. You won't believe the story, anyhow."
"Try me."