"Himes, Chester - The Real Cool Killers" - читать интересную книгу автора (Himes Chester)

"You cut me, didn't you?" he said. His voice sounding unbelieving.
"Ah'll cut you again," the little knifeman said, wriggling in his grip.
Big Smiley dropped him as though he'd turned hot.
The little knifeman bounced on his feet and slashed at Big Smiley's face.
Big Smiley drew back and reached beneath the bar counter with his right hand. He came up with a short-handled fireman's axe. It had a red handle and a honed, razor-sharp blade.
The little knifeman jumped into the air and slashed at Big Smiley again, matching his knife against Big Smiley's axe.
Big Smiley countered with a right cross with the redhandled axe. The blade met the knifeman's arm in the middle of its stroke and cut it off just below the elbow as though it had been guillotined.
The severed arm in its coat sleeve, still clutching the knife, sailed through the air, sprinkling the nearby spectators with drops of blood, landed on the linoleum tile floor, and skidded beneath the table of a booth.
The little knifeman landed on his feet, still making cutting motions with his half arm. He was too drunk to realize the full impact. He saw that the lower part of his arm had been chopped off; he saw Big Smiley drawing back the redhandled axe. He thought Big Smiley was going to chop at him again.
"Wait a minute, you big mother-raper, till Ah finds my arm!" he yelled. "It got my knife in his hand."
He dropped to his knees and began scrambling about the floor with his one hand, searching for his severed arm. Blood spouted from his jerking stub as though from the nozzle of a hose.
Then he lost consciousness and flopped on his face.
Two customers turned him over; one tied a necktie as a tourniquet about the bleeding arm, the other inserted a chair leg to tighten it.
A waitress and another customer were twisting a knotted towel about Big Smiley's arm. He was still holding the fireman's axe in his right hand, a look of surprise on his face.
The white manager stood on top of the bar and shouted, "Please remain seated, folks. Everybody go back to his seat and pay his bill. The police have been called and everything will be taken care of."
As though he'd fired a starting gun, there was a race for the door.
When Sonny Pickens came out on the sidewalk he saw the big white man looking inside through one of the small front windows.
Sonny had been smoking marijuana cigarettes and he was tree-top high. Seen from his drugged eyes, the dark night sky looked bright purple and the dingy smoke-blackened tenements looked like brand new skyscrapers made of strawberry-colored bricks. The neon signs of the bars and pool rooms and greasy spoons burned like phosphorescent fires.
He drew a blue steel revolver from his inside coat pocket, spun the cylinder and aimed it at the big white man.
His two friends, Rubberlips Wilson and Lowtop Brown, looked at him in pop-eyed amazement. But before either could restrain him, Sonny advanced on the white man, walking on the balls of his feet.
"You there!" he shouted. "You the man what's been messing around with my wife."
The big white man jerked his head about and saw a pistol. His eyes stretched and the blood drained from his sallow face.
"My God, wait a minute!" he cried. "You're making a mistake. All of you folks are confusing me with someone else."
"Ain't going to be no waiting now," Sonny said and pulled the trigger.
Orange flame lanced toward the big white man's chest. Sound shattered the night.
Sonny and the white man leapt simultaneously straight up into the air. Both began running before their feet touched the ground. Both ran straight ahead. They ran head on into one another at full speed. The white man's superior weight knocked Sonny down and he ran over him.
He plowed through the crowd of colored spectators, scattering them like ninepins, and cut across the street through the traffic, running in front of cars as though he didn't see them.
Sonny jumped up to his feet and took out after him. He ran over the people the big white man had knocked down. Muscles rolled on bones beneath his feet. He staggered drunkenly. Screams followed him and car lights came down on him like shooting stars.
The big white man was moving between parked cars across the Street when Sonny shot at him again. He gained the sidewalk safely and began running south along the inner edge.
Sonny followed between the cars and kept after him.
People in the line of fire did acrobatic dives for safety. People up ahead crowded into the doorways to see what was happening. They saw a big white man with wild blue eyes and a stubble of red tie which made him look as though his throat were cut, being chased by a slim black man with a big blue pistol. They drew back out of range.
But the people behind, who were safely out of range, joined the chase.
The white man was in front. Sonny was next. Rubberlips and Lowtop were running at Sonny's heels. Behind them the spectators stretched out in a ragged line.
The white man ran past a group of eight Arabs at the corner of 127th Street. All of the Arabs had heavy, grizzly black beards. All wore bright green turbans, smoke-colored glasses, and ankle-length white robes. Their complexions ranged from stovepipe black to mustard. They were jabbering and gesticulating like a frenzied group of caged monkeys. The air was redolent with the pungent scent of marijuana.
"An infidel!" one yelled.
The jabbering stopped abruptly. They wheeled in a group after the white man.
The white man heard the shout. He saw the sudden movement through the corners of his eyes. He leaped forward from the curb.
A car coming fast down 127th Street burnt rubber in an ear-splitting shriek to keep from running him down.
Seen in the car's headlights, his sweating face was bright red and muscle-ridged; his blue eyes black with panic; his gray-shot hair in wild disorder.
Instinctively he leaped high and sideways, away from the oncoming car. His arms and legs flew out in grotesque silhouette.
At that instant Sonny came abreast of the Arabs and shot at the leaping white man while he was still in the air.
The orange blast lit up Sonny's distorted face and the roar of the gunshot sounded like a fusillade.
The big white man shuddered and came down limp. He landed face down and in a spread-eagled posture. He didn't getup.
Sonny ran up to him with the smoking pistol dangling from his hand. He was starkly spotlighted by the car's headlights. He looked at the white man lying face down in the middle of the street and started laughing. He doubled over laughing, his arms jerking and his body rocking.
Lowtop and Rubberlips caught up. The eight Arabs joined them in the beams of light.
"Man, what happened?" Lowtop asked.
The Arabs looked at him and began to laugh.
Rubberlips began to laugh too, then Lowtop.
All of them stood in the stark white light, swaying and rocking and doubling up with laughter.
Sonny was trying to say something but he was laughing so hard he couldn't get it out.