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

"How's the _cabeza_, amigo?"
"Better than yesterday."
Pierce looked up as the waitress arrived with coffee.
"Morning, Mr. Pierce. Let's see -- two poached, home fries, whole wheat."
"You got it, Dolly." He smiled at the middle-aged blonde whose swirling bouffant hairstyle was as reminiscent of the past as the Edison itself.
"Did I ever tell you guys how many eggs Jackie Gleason used to eat for breakfast when he stayed at the Fontainbleau?"
"I think you told me a couple of weeks ago," Pierce said softly but firmly. Dolly liked to recall her glory days as a waitress at the once famous Miami Beach hotel.
"I did? Guess my mind's going."
"If you can still remember how many eggs someone ate twenty-five years go, I think your mind's fine," Fuego said. "But don't tell me. I don't want to know."
Dolly was about to leave when she noticed the swelling on Pierce's head. "My God, Mr. Pierce, what happened to you?"
"Bumped into a wall."
She didn't look like she believed a word of it. "You had a safer job when you owned the travel agency," she remarked, and left.
Fuego's cheek twitched. He jerked his shoulders uneasily. "You should rest. Can I help you with anything?"
"I don't think so."
Fuego stirred his coffee. "Listen, Nick. I took a beating at jai alai last night. I really could use some -- "
He stopped as he saw Pierce pull a roll of cash from his pocket and peel off two hundred-dollar bills. He slid them across the table.
Fuego made no move to take the money. "Amigo. I don't want no welfare. Give me something to do."
Pierce considered the request a moment. "Okay. William Redington. The dead man mentioned his name. See what you can find on him. He lives in the Gables."
Fuego nodded, slipped the bills in his shirt pocket. "I'll get right on it." He leaned forward, cheek twitching. "Where'd you get the wad?"
"From the dead guy. He hired me just before he was killed."
"Keeping it?"
Pierce shook his head. "Returning it. Soon as I find the sponsor."
"You deserve at least a day's pay."
"Agreed. That's why I didn't turn it over to the cops."
Fuego smiled slyly. "Smart move. You don't want to give it to those guys."
Pierce laughed. "You don't trust them any more than I do, and you were one of them."
"All the more reason."
Fuego took a final swallow of his coffee, dropped some change on the table, and rose to his feet. "Why don't you meet me at the Jack of Clubs around seven? I'll tell you what I've got. By the way, you seen my cousin?"
"Talked to her last night."
"Good. She keeps asking me about you like I see you every day."
Pierce shrugged. "Sometimes I think she forgets we're divorced."
"I know. She's _un poco loco_."
Pierce watched his friend walk away. Of the half dozen or so investigators he worked with on a case-by-case basis, Fuego was the most reliable. A couple of months ago he'd hired him to follow a woman who was divorcing her wealthy husband. Fuego had found a live-in boyfriend, damaging evidence for her case. But the boyfriend, a charter member of the Colombian mafia, had also found Fuego. Instead of saying he was working for a P.I. -- and endangering Pierce's life as well as his own -- Fuego had confessed he was secretly in love with the woman, but had never approached her because he feared she'd reject him. The woman was a looker, and the Colombian bought it, but not until Fuego had been beaten by two of the man's buddies. The evidence Fuego had gathered had saved the ex-husband seventy-five thousand a year, and Pierce had received a healthy bonus from the man. He'd offered it to Fuego, but he'd refused to take more than half of it.
As soon as he finished breakfast, Pierce crossed the restaurant to the hotel lobby and climbed the steps to the mezzanine. Halfway down the walkway, he opened the door to the Gibson Travel Agency. He walked rapidly past walls of travel posters, a few desks, and down a hallway. He sensed eyes looking his way, but he kept his head down, not wanting to start any conversations that would lead to questions about his injury.
When he sold the agency to his former partner, Walter Gibson, he'd worked out a deal to keep his office. At first, his old employees had acted as if he were still their boss, asking him for advice and telling him the inside gossip. But gradually, as it became apparent that he was really a full-time private investigator, he heard less and less from them. As new travel agents joined the company and others left, he became a curiosity, a relic of the agency's past. Now, only his former partner ever talked at length to him about the travel business, and that was quite enough. Usually too much.
He reached a door labeled pierce agency -- investigations, but as his key met the lock he heard a rush of words like a verbal waterfall, the unmistakable signature of Walter Gibson. "Jesus, Nick, I read about it in the paper, it sounded horrible. Are you okay?"
Pierce turned to see his loquacious former partner looking up at him from his wheelchair. His eyes bulged slightly under his head of dark, almost electrically curly hair; he looked perpetually astonished.
"I'm fine, Gibby. It was in the paper?"
Gibby held up a folded newspaper. The headline read: mayan exhibit opening marred by murder. Pierce took the paper, scanned the article. "I can't believe they put my name in here."
"Things certainly haven't been going your way lately."
"You could say that." He handed back the newspaper.
"Here, I've got something else. I'm still getting your mail mixed in with mine. How long has it been, four years since you left the agency?"
Pierce saw that the envelope had already been opened. He stared a moment at the return address, then slipped out the enclosed letter. He scanned it, shaking his head. "These bastards."
"I know," Gibby said. "I couldn't help reading it. How many is that now?"
"Four. This is the last one."
"You've lost all your big clients." Gibby sounded disgusted. "Thanks to me."
"For Christ's sake, Gibby!" They'd discussed the matter too many times already, but Gibby kept bringing it up. "Stop blaming yourself. It was my decision to take your case. I should have known how they'd react."
"It's a damn shame. The faulty steering was a fact. You proved that. Besides, the car wasn't even made by any of your clients."
"Don't worry about it. Losing the business of a few carmakers is nothing compared to losing the use of your legs."
Gibby straightened in his wheelchair. "Well, I've made a decision. When the money comes through, I'm giving you a bonus -- ten percent of my share. After the lawyer takes his chunk that still should be over a hundred and fifty grand."