"Thompson, Jim - After Dark My Sweet" - читать интересную книгу автора (Thompson Jim)

"I'll tell you something, Mrs. Anderson. I'd like to correct an erroneous impression you seem to have about me. I'm not at all stupid, Mrs. Anderson. I may sound like I am, but I'm really not."
"You'll have to swear to that, Collie. You give me your sworn statement, signed by two witnesses, and I'll take it under consideration."
"I'm not stupid. I don't like for people to treat me like I am. Most of my life I've been in-- I've worked in places where it was hard to converse with anyone on an equal footing. It was hard to carry on an intelligent conversation, so I kind of lost the knack."
"Roger, Wilco. Collins coming in on the beam."
"I'm trying to explain something. Why don't you be polite and listen? I was saying that when you don't get to talk much, you get to where you sound kind of funny when you do talk. Kind of stilted and awkward, you know. You're not sure of yourself."
"Shut up!"
"But I--"
"Dammit, will you shut up? There's somebody coming!"
She jumped up and ran into the kitchen. I followed her. I watched as she opened the back door and stepped out onto the porch. It was getting dark now. The lights of a car swept over the trees and blinked out. The driver tapped out a shave-and-a-haircut on his horn.
Fay Anderson laughed and stayed down the steps.
"It's all right, Collie. It's just Uncle Bud."
"Uncle ... Uncle Bud?"
"Fix yourself another drink. Fix three of them. We'll be in in a minute."
It wasn't a minute. It was a lot nearer, I'd say, to thirty minutes. And I couldn't hear their conversation, of course, but I had a strong hunch that I was the subject of it.
I fixed three drinks, and drank them.

3
His real name was Stoker, Garret Stoker. He wasn't her uncle and I doubt that he was anyone's, but everyone called him Uncle Bud. He was a man of about forty, I think. He had snowy, prematurely gray hair, and warm friendly eyes, and a smile that made you feel good every time he turned it on. I don't know how she'd gotten acquainted with him, and probably she didn't either. Because that's the kind of a guy he was, if you know what I mean. You meet guys like Uncle Bud once--just over a drink or a cup of coffee--and you feel like you've known them all your life. They make you feel that way.
The first thing you know they're writing down your address and telephone number, and the next thing you know they're dropping around to see you or giving you a ring. Just being friendly, you understand. Not because they want anything. Sooner or later, of course, they want something; and when they do it's awfully hard to say no to them. No matter what it is. Even when it's like something _this_ Uncle Bud wanted.
He wrung my hand, and said it was a great pleasure to meet me. Then, still hanging onto my hand, giving it a little squeeze now and then, he turned around to Fay.
"I just can't understand it, Fay. I still believe you're joking with me. Why, I'd have bet money that there wasn't a man, woman or child in the United States who hadn't heard of Kid Collins."
"Bet me some money," she said. "I'll give you seven to five."
"Well . . ." He laughed and released my hand. "Ain't this little lady a case, Kid? Never serious for a moment. But she's true-blue, understand, a real little pal, and the kidding's all in fun. She don't mean a thing by it."
"Yes, sir, I understand."
"Let's see, now. When was that last fight of yours, the big one? Wasn't it in, uh--?
"It--it was in 1940. The Burlington Bearcat. He was--" My voice trailed away. "I mean it wasn't a very big fight, sir:,
"Sure sure. A preliminary bout. But it was still a mighty big fight. Uh, it was in--I was arguing with a fellow about it the other day, and he claimed it was held in Newark. I said it was in, uh--"
"It was in Detroit," I said.
"That's right. That's exactly right!" he exclaimed. "Detroit, 1940, a four-round prelim. What did I tell you Fay? Didn't I tell you I knew the Kid's record backwards and forwards?"
Fay groaned and slapped herself on the forehead. Uncle Bud winked at me, and I grinned and winked back at him.
I began to like him a lot.
Fay said that if we wanted any dinner, we could darned well fix it ourselves. So that's what we did. Uncle Bud pounded the steak and put it on to broil, and I peeled and sliced potatoes. He opened some cans of peas and apple sauce, and I made coffee and ice water.
"Well, Kid," he said, while we were waiting for the stuff to cook, "I'm glad you've decided to settle down for a while. Now, that you've found friends--people who admire you and really take an interest in you--"
"Settle down?" I blinked. "Settle down where?"
"Why right here--where else?" he said firmly. "Our little lady kind of needs someone to keep an eye on her, and there's a nice little apartment out over the garage. Yes, sir, you just move right in, Kid. Just take it easy for a few days. Get rested up and keep Fay out of trouble and I'll see what I can stir up for you. I got an idea that I might be able to put you next to something pretty good."
He nodded to me, giving the steak a turn.
I said, maybe he already had his eye on something he could put me next to.
"Sharp." He laughed. "I told Fay you were. I said, 'Now, Fay, maybe the guy's had a rough time, but if that's Kid Collins you've got with you, he's nobody's fool. He's nervy and he's sharp; I said. 'He'll know a good angle when he sees one and he'll have what it takes to carry through on it. And you treat him right, and he'll treat you right.'
"Look, sir. Look, Uncle Bud . . ."
"Yeah, Kid? Go right ahead and get it off your chest."
"Well, I appreciate your kindness, the compliments and all, but--but you don't really know anything about me. You couldn't. You're just trying to be nice, and probably if you really knew the kind of guy I was, you wouldn't feel like this."
"I'll tell you what I know, I know people, Kid. I know what they'll do and what they won't. Or, put it another way, what they can do and what they can't. I was a city detective here for years--maybe Fay told you? Well, I was, and I was able to put a lot of bright boys next to some pretty good things. Some of them had played an angle before, but most of 'em hadn't. They'd never turned a trick--didn't think they could--until I showed them the way."
"And you're not a detective, now?"
He glanced around sharply, frowning at me for the first time. Then, he pursed his lips and went back to stirring the potatoes.
"We'll have to see," he said absently. "We'll have to get better acquainted. I think you'd be just right--smart enough, but not too . . ."
"Yes?" I said.
"Never mind, Kid." His smile came back. "There's no rush. It's something we'll have to take our time on."
We ate dinner; he and I did, rather. Fay came to the table, but she didn't really eat anything. She just sat there-- mussing the food on her plate, drinking and sniping at us every time we opened our mouths.
"This damned house," she said, glaring at Uncle Bud. "I thought you were going to turn it in for me right away. I thought you were going to make me a nice little profit on it. You talked me into buying the damned dump, and then you--"
"Now, Fay," he said, calmly. "You'll do all right on it. You'll make out--one way or another."