"Kyle, Duncan - Terror's Cradle" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kyle Duncan)

'Suppose so.' I'd mucked about the Solent and the Black-water occasionally with water-struck friends.

'Like driving a car.'

'In that case I can handle a boat. But why?'

He didn't answer, concentrating on swinging the car through the early traffic. The road we took had three numbers, so presumably others branched off it. A sign pointed to Henderson, Boulder City and Kingman.

'The boat,' I reminded him gently. 'Why the boat?'

'Susannah's on the water. Hiding out on a cruiser. You rendezvous for the interview.'

I nodded, sat back, lit a cigarette, and watched the desert roll by. It's not a sand desert, just greyish stone and shale and mountains in the distance; the oases have petrol pumps, not palm trees, M

After a while, I said, 'Some damn fool phoned me last night. Told me to get out of town pronto. It made me feel like John Wayne.'

I'd turned a little in my seat to watch his reaction and it wasn't quite what I'd expected. His jaw actually dropped, which meant he was either a very good actor or wasn't involved. He said, 'Who was it?"

'Didn't say. They just told me to get out of town.

After a moment he said rustily, 'Why didn't you?'

'Serious, is it?'

'Have you . . . crossed some guy?'

'Frequently. But not in this country. Certainly not in Las Vegas. I only got here last night.'

Spinetti's jaw was tight. He reached into the dash and produced a Coke can, flipped the top open and drank. 'You thought it was some newspaperman playing tricksy, right?'

'Right.'

'Well, maybe.' He sounded far from convinced and I watched his eyes nicker to the rearview mirror.

'But you think not? Who usually tells people to get out of town?'

'How do I know? Listen-' he interrupted himself to take another swig from the can. 'Who you think runs this town?'

'Tell me.'

'Sure I'll tell you.' Spinetti's eyes darted again to the rearview mirror. 'The Mob runs it. For the Mob's benefit. Understand?'

I said, 'I wouldn't know a mobster from a Joshua tree. And they wouldn't know me. Why should they?

He shrugged. 'Who knows?'

We drove on in silence, but his knuckles were whitish on the steering wheel and though it was morning cool, there was a shine of sweat on his tanned brow. After a while I began to feel it too, and turned to look back, but the road behind was empty.

We swung off to the left at a junction for Boulder City and the Oldsmobile slid along the wide highway at an easy seventy that would have been pleasantly relaxing if there hadn't been all that tension in the driving seat. Spinetti was brown and broody, but at last he broke the silence. 'In your shoes, Sellers,' he said, 'I'd do like the man said. Right after the interview, I'd go. Maybe I'd go before.'