"James Morrow - Towing Jehovah" - читать интересную книгу автора (Morrow James)

"You're talking to the wrong man, Mr. Azarias. You want a tugboat
skipper, not a tanker captain."
"We want a tanker captain. We want you." Raphael's feather continued
moving, spewing out characters so bright and fiery they made Anthony
squint. "Your new license is in the mail. It's from the Brazilian Coast
Guard." As if posting a letter, the angel slid the brochure under the
captain's left arm. "The minute the Valpara├нso's been fitted for a tow,
Carpco will send her on a shakedown cruise to New York."
"Carpco? Oh, no, not those bastards again, not them."
"Of course not them. Your ship's been chartered by an outside agent."
"Honest captains don't sail unregistered vessels."
"Oh, you'll get a flag all right: a Vatican banner, God's own colors." A
coughing fit possessed the angel, sending tears and feathers into the sultry
air. "He hit the Atlantic at zero by zero degrees, where the equator meets
the prime meridian. Begin your search there. Quite likely He's
driftedтАФeast, I'd guess, caught in the Guinea CurrentтАФso you might find
Him near the island of S ├гo Tom ├й, but then again, with God, who knows?"
Shedding feathers all the way, Raphael hobbled out of the foyer and
toward the Cuxa Cloister, Anthony right behind. "You'll receive a generous
salary. Father Ockham is well funded."
"Otto Merrick might be right for a job like this. I think he's still with
Atlantic-Richfield."
"You'll be getting your ship back," the angel snapped, steadying himself
on the fountain. He breathed raggedly, wheez-ingly, as if through
shredded lungs. "Your shipтАФand something more . . ."
Halo sputtering, tears flowing, the angel tossed his quill pen into the
pool. A tableau appeared, painted in saturated reds and muddy greens
reminiscent of early color television: six immobile figures seated around a
dining-room table.
"Recognize it?"
"Hmmm . . ."
Thanksgiving Day, 1990, four months after the spill. They'd all gathered
at his father's apartment in Paterson. Christopher Van Horne presided at
the far end of the table, overbearing and elegant, dressed in a white
woolen suit. To his left: wife number three, a loud, skinny, self-pitying
woman named Tiffany. To his right: the old man's best friend from the
Sea Scouts, Frank Kolby, an unimaginative and sycophantic Bostonian.
Anthony sat opposite his father, bracketed on one side by his hefty sister,
Susan, a New Orleans catfish farmer, and on the other by his then-current
girlfriend, Lucy McDade, a short, attractive steward from the Exxon
Bangor. Every detail was right: the cheroot in Dad's mouth, the Ronson
cigarette lighter in his hand, the blue ceramic gravy boat resting beside
his plate of mashed potatoes and dark meat.
The figures twitched, breathed, began to eat. Peering into the Cuxa
pool, Anthony realized, to his considerable horror, what was coming next.
"Hey, look," said the old man, dropping the Ronson lighter into the
gravy, "it's the Valpara├нso." The lighter oriented itself verticallyтАФstriker
wheel down, butane well upтАФbut stayed afloat.
"Froggy, take it easy," said Tiffany.
"Dad, don't do this," said Susan.