"Himes, Chester - The Big Gold Dream" - читать интересную книгу автора (Himes Chester)

"How in the hell would I know? I wasn't living with her. You was," Rufus said. "And as far as that goes, you ain't got any proof that she ever had anything."
"Oh, I got proof enough," Sugar said. "Besides which, she gave herself away."
"How?"
"Never mind how -- that's my little secret."
"You mean because she locked you out of the house last night?" Rufus asked.
"Naw, man, hell, she done that lots of times before," Sugar admitted, but he didn't feel that it was necessary to explain to Rufus the source of his suspicions. He had the feeling that Rufus was smarter than he was, and he didn't want to give him too much to go on. "If you knew her as well as you claim to, you would know she must have got hold of something in order to get religion suddenly," he added.
Rufus looked thoughtful. "Maybe you're right," he conceded. "I'll go through her junk again, piece by piece."
"Where is it at?" Sugar demanded.
"I ain't saying," Rufus replied. "You got your little secret; I got mine."
"All right, man, just don't get yourself hurt."
"Hell, man, I trusted you; now you got to trust me."
"I trust you --. I am just telling you, is all. It's halvers."
"I know it's halvers, man. If I find it, you'll get your half, all right."
"Just remember this is worth your life, man," Sugar threatened.
"You talk like a mugger," Rufus complained aggrievedly. "You don't have to threaten me, man."
"I ain't threatening you," Sugar denied. "I'm just advising you. Don't try nothing funny."
Rufus stood up. "I'm going, man, I got a chick waiting."
"Just don't get careless and find yourself dead," Sugar called after him.


5

For years, Third Avenue crossed the Harlem River a few blocks north of 125th Street on the tracks of the Third Avenue Elevated and continued northward through the Bronx to Fordham Road. Now, with the old El gone out of existence, Third Avenue simply leaps from shore to shore. On one shore the address is Third Avenue, Manhattan; on the other it is Third Avenue, Bronx. In both Manhattan and the Bronx, its character is the same. It is a street of the second-hand and the down-andout; of pawnshops, of grimy bars, of poverty and bums -- a truly democratic street.
In the block between 166th and 167th Street in the Bronx there is a grimy bar owned by a Greek with a colored bartender serving a clientele of all races; an Army-Navy surplus store; a kosher meat market; a second-hand clothing store run by the United Protestant Missions; a pork store; a store front with a name protected by a heavy iron grille strong enough to serve as the gates for Alcatraz; a big wooden gate that had once been painted yellow; and a big weather-blackened brick building housing a brewery owned by the descendants of a German immigrant.
It was ten o'clock at night. Save for an intermittent bus, scattered automobiles and a few forlorn pedestrians straggling by, the street was deserted. Only the lighted window in the brewery and the fly-specked window of the bar at the opposite end showed signs of life.
Two brass locks securing the iron grille of the nameless store gleamed dully in the feeble light from the distant street lamp. Vaguely visible in the display window behind, broken furniture was stacked to the ceiling as though to form a secondary barrier. The windows of the three floors above the store were boarded shut.
The wooden gate to one side enclosed a short brick-paved driveway leading to a wooden shed with a tin roof. Protruding from the shed was the back end of a moving van.
There was a small doorway in the back of the shed that opened onto a small concrete courtyard extending across the rear of the store. Two windows, boarded up and barred, flanked a center door that was protected by a grille similar to the one in front. But light was coming from a small basement window at ground level on the far side.
Through dirt-spattered panes a basement room was visible. One corner of the basement had been partitioned off and equipped for a cabinetmaker's workshop. Workbenches were built along three walls, above which were tool racks containing all types of woodworking tools. Near the inner wall stood a band saw, a wood lathe, a planing mill and an electric drill.
What was left of Alberta's moth-eaten overstuffed parlor suite was scattered about the center of the floor in the spill of bright white light from a green-shaded drop lamp.
The Jew was kneeling beside the sofa, which was still intact. The skeletons of the two overstuffed armchairs had been pushed to one side like the bones of a carcass. The covers and overstufling were piled in a heap between them.
He felt the sofa as though he were assaying a prime beef, poked it here and there and then caressed it with soft loving strokes.
"Marvelous," he muttered to himself. "Marvelous. More than a hundred years old. Made in New Orleans. Been through the Civil War. Extraordinary I What treasures these black cooks collect."
Suddenly he picked up his tools and began stripping the sofa like a past master. All the while he talked to himself.
"That Rufus, what a fool. Trying to outwit Abie -- ha ha."
First he pried loose all the hidden tacks.
"The mattress -- colored people's strongbox, ha ha."
Then with a razor blade he ripped the seams of the outer fabric and skinned it back as though skinning an animal. Save for the sound of ripping threads arid his labored breathing, it was silent as a tomb. The silence oppressed him. He talked to relieve the silence, not because the words expressed his thoughts.
"Little fortunes ... little fortunes ... from little fortunes big fortunes grow. . ."
Beneath the covering was a layer of horsehair, and beneath that a layer of yellowed cotton. With immaculate care, the Jew removed each layer. His nimble fingers probed and explored every inch of padding before he laid it aside.
"He was searching for somcthing. He thinks Able doesn't know. He thinks he had fooled Abie. The fool -- ha ha . . ."
He thought be heard a sound.
"What's that!" he exclaimed.
His eyes flew to the basement window. Quick as a cat he moved toward a hidden switch beneath the projecting edge of a bench and turned off the light. The small rectangular window was outlined by the almost imperceptible light of a city night. No telltale silhouette was visible. He had been holding his breath. He breathed once and listened. Only the heavy muted sounds penetrating the thick wall of the brewery disturbed the silence.
"No one in miles," he muttered.
But he did not switch the light back on yet. He felt an inexplicable nervousness -- not a premonition, more a building up of tension. He walked through the darkness to the door leading to the stairs. Something brushed against his leg. Shock went through him like cold fire. He jumped to one side, feeling his hair rise from an ice-cold scalp. His hands clawed desperately along the tool rack for a weapon.
Then a cat mewed and moved forward to rub against his other leg. He looked down and saw twin ellipsoids of green light shining in the dark.
He sucked in his breath with a watery sound.
"Sheba!" he gasped. "Sheba, little pussy."
He reached down to stroke the purring black cat.