"Stuart Hughes - Clock's Runnin, Mister" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hughes Stuart)

watched the endless traffic parade past.
"I bet I could make a good guess though."
She turned back and sipped her coffee. The coffee was strong and bitter,
she took another sip before setting the mug down.
"Let me see," he said thoughtfully. "You probably had a lot of hassles at
home. Straight B's weren't good enough for your folks. That sort of thing.
You left home, I guess, ran away about ... two, maybe three years ago,
swearing never to go home. You tried to get a job, tried really hard, but
there was none about. Found yourself here in the city. Still no work. You
needed money and this was the only way you could get it. How am I doing?"
"Not even close," she said.
He nodded and she found herself being drawn into his fascinating blue
eyes. Not even close, huh? they seemed to say. Maybe, maybe not.
"You probably rang them on and off - your folks. Just to let them know you
were okay, but you never told them where you were or what you were doing.
Probably called them once a week at first, then once a month, then you
stopped. You don't know why, you just did. You probably haven't spoken to
your folks in ... the best part of eighteen months or so."
"I sure hope you fuck better than you talk, mister," she said, "cause
you're boring the shit out of me."
"There's a payphone over there." He nodded towards the restrooms. "Why
don't you go call them?"
"Why don't you go fuck yourself?"
He laughed. "You hate your life here in San Francisco but you've sworn
never to go home. Never. My guess is that things are so bad for you that
it's only the power of that vow keeping you here." He smiled at her. "And
that's a tragedy."
"You know shit, mister."
"It's never too late."
She drained her coffee. "Clock's still runnin, shall we go do it?"
"You sure you want to?" he asked, surprising her for the third time.
"Yeah," she said. "I am what I am, and ..." she let her tongue perform its
sensuous trick again, "I'm damn good at it too."

Jack's place was situated outside the city in one of the more affluent
suburbs. The gate opened automatically triggering four incredibly bright
security lights. The house was large and expensive, set back from the
street in the bosky privacy of pines and oaks that disappeared into the
darkening night sky.
Jack cut the motor. They got out the car and he led her up a wide path,
through the front door, and into the living room.
"Make yourself comfortable," he said.
She sat down in a huge, comfortable armchair and surveyed the room.
Everything was mammoth: the sofa and armchairs, the elaborately carved
table, the bookcase with its shelves and shelves of books, and the drinks
cabinet. It looked nice, in a masculine sort of way, but it lacked the
feminine touch.
"Would you like something to drink?" he asked.
"Clock's still runnin," she told him.
"I know," he said, moving towards the cabinet. "Drink?"