"Robert Heinlein - Year of the Jackpot" - читать интересную книгу автора (Heinlein Robert A)

of yours? Are you with him?"
The girl looked uncertainly at Breen, then said in a low
voice, "Uh, yes. That's right."
"Well . . ." The lawyer's companion pulled at her arm.
She shoved her card into Breen's hand and got on the bus;
it pulled away.
Breen pocketed the card. Kawonski wiped his forehead.
"Why did you do it, lady?" he said peevishly.
The girl looked puzzled. "I . . . I don't know."
"You hear that, Mr. Breen? That's what they all say. And
if you pull 'em in, there's six more the next day. The Chief
said" He sighed. "The Chief saidwell, if I had arrested
her like that female shyster wanted me to. I'd be out at a
hundred and ninety-sixth and Ploughed Ground tomorrow
morning, thinking about retirement. So get her out of here,
will you?"
The girl said, "But-"
"No 'buts,' lady. Just be glad a real gentleman like Mr.
Breen is willing to help you." He gathered up her clothes,
handed them to her. When she reached for them she again
exposed an uncustomary amount of skin; Kawonski hastily
gave them to Breen instead, who crowded them into his
coat pockets.
She let Breen lead her to where his car was parked, got in
and tucked the raincoat around her so that she was rather
more dressed than a girl usually is. She looked at him.
She saw a medium-sized and undistinguished man who
was slipping down the wrong side of thirty-five and looked
older. His eyes had that mild and slightly naked look of tlie
habitual spectacles wearer who is not at the moment with
glasses; his hair was gray at the temples and thin on top.
His herringbone suit, black shoes, white shirt, and neat tie
smacked more of the East than of California.
He saw a face which he classified as "pretty" and "whole-
some" rather than "beautiful" and "glamorous," It was
topped by a healthy mop of light brown hair. He set her
age at twenty-five, give or take eighteen months. He smiled
gently, climbed in without speaking and started his car.
He turned up Doheny Drive and east on Sunset. Near La
Cienega he slowed down. "Feeling better?"
"Uh, I guess so Mr.'Breen'?"
"Call me Potiphar. What's your name? Don't tell me if
you don't want to,"
"Me? I'm . . . I'm Meade Barstow."
"Thank you, Meade. Where do you want to go? Home?"
"I suppose so. IOh my no! I can't go home like this."
She clutched the coat tightly to her.
"Parents?"
"No. My landlady. She'd be shocked to death."
"Where, then?"