"George R. R. Martin - WC 8 - One Eyed Jacks" - читать интересную книгу автора (Martin George R R)

know he didn't mean to, or at least I hope that, but at the time it was hard to
tell. You can't ever be another person and know how they really feel. That's
kind of scary. But eventually you just decide to believe in them or not. I
decided to believe in Kenneth and I'm not sorry"
"I'm glad." The words sounded flatter than he'd intended. "Really. You've been a
big help to me. I know I'm not adjusting very well, but I will."
Beth kissed him on the cheek. "You can talk to me any time you feel like it."
She pointed to the TV screen. "Want to know who the killer is?"
"No, thanks. I don't want to cheat myself out of guessing wrong and then feeling
stupid."
"Good night." She closed the door.
Jerry shut off the TV and VCR. He didn't much like the way this one was headed,
anyway. He crossed the floor to his dressing room. It hadn't changed much in
thirty years. Back when he was the Projectionist, he'd practiced his Humphrey
Bogart and Marlon Brando in front of the same mirror. Bogart died even before
Jerry had drawn the wild card, and Brando was old and fat. He sat down, opened a
drawer, and pulled out a picture of Veronica and a wig. The hair was as close a
match as he could find for hers.
He stuck the picture in the corner of the mirror and looked at it for a second
or two, then at his own reflection. His features began to change; his skin
darkened. Hair was still a problem. He couldn't quite get it to do what he
wanted yet. In the old days he could actually have turned into a woman, but that
had always made him feel weird. He pulled on the wig and closed his eyes, waited
a moment, then reopened them.
"I love you."
It was even less convincing than the few times Veronica had said it herself. He
pulled off the wig and changed back. Beth was right, you couldn't know what
another person was thinking or feeling. Couldn't ever actually be them. He
tossed the wig and picture into the drawer and slammed it shut.
Who the hell would want to, anyway?


Luck Be a Lady
by Chris Claremont
Once they heard where she was going, nobody would take her. Some cabbies were
apologetic, others curtly dismissive, a couple offered rude gestures and ruder
words.
If the plane had arrived on time, when the dispatchers were on duty, she might
have fared better-but mechanical delays and rotten weather en route had delayed
the flight so long it was well past midnight before she finally landed, and
there was nobody official to turn to.
One asked point-blank why Cody was going there and, hoping it might persuade him
to change his mind, she told him: "A job interview"
"Where fo'?" he asked, "ain't nobody hirin' down there."
"The clinic," she said.
"Shit, missy, you got better places to go an' better things to do wit'chu life
than waste it down 'at shithole, trust me."
"Absolutely," a friend chimed in, his accent so thick Cody barely understood the
word.
"Decent lady got no bizness goin' there," the driver continued, hands weaving a