"Rudy Rucker - The Men in the Back Room at the Country Club" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rucker Rudy)

"Hi, guys," said Jack.

There was no response. The mibracc studied their cards, sipping at their glasses of bourbon and water,
their every little gesture saying, "Leave us alone." Mr. Inkle stubbed out a cigarette and lit a fresh one.

"Listen up," said Tonel in a louder tone. "I gotta axe you gentlemen somethin'. Was you bustin' sod for
Ragland today? My friend here don't believe me."

Still no answer. The mibracc were so fully withdrawn into their clubby little thing that you could just as
well try talking to your TV. Or to five spiteful children.

"Scoop," grunted Mr. Cuthbert, standing up with his glass in hand. Mr. Gupta handed him his empty glass
as well. With the slightest grunt of non-recognition, Mr. Cuthbert sidled past Tonel and Jack, moving a
little oddly, as if his knees were double-jointed. His over-sized plastic teeth glinted in the fluorescent light.
Mr. Cuthbert pressed his thumb to his locker's pad, opened the door and dipped the two glasses down
into his golf-bag. Jack could smell the bourbon, a holiday smell.

The mibracc's golf bags held no clubs. They were lined with glass, with tall golf-bag-sized glass beakers,
or carboys. Big glass jars holding gallons of premium bourbon. It was a new gimmick, strictly hush-hush;
nobody but Ragland and the caddies knew. Mr. Atlee, a former druggist, had obtained the carboys, and
Mr. Early, a former distiller's rep, had arranged for a man to come in one night with an oak cask on a
dolly to replenish the bags. The mibracc were loving it.

Mr. Cuthbert shuffled back past Tonel towards the card table, the liquid swirling in his two glasses. The
boy fell into step behind the old man, draping his hand onto the mibracc's shoulder. Mr. Cuthbert paid
him no mind. Jack joined the procession, putting his hand on Tonel's shoulder and trucking along in his
friend's wake. Tonel was humming the chorus of the new video by Ruggy Qaeda, the part with the
zombies machine-gunning the yoga class.

After Mr. Cuthbert dropped into his chair and picked up his cards, Jack and Tonel circled the room two,
three, four times, with Tonel finally bursting into song. Never did the mibracc give them a second glance.
Odd as it seemed, the liquid in the glasses still hadn't settled down; it was moving around as if someone
were stirring it.

Around then Ragland came out from behind his counter, wielding a wet, rolled-up towel. Silly as it
sounded, being snapped by the old locker room attendant was a serious threat. Ragland was the
ascended Kung-Fu master of the towel snap. He could put a bruise on your neck that would last six
weeks. Laughing and whooping, Tonel and Jack ran outside.

A white face peered out of the window in the clubhouse's terrace door. The door swung open and a
plain, slightly lumpish girl in a white apron appeared. Gretchen Karst.

"I'm pregnant, Jack," said Gretchen, her sarcastic, pimply face unreadable. "Marry me tonight. Take me
off to college with you tomorrow."

"How do you know it's me?" protested Jack. "I'm not the onlyтАФ I mean even Tonel said heтАФ"

"Tonel is a horn worm. All I gave him was a hand job. And it didn't take very long. Jack, there's a Justice
of the Peace out on Route 501. Ronnie Blevins. He works at Rash Decisions Tattoo. I found him online.
Since it's Saturday, they're open till midnight. I'm off work right now, you know. I started early today."