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

"She'd probably just get mad at us."
Hawaiian Shirt was nuzzling the woman again, and it was obvious she was trying to get away. Without another word, Fuego slid off his stool and made his way toward the man. Before he reached him, the black guy returned from the rest room and stepped in front of Fuego. Pierce thought trouble was about to erupt, but the man slapped Fuego on the back and they shook hands. No doubt another of Fuego's numerous street contacts, Pierce thought.
Hawaiian Shirt turned toward the pair, and the woman slipped out of his grasp. She slid off the stool, and Pierce expected to see her head for the door. Instead, she grabbed her drink, moved around the bar, and took a seat two stools away from him.
Pierce sipped his beer and glanced over at her. "Friend of yours?"
"Hardly."
"Let me guess. You're from New Jersey or New York -- one of those 'New' places -- and you're staying at the Carlyle."
"You're seven hundred miles off on one -- and across the street on the other! It's Chicago, and the Cardoza."
Pierce smiled, moved over to the adjoining stool. "Let me tell you a secret. Stick to Ocean Drive at night. You don't want to be over here, especially by yourself."
The woman smiled, ran a hand through her short-cropped hair. "What are you, a cop?"
"Just a neighborhood guy with some friendly advice for a tourist."
She smiled, held out her hand. "My name's Monica."
Her hand was cool and soft. "Nick Pierce." He saw her glance past him into the mirror. Hawaiian Shirt was lumbering toward them. "You want to leave?"
Before she answered, the man moved in beside her. "Come on, babe. Let's have another drink."
Monica slipped off her stool and hooked her arm around Pierce's elbow. "We were just on our way out the door."
"Why didn't you say you were with him?" Hawaiian Shirt called after her. "Waste my fucking money."
Pierce looked back once and caught Fuego's eye. He shrugged, smiled, then pushed the door open. When they were on the sidewalk, Monica dropped Pierce's arm and laughed. "Thanks. I didn't need any more of that guy."
"Can I walk you to your hotel?"
She looked away, gazed down the street as if she hadn't heard him. "I suppose."
She glanced back, blue eyes smiling, light from the street-lamp chiseling her features. Her skin seemed soft, tanned, touchable. There was also something else he saw in her eyes, something deeper than he expected. Intelligence, he thought, but something more, something he couldn't pinpoint.
"Would you mind joining me for dinner?" she asked.
Suddenly he remembered his camera. "Not at all. But hold on a minute." He reached for the door just as it swung open and Fuego held out his camera bag.
"Forget something, amigo?"
"Thanks, Fuego. This is Monica."
He nodded to her, then glanced at Pierce. "Talk to you later," he said, and ducked back into the bar.
Pierce self-consciously adjusted the strap of his camera bag and smiled sheepishly at Monica.
Monica looked puzzled. "I thought only tourists carried cameras into bars."
"I'm full of surprises."
She laughed, a light, carefree trill. "Where are we going to eat?"
"If you like Italian, there's a good place up Washington a couple of blocks. Make their own pasta."
"Let's go."
They crossed the street and walked in silence until Monica asked where he lived; he told her it was just a few blocks away.
"It must be interesting. I mean, living here."
Pierce glanced over at her. "That's one way of putting it. It's sort of a love-hate relationship."
They veered around a man who staggered along the sidewalk. He babbled something incoherent and lunged for Pierce's arm, but missed it.
"I can see what you mean. You've got this gutsy, urban scene. Danger, violence, drugs. All that stuff. Then there's that beautiful beach and all those lovely Art Deco hotels and the art galleries and nightclubs."
"Character and characters," Pierce summarized.
He explained that after he'd lived here a few months, he realized that it was mostly outsiders who were concerned about Art Deco and preservation. The problem with "hysterical" preservation, as one of his neighbors called it, was that it dealt only with the facade. When you lived here, you saw behind the pastel exteriors. You thought about finding a parking spot, about the leaky pipes in your building that the landlord hadn't fixed, about last month's break-in down the hall. And when you saw the crack dealers and the winos, the hookers and the homeless, you wondered how many more castoffs from the mainstream would float onto the beach before the place simply caved in under the weight of hopelessness.
"But you like it enough to live here."
He shrugged. "I'm just saying it'll take more than a few coats of paint and more trendy nightclubs to make this place really livable again."
"Guess I hadn't looked at it from that perspective," she said thoughtfully.
"So why did you decide to take a trip here in mid-May?"
"I wanted to come during Christmas break, but it didn't work out. So I promised myself I'd leave as soon as classes were finished."
"Classes?"
"I teach Spanish at a small college. That's why I chose Miami. It's sort of like a Latin American country."
He looked over at her. "This _is_ Latin America. It just happens to be part of the United States."
A couple of minutes later, they arrived at the restaurant and were led to a table. The floors were ceramic tile; the table was covered with shiny red-and-white-checked tablecloths. A few framed paintings of Venetian scenes with gondolas and gondoliers completed the typical decor.
"God, what happened to your head?" Monica asked after they were seated. "I didn't notice it before."
"Just bumped it. Wasn't looking where I was going. Looks worse than it is."
"You walk into walls very often?"
He laughed. "Not on a regular basis."