"Michael Swanwick - The Raggle Taggle Gypsy - O" - читать интересную книгу автора (Swanwick Michael)

strangely abashed. "I was also told that you would have something for me."

Without looking, Crow unstrapped his saddlebag and rummaged within. He removed
a wooden heart-shaped box, tied up in string. "Here."

With a glorious burst of unearthly song, the martlet seized the string in its talons and,
wings whirring, flew straight up into the sky. Crow did not look after it. He waited.

He waited until he was sure that the door would never open. Then he waited some
more.

The door opened.

Out she came, in faded Levis, leather flight jacket, and a black halter top, sucking on
a Kent menthol. She was looking as beautiful as the morning and as hard as nails.
The sidewalk cringed under her high-heeled boots.

"Hey, babe," Crow said casually. "I got you a sidecar. See? It's lined with velvet and
everything."

"Fuck that noise," Annie said and, climbing on behind him, hugged him so hard that
his ribs creaked.

He kick-started the Harley and with a roar they pulled out into traffic. Crow cranked
up the engine and popped a wheelie. Off they sped, down the road that leads
everywhere and nowhere, to the past and the future, Tokyo and Short Pump, infinity
and the corner store, with Annie laughing and unafraid, and Crow flying the black
flag of himself.

****