"Resnick, Mike - Lucifer Jones 01 - Adventurers" - читать интересную книгу автора (Resnick Mike)

"Indeed I am, Brother Rourke," I said with some modesty. "I
don't know how a respectable man like me got involved with all
them sinful characters in the first place. I suppose I was just
following the good Lord's mandate to consider every man my
brother. 'Course, I never have gotten around to viewing all the
women exactly as sisters."
"And what religion do you preach?" asked Rourke.
"One me and the Lord worked out betwixt ourselves one
afternoon," I said.
Actually, the way I see it, my calling was determined the day
I was born. We had a little farm outside Moline, Illinois, and
once I was alive and secure, my mother sent my father to the
county courthouse to register my name, which was to be Lucas Jones
or Lucius Jones, I'm still not sure which. But my father was a man
who loved his liquor, and by the time he got there he came up with
as close an approximation as he was capable at the time.
Which is how I got to be Lucifer Jones.
Anyway, they say that every action has an equal and opposite
reaction, and I guess toting the name Lucifer around made me
painfully aware of who I was named after. I just naturally kind of
gravitated toward the church, especially after I saw the size of
our poorbox, and pretty soon me and God formed sort of a two-man
company, and I went out and did His business. And a pretty good
business it was, until the day a couple of Federal men came
around. Up until then I had always thought that paying income
taxes was voluntary, like going into the army and such. Well, I'd
have stayed and fought them, but the Lord says that vengeance is
His, so I took off down the Mississippi one night and hopped the
first ship out of New Orleans.
"Well, now," said Rourke when I'd told him the story, adding
only a minimum number of poetic flourishes, "I do believe we're
going to be friends, Saint Luke. You don't mind if I call you
that, do you?"
"It's got a nice, down-to-earth sound to it, Brother Rourke,"
I allowed. "In fact, now that I roll it around on my tongue, I
like it more and more. I think, with your kind permission, that
I'll be having these godless black heathen build me the Tabernacle
of Saint Luke. Once I leave my present vile surroundings, that
is."
"Oh," said Rourke, furrowing up his forehead and tugging at
his mustache. "That's too bad. But, of course, if a man's got the
call..."
"It's a kind of weak call at this moment," I said quickly,
wondering what he had in mind. "Nothing that couldn't be fought
off for a couple of months if I was to dig in tooth and nail." I
gritted my teeth, prepared to make the effort, and he must of
mistook it for a grin, because he grinned right back at me.
He unbuttoned his shirt pocket and unfolded a huge sheet of
paper. Then he dusted it off a bit and passed it through the bars
to me.