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

"Not if you can help it."

There was a long palm-over-the-mouthpiece silence, and men she said, "What kind of a place, Trav?"

"The Open Range?"

"Yum! I'll have to go back to my place and change. How about coining over for a drink? Forty minutes?"

I shaved and changed, and left a note for Arthur in case he woke up. Because of all the boat errands, I had Miss Agnes parked nearby, my electric blue Rolls pickup truck, an amateur conversion accomplished by some desperate idiot during her

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checkered past. She is not yet old enough to vote. But almost. She started with a touch, and I went along the beach to where : Miss McCall lives in the back end of a motel so elderly it has long since been converted from transient to permanent resi- dence. She's in what used to be two units. Wrapped in a robe, smelling of steam and soap, she gave me a sisterly kiss, told me to fix her a bourbon and water. I handed it in to her.

In a reasonably short time she came out in high heels and a pale green-gray dress. "McGee, I think I say yes because how many guys I go out with can I wear heels with?" She inspected : me. "You're too heavy."

"Thanks. I feel too heavy." "Are you going to do anything about it?" "I've started." "With booze in your hand?" "I'm starting a little slow, but I'm one of those who lose it with exercise. Not enough lately. But a lot more coming up. Chook, you are not too heavy." "Because I work at it all the time."

She was indeed something, All that woman, as Hal had said. Five ten, maybe 136 pounds, maybe 39-25-39, and every inch glossy, firm, pneumaticЧintensely alive, perfectly conditioned as are only the dedicated professional dancers, circus flyers, tumblers, and combat rangers. Close up you can hear their motors humming. Heart beat in repose is in the fifties. Lung capacity extraordinary. Whites of the eyes a blue-white.

Not a pretty woman. Features too vital and heavy. Brows heavy. Hair harsh and black and glossy, like a racing mare. Indian-black eyes, bold nose, big broad mouth. A handsome, striking human being. When she was five years old they had started her on ballet. When she was twelve she had grown too big to be accepted in any company. When she was fifteen, claiming nineteen, she was in the chorus of a Broadway musical.

While I freshened the drinks she told me what she was working out with Muriel, a New Nations theme, researching the music and rhythms. She said it would give them some exotic stuff and some darling costumes and some sexy choreography. We sat to finish the drink. She said Wassener, the new manager,

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was considering a no-bra policy for the little troupe next season, and was sounding out the authorities to see how bad a beef he might get. She said she hoped it wouldn't work out, as it would mean either canceling out two good girls she already had lined up, or talking them into wax jobs. "Posing and blackouts and that stuff," she said, "it's a different thing. You just keep your chin up and you arch your back a little and tighten your shoulders back, but I've been trying to tell Mr. Wassener dancing is something else. Mi God, a time step in fast tempo, and all of a sudden it could look like a comedy routine, you know what I mean. If he thinks it'll draw, what he should get is a couple of big dumb ponies and just let them stand upstage on pedestals maybe, in baby spots and turn slow."

After I agreed, there was a last inch of the drink silence, and I knew I had to say something about Frank Durkin. Like being forced to discuss ointment with somebody with an incurable skin rash.

"Sorry to hear Frank took such a long count."

She sprang to her feet and gave me a look Custer must have gotten very tired of before they chopped him up. "It wasn't fair, goddam it! The guy was being very smartass, and Frankie didn't owe him any fifty dollars. It was a mistake. When he followed him out into the parking lot, all Frankie was going to do was scare him. But he jumped the wrong way and Frankie ran over him. What they did, Travis, believe me, they judged him on the other times he's been in trouble. And that's unconstitutional, isn't it? Isn't it?"

"I don't know."

"He has that terrible temper. Right in court he tried to get his hands on the judge. Believe me, he's his own worst enemy. But this isn't fair at all."

What could anyone tell her? To forget him? She'd swing from the floor and loosen your teeth. The only times she ever tried to forget him was after their savage quarrels. She was a very fine woman, and Frankie Durkin was no damned good. Sponged off her. Kept her on the hook with promises of marriage. Fancied himself crafty and managed to outsmart himself in most deals. Then cursed his luck. I would have said his luck was excellentЧbecause he would have long since been caged

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or fried as a murderer if, in several known instances, he'd achieved his heart's desire. I saw him in his fury once. His pale blue eyes turned white as milk. His underprivileged face went slack as taffy. And, grunting with each breath, he began to try to kill a friend of mine. Could have made it if they'd been alone. As he wasn't worth breaking any hand bones on, I took the billy I kill toothy fish with and bounced it off his skull. After three lumps he was still trying to crawl toward Mack's throat, but the fourth one pacified him. When he woke up he seemed unfocused, like a man after a hard fever. And had no hard feelings at all.

"How is he taking it?"

"Real hard, Trav. He keeps telling me he can't stand it, he's got to do something." She sighed. "But there's nothing he can do. Maybe... when he gets out, he'll be ready to settle down. Let's get out of here."

Miss Agnes drifted us silently over to the mainland, to the Open Range, a place disfigured by mass production Texas folk art, steer horns, branding irons, saddle hardware, coiled lariats and bullwhips. But the booths are deep and padded, the lights low, the steaks prime and huge. Chook ordered hers so raw I was grateful for the low candlepower of the booth lamp. I invested some additional ditch-Arthur money in a bottle of burgundy. I have seen Chook under other circumstances do the social-eating routine. But with me she could follow her inclination and eat in the busy, dedicated, appreciative silence of a farmhand or roustabout, chugging her way deftly through tossed, baked and extra rare, and at last leaning back from the emptiness to give me an absent, dreamy smile, and stifle a generous belch.