"Nayler, Ray - An AIr-Conditioned Silence" - читать интересную книгу автора (Nayler Ray)

Tally did so. She stood, watching him. "What would you have done if the tellers at the bank hadn't given you the money?"

"I would have left." He pulled the pistol from his pocket and put it back in the suitcase. She watched him, her eyes focused on the small, deadly bit of metal in his hand, but unafraid. There was an extra set of clothes in the suitcase, and a large amount of money -- just under a hundred thousand dollars.

He and Jerome had picked the motel out beforehand for its location, far out in the middle of nowhere. If something went wrong with the robbery, they would meet there. The signal was Jerome's idea. He remembered Jerome's intent face in the car. "The one who arrives at the motel first holds a lighter in the window -- on the hour, every hour, after dark. The second man, hiding in the trees across the freeway, answers with three flashes from a flashlight. Then, the first man signals the all clear -- the lighter again. The second man comes over -- we split the money -- simple."

The entire system was complex. It had seemed unnecessary to Kenneth -- but Jerome was a paranoid man. Short, with slick black hair and a small, speeding voice, he cultivated his paranoia, stroked it like a Saint Christopher medallion.

Kenneth had nodded. "I got it. Every hour on the hour, after dark."

Kenneth was honest -- he thought of himself as honest. He could not just leave the motel without following the plan. And more than that, he had to know. He had to know whether Jerome had made it. Had to. He had to finish the job, and this -- this waiting, this signal, was a part of the job.

"Shouldn't you be getting back to work or something?"

The maid shrugged. She sat on the bed, a cigarette burning between her fingers. "I'm off already. I'm the day maid. I could stay with you all night, and they would never know."

But, he thought, she had kept the uniform on, as if he might not have recognized her without it. And maybe he would not have. Had he really noticed her, before? He could not be sure. In a way, it did not matter. He noticed her now -- could not stop noticing her. Her presence pushed on him, to enclosed him with warmth. He found himself imagining laying his head against her chest, listening to her heart beat against the softness of her breasts. The power of the image made him shudder.

"So Kenneth is really your name? Like it says on the registration?"

"I told you it was."

"And the last name?"

"Is not mine."

She put the cigarette between her lips and dragged on it. The ember brightened at its tip.

"How many banks have you robbed, Kenneth?"

"Five...Tally."

"And before?"

"Liquor stores. Gas stations. Houses -- families away on vacation. I picked pockets for a while."

She leaned forward, her eyes intent, listening eyes. But he had stopped. Her eyes slid away, politely. She took the cigarette out of her mouth and rolled it around between her index and second fingers, staring at it. "I was born ten miles from here. I stole a candy bar from the store by my house, and my father beat me for it. That was -- that was the only thing I ever took. Do you -- your parents...."

He shook his head. "They're dead." He remembered the night before, lying in bed, trying to imagine his foster mother's face. It would not come. He had wanted to get home, back to his pictures, so he could remember. Now, it did not seem to matter as much.

Their eyes locked for a second. Tally lifted her chin, and her lips parted slightly, expectantly.

The room had become too cold. He turned the roaring air-conditioner down to low, and glanced at his watch.

Five minutes to eleven.

She patted the bedspread beside her. "Would you like to sit beside me?"

"Later."