"Michael Marshall - The Straw Men" - читать интересную книгу автора (Marshall Michael)

nominate, just as soon as the process was complete.
'He wound up UnRealty?' I asked, lifting my head to look at the lawyer, 'When?'
'No.' Davids shook his head, wiping round his bowl with a piece of bread. 'He gave instructions that
this should take place upon his death.'
'Regardless of what I might have to say?'
He glanced out of the window, and rubbed his hands together in an economical little motion that
dislodged a few crumbs from his fingers. 'He was quite clear on the matter.'
My soup had suddenly gone cold, and tasted like liquidized pond weed. I pushed the bowl away. I
understood now why Davids had insisted that we go through the papers today, rather than in the period
before the funeral. I collected up my copies of the papers and shoved them into the envelope Davids had
provided.
'Is that it?' My voice was quiet and clipped.
'I think so. I'm sorry to have put you through this, Ward, but it's better to get it over with.'
He pulled a wallet from his jacket and glared at the check, as if not only distrusting the addition but
taking a dim view of the waitress's handwriting. His thumb hesitated over a charge card, pulled out some
cash instead. I logged this as him electing not to allot the cost of lunch as a business expense.
'You've been very kind,' I said. Davids dismissed this with a flip of his hand, and tipped exactly ten
percent.
We rose and left the restaurant, weaving between the tables of chatting tourists. I meant to look away
as we passed the table occupied by the nuclear army in blue fleece, but then suddenly they were in front
of me. Mother and father were bickering mildly about where to stay in Yellowstone; the little boy
meanwhile was using his spoon and soup to approximate the effect of an asteroid landing in the Pacific.
His sister was sitting with a plastic beaker clutched in both hands, contentedly staring at nothing in
particular. As I passed she looked up at me, and smiled as if seeing a large dog. It was probably a cute
smile, but for a moment I felt like removing it.
Outside we stood together for a moment, watching well-heeled women roving up and down College
Street in hungry packs, charge cards on stun.
Eventually Davids thrust his hands in the pockets of his coat. 'You'll be leaving soon, I imagine. If
there's anything I can do in the meantime, please be in touch. I can't raise the dead, of course, but on
other things I might be able to help.'
We shook hands, and he walked rather quickly away up the street, his face carefully blank. And only
then did I realize, unforgivably late, that Davids had not just been my father's attorney, but had also
become his friend, and that I might not have been the only person who'd found the morning difficult.


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I walked back to the hotel with my hands clenched, and by nine I was very drunk. I had the first
boilermaker in both hands before the hotel doors had shut behind me. I knew as I took the first swallow
that it was a mistake. I knew it all the way home, had known it in the cemetery and from the moment I'd
woken that morning. I wasn't falling off some painfully-scaled wagon, rejecting my higher power and
committing myself to waking up in Geneva with two wives and the word 'Spatula' tattooed on my
forehead. But getting drunk was like having a one-night stand because your partner had been unfaithful to
you: an act that could achieve nothing except pain, meanwhile diminishing a moral high ground which, for
once in your life, you were actually entitled to. The problem was, there didn't seem to be any other
intelligent response to the situation.
At first I perched at the bar, but after a while I moved to one of the booths by the long window. A
large pre-emptive tip had ensured that I didn't have to wait, or indeed move, in order to keep my glasses
full. A beer, then a Scotch. A beer, then a Scotch. A solid and efficient way of getting drunk, and the
smooth-faced barman kept them coming like I'd asked.