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

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right. Maybe I'd like to be called that by someone. It could... remind me I have to be a grownup these days."

"None of my business, of course. But is something really wrong with him? Health? Business?"

"I don't know. He just... changed."

"Recently?"

"I couldn't say just when it started. A year ago anyway. Trav, I just can't stay here and... be calm and social and charming, damn it. Not knowing they're watching me and saying poor Viv. He promised it would be different this time. But if he refuses to come home... it could be worse."

"I could bring him along without a fuss."

She chewed her lip. "He might respond better to you. But I don't want to spoil your evening."

"I'm here only because I couldn't think of anything else to do."

"Well... if you wouldn't mind."

She showed me where I could bring him out the side door to the far end of the parking lot. The sun was gone, the steak grills cherry red, orange flames flickering atop the Polynesian pedestals in the cookout area, music resonant over the outdoor speakers. We brought both cars around and I parked behind hers, a small white Mercedes with dented fenders. I told her to wait and start up after I put him in my car, and I would follow her home.

I shook Crane Watts up out of the murks of sleep, and he came up thrashing and whining with irritation. "Lemme lone! Chrissake!" He focused on me, the uncertain peer of the still drunk. "You, partner. Cheap half a cent basser, and you were no damn help at all. I needed you like a head cold, partner what's-is-name. Gimme anything better than clowns and I can take that pair."

"You're going home, Crane."

"Hell you say! You being boy scout for that bitch? Screw you, Samaritan. I'm staying. I'm going to have a ball."

I plucked him up off the couch and caught the fist he threw at me, opened it quickly, regrasped it in an effective come-along, a hold which leaves the index and little finger free, and presses the middle two fingers against the palm of the captive

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hand. Crane Watts, face convulsed, drew his other fist back, and I gave him a good taste of a pain sufficiently exquisite to j bypass the alcohol. His face went blank and sweaty and the | blood drained out of it. He made a small squeak and lowered [ the poised fist.

"Is there some trouble here?" a nervous voice asked, and I turned and saw a club employee in the doorway.

"No trouble. I was just getting ready to take Mr. Watts I home."

I cued Watts with a little pressure."Just going home," he said ! in a gassy whisper, and with a strange imitation of a reassuring I smile. The employee hesitated, said goodnight and went away.

Crane Watts made a very cautious attempt to pull his hand free, and found that it added to the pain. He walked out very carefully beside me, quite erect, taking small dutiful steps, not wavering a bit. A Nassau police official had showed me that hold. Improperly applied, it snaps the bones or dislocates the knuckles. In correct adjustment, it pulls the nerves of the two t middle fingers against the knuckle bones in a way that you can

I hit ten on the dolorometer. Nine is the peak for childbirth and migraine, and all but the most stoic faint at some point between

nine and ten. You watch their color, their sweat and the focus of their eyes to keep it below the fainting point. And it is a quiet thing. Small pain makes people roar and bellow. The excruciating ones reduce them to an almost supersonic squeak. Also, intense pain is one way to induce a sudden sobriety. By the time

I opened the car door for him, I knew he would be no further |trouble. I pushed him in and went around and got behind the wheel, started up and followed the Mercedes.

"Jesus," he groaned, hugging his hand against his belly. "It'll throb for ten minutes or so, and then it will be all right."