"George R. R. Martin - Portraits of His Children" - читать интересную книгу автора (Martin George R R)

The police, he thought. He'd lock the door and call the police. He moved back to the bedside, and
reached for the phone.

It rang.

Richard Cantling stared at the telephone. He had two lines; a business number hooked up to his
recording machine, and an unlisted personal number that he gave only to very close friends. Both lights
were lit. It was his private number ringing. He hesitated, then scooped up the receiver. "Hello."
"The man himself," the voice said. "Don't get weird on me, Dad. You were going to call the cops, right?
Stupid. It's only me. Come down and talk."

Cantling's throat felt raw and constricted. He had never heard that voice before, but he knew it, he knew
it. "Who is this?" he demanded.

"Silly question," the caller replied. "You know who it is."

He did. But he said, "Who?"

"Not who. Dunnahoo." Cantling had written that line.

"You're not real."

"There were a couple of reviewers who said that too. I seem to remember how it pissed you off, back
then."

"You're not real," Cantling insisted.

"I'm cut to the goddamned quick," Dunnahoo said. "If I'm not real, it's your fault. So quit getting on my
case about it, OK? Just get your ass in gear and hustle it downstairs so we can hang out together." He
hung up.

The lights went out on the telephone. Richard Cantling sat down on the edge of his bed, stunned. What
was he supposed to make of this? A dream? It was no dream. What could he do?

He went downstairs.

Dunnahoo had built a fire in the living room fireplace, and was settled into Cantling's big leather recliner,
drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon from a bottle. He smiled lazily when Cantling appeared under the entry arch.
"The man," he said. "Well, don't you look half-dead. Want a beer?"

"Who the hell are you?" Cantling demanded.

"Hey, we been round that block already. Don't bore me. Grab a beer and park your ass by the fire."

"An actor," Cantling said. "You're some kind of goddamned actor. Michelle put you up to this, right?"

Dunnahoo grinned. "An actor? Well, that's fuckin' unlikely, ain't it? Tell me, would you stick something
that weird in one of your novels? No way, Jose. You'd never do it yourself and if somebody else did it, in
one of them workshops or a book you were reviewing, you'd rip his fuckin' liver out."