"Michaela Roessner - Ah, Sweet Mystery Of Life" - читать интересную книгу автора (Roessner Michaela)

plate into orbit. The other bar patrons clutched their food and drinks to
themselves and scuttled away from his progress.
Without thinking Mac reached for a fresh sheath of pages. His pen flew
across paper. Out of the corner of one eye he saw the barkeep, initially
as paralyzed as the rest of the room, hustle red-faced around the back of
the bar and head purposefully toward the one-man catastrophe.
Who by then was meandering about the far end of the saloon near the
windows, still executing amazing feats of contortion in his quest to
control the rain of food. He had already richocheted into the hanging
slate advertising the daily specials. Chalk sticks and an eraser joined
the more appetizing airborne fare. People outside were gathering to stare
through the windows.
Over near the wall sat the establishment's sole female patron; a sour
woman Mac guessed to be a retired boarding house landlady. Horror froze
her features as she watched the one-man disaster bear down haphazardly but
steadily upon her. She appeared to be paralyzed; only her eyes moved as
they traced the course of a particularly large, fat mackerel spiralling
downward, downward, directly towards her.
Two inches short of her face a brisk hand extricated it from the air and
plopped it back on the plate it had escaped from. "A thousand pardons,
madam. Of course I would never allow this brash fish to sully your
delicate personage," the youth rasped. With an enormous flourish he
snatched his derby from his head with the hand not clutching his plate and
bowed low, sweeping the hat behind him, revealing a full head of hair
corn-silk light and fine.
The woman didn't acknowledge the courtesy. Her pasty face resembled the
dead fish she'd been rescued from. Once again only her eyes moved. This
time they followed the course of a baked potato as it descended behind the
maniac. The youth continued to gaze at her face, but behind him his hat
twitched two inches to the left; the potato fell into it tidily. The
woman, Mac, and the entire room breathed a sigh of relief.
The fellow turned back towards the bar. Trembling, he delicately set the
laden plate on the edge of a nearby table and extricated the potato from
his hat.
In that brief moment of quiet Mac finally got a good look at him. The
bumbler was of average height with a strong bone structure, but he was not
as substantially fleshed as he might have been. In profile the fellow
looked to have a broad, pleasant face; not unhandsome except for the
knobby, indistinct shape of his nose.
Just then the barkeep reached the fellow. He grabbed hold of the
adventurer's lapel, pulling him around. Full face, the bungler proved to
be even younger. He was just an overgrown kid.
"Are you daft?" the saloonkeeper shouted in the unfortunate's face. "What
ails you to carry on like that?"
The boy raised his hands and tried to back away. "Most felicitous
proprietor," he cawed, his voice hoarse as any raven's. "Is indeed the
fault all mine? If you restrained yourself from the excess enthusiasm of
overwaxing these fine floors perhaps a fellow could negotiate them
safely."
Curious at the ruckus, people crowded in at the door, spilling into the