"Christopher Moore - The Lust Lizard of Melancholy Cove" - читать интересную книгу автора (Moore Christopher)

"How would I know how you're hung?"
"Well," Catfish said, pausing and grinning, "you could go to the beach
with me."
"You are a nasty and persistent old man, aren't you, Mr. Jefferson?"
Estelle asked.
Catfish bowed his shining head, "I truly am, miss. I truly am nasty and
persistent. And I am too old to be trouble. I admits it." He held out a long,
thin hand. "Let's have us a party on the beach."
Estelle felt like she'd just been bamboozled by the devil. Something
smooth and vibrant under that gritty old down-home shuck. Was this the dark
shadow her paintings kept finding in the surf?
She took his hand. "Let's go to the beach."
"Ha!" Catfish said.
Mavis pulled a Louisville Slugger from behind the bar and held it out to
Estelle. "Here, you wanna borrow this?"

They found a niche in the rocks that sheltered them from the wind.
Catfish dumped sand from his wing tips and shook his socks out before laying
them out to dry.
"That was a sneaky old wave."
"I told you to take off your shoes," Estelle said. She was more amused
than she felt she had a right to be. A few sips from Catfish's pint had kept
the cheap white wine from going sour in her stomach. She was warm, despite the
chill wind. Catfish, on the other hand, looked miserable.
"Never did like the ocean much," Catfish said. "Too many sneaky things
down there. Give a man the creeps, that's what it does."
"If you don't like the ocean, then why did you ask me to come to the
beach?"
"The tall man said you like to paint pictures of the beach."
"Lately, the ocean's been giving me a bit of the creeps too. My paintings
have gone dark."
Catfish wiped sand from between his toes with a long finger. "You think
you can paint the Blues?"
"You ever seen Van Gogh?"
Catfish looked out to sea. A three-quarter moon was pooling like mercury
out there. "Van Gogh... Van Gogh... fiddle player outta St. Louis?"
"That's him," Estelle said.
Catfish snatched the pint out of her hand and grinned. "Girl, you drink a
man's liquor and lie to him too. I know who Vincent Van Gogh is."
Estelle couldn't remember the last time she'd been called a girl, but she
was pretty sure she hadn't liked hearing it as much as she did now. She said,
"Who's lying now? Girl?"
"You know, under that big sweater and them overalls, they might be a
girl. Then again, I could be wrong."
"You'll never know."
"I won't? Now that is some sad stuff there." He picked up his guitar,
which had been leaning on a rock, and began playing softly, using the surf as
a backbeat: He sang about wet shoes, running low on liquor, and a wind that
chilled right to the bone. Estelle closed her eyes and swayed to the music.
She realized that this was the first time she'd felt good in weeks.