"Spider Robinson - The End of the Painbow" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robinson Spider)

perhaps. Maybe there's some uncertainty in the probabilities of how fast alcohol evaporates ... no, it
would have happened before now. I think. You'd better hope it is me: if it is, your hooch will probably be
back shortly. But somehow I don't think so. This doesn't feel like me."
"What then?" Long-Drink said. "A plague of wino flies?"
 "Whoever the son of a mother is," Doc Webster growled, "he's certainly struck right at the heart of
this place. Or the liver, anyway."
"I was just about to quench my toist," Eddie said darkly. "I been blowin' my ass off tanight."
"No booze, and all of a sudden I don't feel very goddamn merry," Tommy Janssen snarled. "All that
leaves is sharing and trying to read the mind of the bastard that thought this up."
Trying to defuse the tension a little, Long-Drink McGonnigle put on his heavy Irish brogue. "If I get
my hands on the spalpeen, the Dullahan will call at his door this night," he said.
"Mike's gone," Fast Eddie said.
"Not Callahan, Eddie: the Dullahan," the Drink said patiently. "Spelled
D-u-b-h-l-a-c-h-a-nтАФтАШDullaham' Gaelic for 'dark sullen person'тАФbut it doesn't mean you, it refers to
the grim, headless lad who drives the Costa Bower, the Death Coach. It arrives at midnight as an omen
that someone in the house will die shortly. I'm surprised at you, you've been hanging out in an Irish bar for
years; you'd think by now you'd have learned a little something about Jesus Christ!"
Long-Drink and I stared at each other, thunderstruck. We had figured it out at the same instant.
"Well," Eddie said diffidently, "I do know a little somet'in' about Him. . . ."
I waved at him absently, too busy to explain. My nostrils flared, and I saw Drink's do likewise. The
solution to the mystery of the disappearing booze was right over our noses. And it was bad news.
Long-Drink and I exchanged a meaningful glance. The very survival of Mary's Place was at stake.
The Drink looked as worried as I felt. And at any moment someone else might twig, and blurt it out. If
that happened, just about all the hopes I had left in my life were lost, maybe for good. I thought so hard I
felt my scalp get warm.
Bingo! I had one effective on my tag roster who might just have the right combination of special
talents. It was ironic that just about all those special talents would probably have struck most people as
liabilities тАФright now, they were worth gold. Maybe literally. .. .
Tanya Latimer is visually challengedтАФor as she puts it, blind. (She says euphemisms are for the
differently brained.) So I could safely assume both a better-than-average sense of smell, and experience
in working without visual cues. Furthermore, she is an ex-cop, which is how she got blinded, which is
another story, except that it wasn't her fault. So I could be reasonably sure that she would be both fairly
handy in a crunchтАФat least a close-in kind of crunchтАФand fairly quick on the uptake. Also, she is black.
That might prove to be of some help here, too.
The trick was to find a way to cue her. Fortunately, my late Uncle Al was a Gold Shield for NYPD.
"Sister Tee," I said, quietly, "hear me good, and chill. Ten-thirteen."
She rummaged casually in her purse for Kleenex with both hands, took some out with her left hand.
"Tell it," she said softly.
"Don't name it, but you know the thing they do rocks and ice and boo and the legal in?"
"Yah." Honk! She took a deep breath through her nose, the way you do after you blow your nose, to
check results. Most natural thing in the world.
"The legal at twelve o'clock ... he's wrong."
"I hear that." She balled up the Kleenex and fumbled for another with the hand that was still inside the
purse. "What's my play?"
"Got your jewelry, by any chance?"
"I hadda go through Long Island to get here, didn't I?"
"Don't miss," I told her.
She smiled lazily. "When?"
I hummed the chorus of an old Charles Brown side, "I'll Tell You When."
She nodded, still smiling. Most of the gang were staring at us in puzzlementтАФbut bless 'em, nobody