"Hunter, Jeffrey - A Secret Affair" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hunter Jeffrey)

Not this, not now, he thought. Crinkling his paper, and not looking her in the eye, he said, "Just this week." He continued to look at the paper. It was a subtle hint, not quite enough to be rude.

"Well good for you, John. So are you vice?"

Again. Maybe I just look like an idiot, John thought.

"No, Persons Crimes."

She continued to ramble, something about wanting to go back to school because she hates the Waffle House, and then she began talking about other people. Henry the transient, veteran of some foreign war or another, Ruby the lonely old rich woman who kept her sidekick, Buddy, well fed and housed since he had no job and wasn't even looking for one, though Ruby didn't know that, and blah blah blah. A hushed reference to that prick Stern was in there somewhere.

Having exhausted the people she knew, she started to speak about the people she didn't know. A lovely young couple, maybe students at the community college and oh how she wanted to get back to school. An older man with a military buzz-cut eating alone. Was he on his way somewhere or was he just a lonely old man with nowhere to go? Some college kids wearing fraternity shirts, one in particular was pretty cute if only she were younger, then the black woman with an impressive weave who didn't order anything and kept looking out into the parking lot, and blah blah blah.

For the second time, Charlie the Cook saved him: Order up!

John made a mental note to bring someone along next time, but then he laughed to himself. He didn't know a soul on day shift. Well, no one he could trust at least.

John always had a styrofoam cup full of hot coffee from the Coffee Cup drive through. It was a fixture in his patrol car. Several refills at the Circle K, but always the same cup to prevent some IA asshole from digging it out of the trash and having it tested for alcohol. And it never left his sight, not when there was booze in it.

John was in the middle of a hot, sweaty love affair with the booze, and he knew she could end his career, make him a worthless, skinny sack of bones leeching off of some old rich broad. He glanced over at Buddy. But that was it, wasn't it? Every day he survived with his job and reputation intact, he was victorious. The thrill of controlling the fiery bitch that held endless capacity for pleasure, wasn't that part of it? She was HIS slave, HIS whore, and HE had control. John glanced at Buddy on the way to the front door. No way, not me baby, he said to himself, and he went outside to touch his lover again.

The waitress was freshening his coffee when he got back.

"Say, can I get a cup to go?" he asked.

"Sure, Hun, right away."

That's good, he thought. He leaned back against the booth and stared out the window. Nothing but bright blue sky. It was a great day. He was in the mood to talk now, but the waitress was occupied somewhere else.

Order up! Charlie the Cook was keeping her busy.

Order up!

ORDER UP! Charlie the Cook sounded angry. John looked over at the griddle and saw Charlie the Cook standing stupefied with a dirty steel spatula in hand. What an odd look on his face, John thought. And then he realized: Charlie the Cook was staring at a menacingly huge black shotgun in the hands of a masked man.

HANDS UP!

Another black man, wearing a knit hat and blue bandana across his nose and mouth, charged over to John's side of the restaurant and began demanding wallets, jewelry and any other fucking thing you got that might save your sorry ass. Frantically, John searched the table top for a weapon. The plate. A heavy, ceramic plate half-full of eggs and grits. If there was shooting, he'd go to war with the plate, hurling it like a frisbee at the one closest to him. For a moment, he'd forgotten the Sig Sauer .45 secured to his left hip, concealed under his sportcoat. His hands and arms were rubbery. Fear, or the booze? He didn't know, but both together couldn't be good.

Oh, you bitch, give me courage, give me courage. He repeated it silently in his head like a mantra. She didn't. Instead, she sat back there, playing with his mind, with his emotions, toying with his muscles.

"Wallet, mother-fucker!"

John looked up stupidly. From the griddle the other man, taller and much skinnier yelled. "That look like a fuckin' cop. Make sure he ain't no cop!"

"Sheeeit, ain't no cop! He's a drunk mother-fuckin' salesman. Now gimme the fuckin wallet!"

John shot a look at Stern. It was a jewel for him, something he'd tuck away for a rainy day. But the lawyer's face was flushed, and his eyes were fixed on the table beneath him. Nothing registered in his mind, thankfully.

Stupid fucking nigger, John thought, fearful that he almost voiced the words in his drunken state. That silent thought of dissent was the only spark of courage his mistress allowed.