"Crystal Skull" - читать интересную книгу автора (MacGregor Rob)

He immediately stripped to his boxer shorts and turned on the water in his black-enameled bathtub. The sink and toilet were also glossy black enamel, and the ceramic tile formed a black-and-white checkerboard that matched the front of the building.
He walked out to the kitchen and quickly prepared a fresh compress. He held it to his head a moment and noticed that the newspaper on the counter was open to the page with the astrology column. He traced his finger down to Aquarius. "A fine day for making new friends or getting reacquainted with old ones. Enjoy the cultural arts."
Sure. You bet.
He did, however, need to reacquaint himself with an old friend. He picked up the phone and punched a number that was embedded in his memory, like a nail in a coffin.
"Reference desk." The voice had a slight Cuban accent.
"Hi, Tina. How're things?"
"Nicky. I just knew you would call today. Tia Juana read the _Brisca_ cards for me last night. She said I would hear from you soon."
In spite of his day, Pierce couldn't help smiling at Tina's mention of her aunt Joan. Just hearing her say the old woman's name again made him remember better days.
"Yeah. It was in the paper, too."
"What?"
"Never mind."
"Why have you been ignoring me?"
"It's been hectic."
"You know that is no excuse. Are you taking me to dinner? You promised."
"I know. Not tonight."
Her voice turned cooler, suspicious. "So why did you call?"
He imagined her seated in her office, probably tapping her long crimson nails against her desktop. She'd be dressed in a tight skirt, silk blouse, high heels, and lots of gold jewelry. Her mane of shiny dark hair would cascade over her shoulders, framing her round face with its unblemished ivory skin and carmine lips.
"I need a list of contributors to the Beach Museum."
"So go to the museum!" she snapped, obviously annoyed with him. "You are only a few blocks away."
Pierce adjusted the ice pack. "I can't do it that way, Tina. Can you help me or not?"
A pause. "Okay. I will bring it by this evening."
"No. I'll pick it up in the morning. I'm not feeling well."
"Are you sick?"
Pierce suddenly remembered the water running in the tub. He stood up and winced. "Listen, I gotta go. My bath is running over. Talk to you tomorrow."
He hung up, then charged across the kitchen and into the steamy bathroom. He shut off the water, which was lapping within an inch of the rim, and eased down onto the edge of the tub and pulled the plug. As he watched the water swirl down the drain, he thought about Tina -- him and Tina.
They still played their silly dating game as if they'd just met, as if they hadn't spent ten years of their lives together, as if they hadn't divorced three years ago. But they'd stayed in touch, and oddly, the library was their meeting ground. Her offers to help him with research and his willingness to accept her assistance were the thread that kept them together. The irony was that when they were married she'd never had the time to help him; she'd belittled his moonlighting detective work, which was all it had been at the time. But he'd stubbornly pursued it, and their marriage had split wide open.
He stuck the plug back into place, slipped off his shorts and, still holding the compress in place, settled into the water. He relaxed and tried to forget about his day. It was over. Loften's death was a police matter. Then he remembered the envelope stuffed with cash that was still in his jacket pocket.
_It's not over, Nick. It's just beginning.


3
Pierce leaned close to the mirror the next morning and examined the lump on the side of his forehead. He gently touched the bulging bruise and pressed around the edges searching for the boundaries of the wound. The swelling made him look a bit off balance. He ran a comb through his hair, but it was useless. The lump still stood out.
He squeezed a couple of eye drops under each eyelid. He hadn't slept well. It seemed every time he'd rolled over, his head had throbbed and he'd woken up. He stared at the fine red lines around his hazel eyes. The pupils looked too light, he thought, as though yesterday's heat had bleached the color from them.
He propped open his droopy lids. He let go and they fell. When he was in his twenties, women used to tell him he had bedroom eyes. Now as he approached forty, he worried that he looked as if he had a perpetual hangover, or allergies, or insomnia, or a lack of iron in his diet. Eyelids like his, someone had once told him, were an advantage; they protected his eyes from pollution. Except there wasn't much air pollution in South Florida, not with the sea winds sweeping across the peninsula the way they did.
He walked out of the bathroom and into the bedroom, where he picked up the envelope Loften had given him and took out the cash. He folded the stack of bills in half and stuffed it into his pocket. Then, picking up his sunglasses from the dresser, he headed out of the apartment.
Outside, the air was warm, humid, clean. The sun glinted off a window in the apartment building across the street. The front of the four-story building was a mirror image of his own, its Art Deco facade displaying the same checkerboard pattern of glossy tiles surrounding a porthole window in the center.
He had to think a moment before he remembered where he'd parked, and wondered if Carver had someone watching him. He wouldn't put it past the cop. He'd no sooner contemplated the idea when a figure careened between two cars. Pierce jerked his head and saw a wino staggering into the sun. He watched him a moment, then moved on.
When he reached the Saab and slid onto the soft leather seat, he noticed two elderly men on the curb. They were Hassids dressed in black and white; cotton-candy beards fell over their chests. They hobbled across the street, one leaning on a cane, the other clinging to the arm of his companion. He eyed the pair closely, imagining that their outfits were only disguises.
Nothing like a little paranoia to keep a man on his toes. Jesus, if he was going to worry about Miami Beach retirees and winos spying on him, he should've stayed in bed. Driving away, he nevertheless gazed through the rearview mirror, watching for one of the old men to turn around. Neither of them did.
It seemed there were fewer and fewer old folks wandering the streets, even in the early hours. South Beach, the heart and guts of Miami Beach, was no longer the secure bastion for retirees that it had been in years gone by. There were plenty of them still living here, but their numbers diminished each year. Muggers on the streets kept them at home; rising rents and "yuppification" drove them out of their homes.
Buildings once housing the elderly were renovated, and their tenants were given walking papers as they were displaced by yuppies and yuccas -- Young Upward Climbing Cuban-Americans. Nightclubs and art galleries sprung up overnight with the exuberance of mushrooms, and hotels were refurbished. Meanwhile, the international tourist trade was growing as South Beach became Florida's SoHo, returning to its polychromatic, Art Deco roots.
Pierce had moved to South Beach primarily for convenience, when he and Tina had called it quits. She'd kept their house in Kendall and he'd moved to the apartment just four blocks from his office.
He crossed Collins Avenue and turned into the alley behind the Edison Hotel. "Aw, shit," he grumbled as he saw a rental car parked in his reserved space. Tourists were once his livelihood. Now they simply were in his way. He backed out of the drive and pointed Swedie toward the beach.
He waited at the corner for a break in traffic. Across the street, the wide, pale strip of sand stretched toward the shimmering ocean. Palm trees rose straight from the sand along the border of the beach. The best damn beach in Florida, a hundred feet from the door of his office. He turned onto Ocean Drive and tried to remember how long it had been since he'd taken one of his early morning walks as the sun lifted from the sea, or even gone for a swim. Months, he thought.
He drove slowly along an unbroken line of parked cars. He hated parking at a meter all day, but there wasn't much choice. Finally, on his second swing by the Edison, he saw a woman opening her car door and claimed her space. He fed the meter and glanced at his watch. Walking would have been faster, but he needed to keep his car handy. He rarely spent more than a half-day in his office; sometimes he spent only a few hours there over the span of a week.
He stepped into the Edison's restaurant, where he ate breakfast on most mornings. He was about to sit down at his usual table by the window when he heard someone call his name. He looked around and spotted Fuego Ferraro seated in a booth, signaling to him.
"Morning, Nick. I thought I'd find you here," he said as Pierce slid in across from him. "Heard you took in some culture yesterday."
He nodded to the sinewy, pocked-faced Cuban. "How fast word travels. What do you know about it?"
"Just that you were the lucky guy, and a crystal skull got ripped off."
Fuego's downy mustache twitched. He had a tic in his left cheek, a facial stutter -- the work of a bullet he'd taken in the back of his neck during a shoot-out. Six years on the front lines for the Miami P.D. had turned Fuego into a police burnout at age twenty-nine. Now, several years later, he lived on the pension he received for wounded officers, and on the work-for-cash jobs he picked up from Pierce and others who needed information. Lately, though, Pierce hadn't offered him any work. He'd barely had enough to keep himself occupied.