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

They should hark to the locust. When there is only a density of X per acre, he is a plain old grasshopper, munching circumspectly, content with his home ground. Raise it to 2X and an actual physical change begins to occur. His color changes, his jaw gets bigger, and the wing muscles begin to grow. At 3X they take off in great hungry clouds, each cloud a single herd instinct, chomping everything bare in its path. There is no decline in the moral fiber of the grasshopper. There is just a mass pressure canceling out all individual decisions.

"Am I not right, sir?" demanded the pundit, making a stately turn to include me. I had not heard the more recent statements. "Absolutely," I said. "Right on the button." I was roped into the group, met the mellowed and important gentlemen, heard fond words about good old Frank Hopson, and discovered, fortuitously, that Frank was a realtor. "But with his holdings, he doesn't have to work at it much. It's mostly management and rental stuff on what he owns. Poor bastard, he's a land merchant, and he can't take a capital gains on anything, so he just doesn't sell it off."

One of them said, not to me, "I heard that for a while there, young Crane Watts was trying to work something out for Frank, some deal whereby he could put everything in one package, real estate business and all, give up his license and retire and sell all his holdings to an outside corporation and take his capital gains."

A man beside me lowered his voice and said, "He'd be a fool to let Watts work on anything."

"It was some time ago," another said in the same low tone, and they stared toward the card room. I spotted the one who most clearly matched Arthur's description. He was playing bridge at the furthest table, slumped, peering slack-jawed at his holding. He selected a card slowly, raised it high, whacked it

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down with a wolf yelp of laughter, then hunched forward, glowering, as the opposition gathered the trick in.

"I don't know how he can afford that game."

"He seems to get it somewhere when he needs it."

"She's such a damned fine girl."

"Sure is."

I detached myself and went wandering to the courts, looking for that damned fine girl, Vivian Watts. A kid resting between sets pointed her out to me. She was in a singles match against an agile blonde boy of about nineteen, almost ten years her junior I would guess. It was the only court with an interested gallery. She was of the same physical type as Chook, not as tall. She was dark and tanned, sturdily built but lithe. And, like Chook, she had that hawk-look of strong features, prominent nose, heavy brows. As with all natural athletes, she had an economy of motion which created its own grace. She wore a little pleated white tennis skirt, white sleeveless blouse, white band on her dark hair. Her brown and solid legs had a good spring, bringing her back into a balanced readiness after each stroke, the way a good boxer moves.

It was easy to see the shape of the match. The boy was a scrambler, going after everything, returning shots it didn't seem plausible he could reach, lobbing them high enough to give him time to get back for the smash, and preventing her from coming up to the net to pull them away. She tried a cross-court volley and put it just outside.

"Broke her service again," a bald little man beside me said. He was as brown and knotty as walnuts.

"How does it stand?"

"Six-three to Viv, then seven-five to Dave. Now he's got her nine-eight."

He had a big serve and she waited well back, handled it firmly, moved to center court and drove his ground stroke right back at his ankles. He aced her, on his next serve. Then on the next serve he tried to come to the net and she made a beautiful passing shot. Her return of his next serve floated and he let it go out by six inches. He took the advantage on another service ace. At match point, she again tried the passing shot as he moved up quickly, but the ball slapped the tape and, to the accompaniment

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of a concerted partisan groan, fell into her court.

She went to the net and, smiling, tucked her racket under her left arm and held out her right hand to the boy in a quick, firm congratulatory handshake. The smile was the first change of expression I had seen. Her tennis was pokerface, with no girlish grimaces of despair when things went wrong.

They moved off the court as other players moved on, and I drifted along with them, over toward tables in the shade. The boy went off, apparently to get her something to drink. When I moved near enough, she looked up at me with an expression of inquiry, and I saw that her eyes were a very deep blue instead of the brown I had expected.

"Just wanted to say that was very good tennis to watch, Mrs. Watts."

"Thank you. Last year I could take Dave. Next year I won't take a set. Do I know you?"

"Frank and Mandy Hopson fixed up a guest card for me. I'm just in town for a short time. Travis McGee, Mrs. Watts. East coast."

The boy brought drinks, a Coke for himself and iced tea for Viv Watts. She introduced him. Dave Sablett. He seemed a little stiff-necked about her asking me to join them. He had a proprietary air toward her, to which she seemed quite oblivious. She was still breathing deeply, her hair damp with sweat. We chatted for a little while. They were signed up for mixed doubles beginning in a few moments. They were the club's mixed doubles champions.