"Anthony Neil Smith - Push-Button Easy" - читать интересную книгу автора (Smith Anthony Neil)

Ken was at the front door twirling the key ring on his finger when Jill returned. They got in the car and drove east on Highway 90 towards Pascagoula, where there was a nursery Jill liked. It was hot outside, and Jill wanted the air max-cold. She made Ken close his window. He did and then turned the radio to a country station-halfway through a Tim McGraw song.

"He's that pitcher's son," Jill said.

"He sucks. The young guys are twanging now for effect. It doesn't come natural like Waylon."

"Merle Haggard."

The drawbridge into Pascagoula was up, and they were ten cars back in the line. Ken said they might as well do it there, so Jill pulled handkerchiefs out of the glove box, handed one to Ken, and they wiped down everything-the dash, steering wheel, seats, radio knobs and seatbelt buckles. They lowered the windows and wiped the door handles. Jill dropped the hankies out on the road. With the windows down, the smell of Pascagoula wafted through: shrimp and fish, salt water, the paper mill, sharp and dead.

Jill said, "I want a truck. No, a utility vehicle."

"You're not a soccer mom. You pregnant?"

"I want the space, more room to carry plants and fertilizer bags. And they're up high."

"I don't like them."

"You'll learn."

Ken shifted sideways and propped his arm on the door. There was a line of shrimp boats passing out of the channel into the Gulf. Five of them went by before the bridge lowered slowly, almost seemed to stick, but then settled into place before the striped bar rose and traffic zipped over, afraid more boats might be on the way.

A few stoplights down on 90, past empty lots where fast food joints stood until they were bought out to make way for the a new bridge, and opposite Hardee's and a gas station, Ken pulled into Houston Davis's GMC/Cadillac/Pontiac/Olds lot. Davis owned half the new car lots in town, the other half selling imports. Ken parked in front of a line of Cadillacs, and they got out, Jill following Ken straight to a Black Seville. He looked over the sticker, tried the door but found it locked, then cupped his fingers over his eyes and smudged on the glass.

"This is what I want. Jesus, it's beautiful," he said.

Jill crossed her arms. She leaned slightly to look over Ken's shoulder. It was a dark interior, plush. The dash was sleek. She didn't see gauges or a speedometer or knobs. Everything was push-button easy. Jill stood up and looked around the lot: the approaching salesman, a line of Pontiacs in front of the building, which used to be a bank. Long and wide windows with a bronze reflection, dark stone walls in between. A couple of other shoppers wandered around the GMC trucks. At the end of that line sat a deep green Yukon parallel to the highway. Jill liked the shape, the color, the size.

The salesman was at Ken's side, Ken still nose-and-fingertips to the glass.

"You folks sneaking up on me today? Dreaming out loud?"

"No, I want this one," Ken said.

"That's good. Make my job easier, I don't mind. I'm Dave." The salesman was built strong with a slight paunch. Dark hair and a tan, pockmarked face, maybe late thirties. Ken shook his hand, smiled, then looked around the lot.

"Joe Garnett," Ken said. "My wife, Bette."

Jill smiled and waved, thought, Why Bette? Shit. "What about the Yukon here? They're popular, right?"

"Everybody wants one. That one came in yesterday. No pressure here, all right? Want to drive one?" Dave looked at the LeSabre. "This your trade-in?"

"Could be."

"Cashing in on retirement. I see."

Ken shrugged. "I earned it. I want to drive the Seville. We'll look at the truck later."

Dave went to get the key. Jill said, "But look at it. It's a tank. You could go anywhere."