"Tom Reamy - Waiting For Billy Star" - читать интересную книгу автора (Reamy Tom)

to the lady's room, he paid the check, got in his five-year-old Imperial, and left her.
 Everyone in the place just looked at each other in stunned silence. Then they watched the door of the lady's room un
she came out. She looked at the empty table, then went to the window and looked at the empty parking space. She did
cry or get hysterical or ask questions. She just stood there for a moment looking out the window. The people turned ba
their plates in embarrassment. Then she sorta squared her shoulders, came to the cash register, and asked me for a job.

I hadn't really needed another waitress, but I hired her anyway. I even let her have one of the rooms over the cafe. T
place had been a hotel back during the oil boom in the 1920s, but when I bought it I had closed it up as more trouble th
was worth.

Susanne probably had twenty propositions the first night she worked. She'd been living with a rodeo cowboy who h
ditched her, after all, so most of the young bucks and a few of the older ones didn't see any reason why they shouldn't t
his place. But she just smiled the way she does, not offended, and said she was waiting for Billy Star to return for her.

It took barely a week before everyone loved Susanne DelacourtтАФand hated Billy Star for what he had done. And
one could understand why she still loved him or expected him to come back. I even asked Maurine Eubanks, the other n
waitress, but she just gave me a pitying look and muttered something about "men."

Headlights flashed on the window and I looked out. It had grown completely dark and the sand was so thick I coul
barely see the neon lights of the Caprock Motel across the highway. The two state troopers got out of the patrol car,
shivered in the cold wind, and rushed to the door.

Just then the jukebox started playing "The Tennessee Waltz" and I looked over at Susanne. She was slicing fresh-b
pies with a wistful expression on her face.

The door rattled open letting in a blast of icy air. Pete Rankin's belly hung over the belt of his uniform making his gun
crooked. "Wade," he said and pulled off his black leather gloves. Davey Boyd grinned at me and looked at Susanne.

She held up the hot peach pie and grinned. Pete and Davey sat at the counter, their leather holsters creaking from th
cold. They came in every night at the same time; that's why Susanne had the peach pie ready.

Everyone thought something might happen between her and Davey Boyd. They hoped it would; he was the only ma
around everyone could agree was good enough for her. Davey was local. He was born in Caprock, graduated from the
school where he'd been a pretty fair football player, then got on with the state police. Everyone had always liked Davey
were a little bit surprised that they still liked him even after he became a cop.

"She likes my harmonica better than me," he said one morning sitting by the cash register over a cup of coffee lookin
and very young. Davey could play the harmonica better than anybody I ever heard. He could make it sing sweet and pu
he could make it cry like a broken-hearted woman and could bring a lump to any grizzled old throat.

One night when the jukebox finished a record and didn't start another one, he took the harmonica from his pocket w
sitting at the counter and fiddled around with it a while then very softly began playing "The Tennessee Waltz." Susanne
watched him with big sad eyes then, when he finished, put her hand on his in thanks. He looked around and saw everyo
quietly listening and blushed.

Davey Boyd loved Susanne all right, and she liked him probably more than anyone else, but she loved Billy Star.

It was later that night ten years ago, nearly at closing time, when the new International pickup stopped at the cafe. T
sandstorm was howling and the temperature had dropped nearly to twenty. The window was fogged and I had to wipe
to see who had pulled in. I didn't recognize the pickup and I couldn't see much of the man who ran in hunched against th