"MacDonald, John - Travis McGee 06 - Bright Orange for the Shroud" - читать интересную книгу автора (MacDonald John D)

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came and stared from the dock, snickering. See the funny drunk, like on television.

I opened the aft door to the lounge, gathered Arthur up and toted him in. It was like picking up a sack of featherdry two-by-fours. He smelled stale. I took him all the way through and put him down on the bed in the guest stateroom. The air-conditioning was chill against my bare sweat. I felt Arthur's head. He didn't seem to have a fever. I had never seen a man so changed by one year of life.

His mouth worked, and he opened his eyes and tried to sit up. I pushed him back. "You sick, Arthur?"

"Just weak, I guess. I guess I just fainted. I'm sorry. I don't want to be..."

"A burden? A nuisance? Skip the social graces, Arthur."

I guess you always look for a little spirit, a little glint of the fang on even the most humble dog in town.

"I'm very polite," he said listlessly. "You know that, Trav. A very polite man." He looked away. "Even... even when he was killing me, I think I was probably very, very polite."

He faded away then, like a puff of steam, quickly gone, his eyes not quite closed. I put my fingertips against the side of his throatЧthe pulse was still there.

As I was wondering just what the hell to do next, he came floating back up, frowned at me. "I can't cope with people like that. She must have known that. Right from the start she must have known about me."

"Who tried to kill your

"I guess it really doesn't matter very much. If it hadn't been him, it would have been the next one, or the one after that. Let me rest a little while and then I'll go. There wasn't any point in coming to you. I should have known that too."

Suddenly I recognized a part of that stale smell about him. It was a little bit like freshly baked bread, but not as pleasant. It's the distinctive smell of starvation, the effluvium of the sweat ducts when the body has begun to feed on itself.

"Shut up, Arthur. When did you eat last?"

"I'm not real sure. I think... I don't know."

"Stay where you are," I told him. I went to my stainless steel galley, looked in a locker, picked out a tin of clear, rich British

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broth, poured it into a pan and turned the burner on high. As it heated I looked in on him again. He gave me that reappearing nervous smile. He had a facial tic. His eyes filled with tears, and I went back to the broth. I poured it into a mug, hesitated, then tapped the liquor locker and added a fair jolt of Irish whiskey.

After I helped him get propped up, I saw he could hold it all right in both hands and sip it.

"Good."

"Take it slow, Arthur. I'll be right back."

I sluiced the sawdust and sweat off in a fast shower in the huge stall the original owner had built aboard The Busted Flush, put on denims and a T-shirt and checked him again. The mug was empty. He was slightly flushed. I opened the promised bottle of dark beer and went back in and sat on the foot of the bed.

"What the hell have you done to yourself, Arthur?"

His voice blurred. 'Too much, maybe."

"Maybe I asked it the wrong way. What has Wilma done to you?"