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

"It goes all the way up into the back of my neck, fella. Is it some kind of judo?" "Something like that."

After a few minutes he slowly straightened up. "Beginning to go away, like you said."

"Sorry I had to do it, Crane. I promised your wife I'd get you home."

77

"Maybe I didn't give you a hell of a lot of choice. Or her." I felt him staring at me as we passed street lights. "What's your name again?"

"Travis McGee. Friend of Frank Hopson. Over here from the east coast on business."

"Look at that! She turns without any kind of signal at all."

"Maybe she's got a lot on her mind."

"Sure. Like how to get more overspin on her backhand. Don't let her sucker you, McGee. That's an ice cold bitch. She's slowing for the driveway. It's on the left there."

It was a broad driveway and one of those long low Florida block houses with a tile roof, a double carport and, beyond any doubt, a big screened cage off the rear, with or without a pool. Awning windows, glass doors on aluminum tracks, a heat pump systemЧyou could guess it all before you saw it, even to a couple of citrus trees and cocoanut palms out back. Terrazzo floors, planting areas in the screened cage and a computerized kitchen. But even at night I saw other clues, a front lawn scruffy and sunbrowned, a dead tree at the corner of the house, a driveway sign saying The Watts which was turned, bent and leaning from someone clipping it on the way in.

I parked in the drive, behind her car. He got out at once, advancing to meet her as she walked back toward my car.

"Congratulations, sweetie baby," he said. "Now you got proof I spoiled your evening. See how early it is? Now you can suffer."

She planted her feet, squared her shoulders. "There might be one member left who would trust you to write up a simple will or even search a title, dearest. So let's protect all that charming innocent faith as long as we can, shall we? Come on in the house before you fall down." She turned toward me. "I'd offer you a drink, but I guess you've had about all anyone would want of this, Trav."

"I might come in for a few minutes, if it's all right. I would like to ask Crane about something. Something maybe he could help me with."

"Him?" she said, loading the word with enough contempt for

a month.

"Loyalty, loyalty," Crane mumbled.



We went into the house. She turned lights on. She kept turning lights on, even to the outside floods in and beyond the screened cage, rolling the glass doors open, and, with a gaiety very close to hysteria, she said, "And this is our happy mortgaged nest, Mr. McGee. You may note a few scars and stains. Little domestic spats, Mr. McGee. And did you see that the pool is empty? Poor little pool. It's a heavy upkeep item to operate a pool, more than you'd think. And we don't care to run the air-conditioning this summer. You wouldn't believe the bills. But you know, I do have my little indulgences. My tennis, and my once a week cleaning woman for some Saturday scrubbing, in case we entertain on a Saturday night, but there aren't many people left we could invite, really. But, you see, I pay for the tennis and the cleaning woman. I have this lovely little trust fund, a whole hundred and twenty-one dollars a month. Don't you think wives should have an income of their own, Mr. McGee?"

She gave me a brilliant smile, sobbed suddenly, whirled and ran, her hands over her face. She went out of sight down a corridor and a door closed behind her.

Mumbling almost inaudibly, Crane Watts took a bottle from

a bar corner and headed for the kitchen. As he passed me, I

lifted it out of his hand.

"I need that!"

"Not if we're going to talk. If we're going to talk, you need