"Robert McCammon - The Collected Stories" - читать интересную книгу автора (McCammon Robert R)

III

The door opened, and in a stinging gust of wind and rain a man who looked like walking death stepped into my
diner.
He was so wet he might well have been driving with his windows down. He was a skinny guy, maybe weighed
all of a hundred and twenty pounds, even soaking wet. His unruly dark hair was plastered to his head, and he had
gone a week or more without a shave. In his gaunt, pallid face his eyes were startlingly blue; his gaze flicked around
the diner, lingered for a few seconds on Dennis. Then he limped on down to the far end of the counter and took a
seat. He wiped the rain out of his eyes as Cheryl took a menu to him.
Dennis stared at the man. When he spoke, his voice bristled with authority. "Hey, fella." The man didn't look up
from the menu. "Hey, I'm talkin' to you."
 The man pushed the menu away and pulled a damp packet of Kools out of the breast pocket of his patched Army
fatigue jacket. "I can hear you," he said; his voice was deep and husky, and didn't go with his less-than-robust
physical appearance.
"Drivin' kinda fast in this weather, don't you think?"
The man flicked a cigarette lighter a few times before he got a flame, then he lit one of his smokes and inhaled
deeply. "Yeah," he replied. "I was. Sorry. I saw the sign, and I was in a hurry to get here. Miss? I'd just like a cup of
coffee, please. Hot and real strong, okay?"
Cheryl nodded and turned away from him, almost bumping into me as I strolled down behind the counter to
check him out.
"That kind of hurry'll get you killed," Dennis cautioned.
"Right. Sorry." He shivered and pushed the tangled hair back from his forehead with one hand. Up close, I could
see deep cracks around his mouth and the corners of his eyes and I figured him to be in his late thirties or early
forties. His wrists were as thin as a woman's; he looked like he hadn't eaten a good meal for more than a month. He
stared at his hands through bloodshot eyes. Probably on drugs, I thought. The fella gave me the creeps. Then he
looked at me with those eyesтАФso pale blue they were almost whiteтАФand I felt like I'd been nailed to the floor.
"Something wrong?" he askedтАФnot rudely, just curiously.
"Nope." I shook my head. Cheryl gave him his coffee and then went over to give Ray and Lindy their check. The
man didn't use either cream or sugar. The coffee was steaming, but he drank half of it down like mother's milk.
"That's good," he said. "Keep me awake, won't it?"
"More than likely." Over the breast pocket of his jacket was the faint outline of the name that had been sewn
there once. I think it was Price, but I could've been wrong.
"That's what I want. To stay awake, as long as I can." He finished the coffee. "Can I have another cup, please?"
I poured it for him. He drank that one down just as fast, then he rubbed his eyes wearily.
"Been on the road a long time, huh?"
Price nodded. "Day and night. I don't know which is more tired, my mind or my butt." He lifted his gaze to me
again. "Have you got anything else to drink? How about beer?"
"No, sorry. Couldn't get a liquor license."
He sighed. "Just as well. It might make me sleepy. But I sure could go for a beer right now. One sip, to clean my
mouth out."
He picked up his coffee cup, and I smiled and started to turn away.
But then he wasn't holding a cup. He was holding a Budweiser can, and for an instant I could smell the tang of a
newly-popped beer.
The mirage was only there for maybe two seconds. I blinked, and Price was holding a cup again. "Just as well," he
said, and put it down.
I glanced over at Cheryl, then at Dennis. Neither one was paying attention. Damn! I thought. I'm too young to be
either losin' my eyesight or my senses! "Uh...тАЭ I said, or some other stupid noise.