"Simon Hawke - The Nine Lives of Catseye Gomez" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hawke Simon)

my face, I wouldn't have gotten into his."
She just stared at me with her jaw hanging open while Solo stood there, looking uncomfortable, and then
Pinky whined, "The kitty hurt me, Mommy!"
"Mommy" turned to Solo and said, "Jay, you're not going to keep that mangy beast, are you? 1 insist you
lock it up somewhere! It's scaring Pinky. Look how he's trembling!"
"Hell, lady, if I had to go out in public looking like that, I'd tremble, too," I said.
The look she gave me was pure venom.
"Jay.. ."
"You want I should leave the room?" I asked him, remembering that it was, after all, his home.
"No, Gomez," he said. "You stay right there."
"Jay!"
"Gomez is my guest, Barbara," Solo said, "and your dog came bursting in here and went after him. Far as I'm
concerned, the stupid mutt got what it deserved."
He immediately went up quite a few points in my estimation. But then, I should've known. Any friend of
Paulie's was liable to be a stand-up guy.
' 'Jay!'' said the skirt, again, in a shocked tone of voice.
"If you can't control your dog, Barbara, then I suggest you keep him on a leash," said Solo. "Gomez is a
friend and he's staying."
"Well! Then maybe I should leave!" she said, in a huff.
"Maybe you should," said Solo.
She stared at him with disbelief, then gathered her wits and turned angrily and stalked back to the door. Solo
held it open for her.
"If you think I'm going to stand for this sort of treatment," she said, icily, "then you are very much mistaken."
"Good night, Barbara," said Solo.
"Good-bye, Mr. Solo!"
I think she would have liked to slam the door, only Solo was holding it for her and she had precious, trembling
Pinky in her arms. She stalked out angrily and he closed the door behind her.
"Sorry about that," I said. "I didn't mean to spoil anything for you."
Solo simply shrugged. "Oh, you didn't spoil anything," he said. "Barbara lives just down the hall. She moved
in a couple of weeks ago. She's divorced and she's been dropping hints that we should get to know each
other better, coming by and wanting to borrow coffee or have me open a jar of pickles, all that sort of thing. I
hadn't quite figured out a way to brush her off politely, but I guess you just took care of that. She was getting
to be a bit of a pest."
"Lot of guys wouldn't mind that kind of pestering," I said.
"I guess not," Solo replied, "but Barbara's not really my type."
"What is?"
He walked over to the desk and picked up a small picture frame. He carried it over and held it out so I could
see it. It was a photograph of a lady with a lot of cat in her. She had short, blond hair worn down to her collar,
green eyes, a small and slightly turned up nose, nice cheekbones, and a smile that lit up the world. She was
dressed in faded jeans and a man's white shirt, with moccasins on her feet. The photograph had been taken
outside, in a park. She was sitting on a swing, with one arm up above her head, holding onto the chain, and
her head cocked to one side, resting on the arm. Slim body. Long legs. Nothing like Barbara at all. Just
looking at the photograph, I could tell that when she moved, it would be with a lithe and supple grace, natural
and unselfconscious. The photograph was signed, "Forever, Lisa."
"Pretty lady," I said.
"My wife," Solo replied.
I was surprised. I hadn't seen any evidence of a woman around the place. And then his next words answered
my unspoken question.
"She died about fifteen years ago."
"I'm sorry."