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

"Oh, yeah?" Her eyes wavered. "And what about that lousy station wagon? I tie up practically the last nickel I got in the thing, and you--"
"Now, Fay. You know I got you a good deal on it. You know you need a good car living out here."
"Who the hell wants to live out here?" She almost yelled it. "Who the hell talked me into it?"
"You'll thank me for it. You just trust your old Uncle Bud, and you'll be wearing diamonds."
He turned the conversation to me, asked me what I'd been doing since I quit fighting. I said I'd been in the army for a while right after I quit, and I'd just been knocking around since then.
"The army, huh? Get along all right?"
"Why, pretty good. I thought I did, anyway."
Fay laughed. Uncle Bud frowned and shook his head at her.
"I did the best I could," I said. "But they weren't very patient, and it kind of looked like they were trying to see how tough they could make things on me. So, well, I landed in the brig a few times, and finally they sent me to the hospital. And right after that they let me go."
"Mmm-hmm." He nodded thoughtfully. "You were, uh, all right then? Just, uh, just couldn't adjust to the military life. Well, that's not unusual. I understand that there were any number of men who had that kind of trouble."
Fay laughed again and Uncle Bud gave her another shake of his head.
"Sure," he said, softly. "I understand how it was, Kid. It's that way all through life, it seems like. People expecting a guy to get along with them, but they won't try to get along with him. Maybe he just needs a little help, just a little understanding, but ninety-nine times out of a hundred he won't get it."
I said I wouldn't want him to get the idea that there was anything wrong with me. There really wasn't much wrong with me, you know--not then, there wasn't--and I felt that I had to say it. Because if there's one thing that scares people, it's mental trouble.
You can be an ex-convict, even a murderer, say, and maybe it won't bother 'em a bit. They'll give you a job, take you into their homes, make friends with you. But if you've got any kind of mental trouble, or if you've ever had any, well, that's another story. They're afraid of you. They want no part of you.
Uncle Bud seemed to believe what I told him. The way he had me sized up, I guess, was as a guy who hadn't been too bright to begin with and had got just a shade punchy in the ring.
"Sure, you're okay, Kid. All you need is some dough, enough so's you can take life easy and not have to worry'
"Yeah. But. . . well, I guess I ought to tell you something else, too, Uncle Bud. I've--I've always tried to do the right thing. Never anything really bad or--"
"Oh, well." He spread his hands. "What do the words mean, Kid? What's good and what's bad? Now, I'd say it was bad for a nice guy like you to have to go on like he's been going. I'd say it would be good if you never had to worry about money for the rest of your life."
"Yeah, I guess it would be."
"Naturally. Naturally, you wouldn't want to hurt anyone. You wouldn't have to. It would just be a case of putting pressure on certain people--people that have more dough than they know what to do with--and making 'em come across. That would be all right, wouldn't it?"
I hesitated. "Well, it sounds--"
And Fay slammed her glass down on the table.
"It sounds rotten!" she yelled at Uncle Bud. "It sounds terrible, filthy, lousy! I don't know why I ever--I won't have any part of it, understand? You may talk Stupid here into it, b-but you can go ahead without me, and I w--won't--"
She stumbled to her feet, crying, and staggered out of the room. Uncle Bud raised his eyebrows at me.
"Poor little lady. But she'll snap out of it. Now, why don't you and I do these dishes, and then I'll run along."
We deared up the dishes. I tried to talk to him while we were working, trying to get something more out of him about this proposition he had in mind. But he kept changing the subject, his voice getting shorter and shorter. And finally he turned on me, half-snarling, and told me to drop it.
"Forget it! I'll tell you whatever you need to know, when you need to know it!"
He glared at me, his eyes kind of glazed. And I was too startled to say anything back to him. I'd thought he was such an easy-going, good-natured guy, and now he looked like some sort of vicious, mean-tempered animal.
"I'll tell you something else, too." He tapped me on the chest. "I ain't just kidding about you sleeping in the garage. That's where you sleep, get me, and you sleep by yourself. You don't make no play for the little lady."
I nodded, feeling kind of hurt and embarrassed. I guessed I had stared at her quite a bit that evening, but I hadn't meant anything by it. I didn't have the slightest idea of trying to take advantage of her.
"Maybe I'd better clear out. If you think I'm that kind of guy, I wouldn't want to stick around."
"Aw, now, don't take it that way," he said soothingly. And suddenly he was his old self again. "You'll have to excuse me, Kid. Just forget I said anything. I've had a pretty hard day, and I spoke without thinking."
I walked out to the car with him. We shook hands, and he said not to worry about a thing, just to take it easy and he'd be out to see me the next day. He left then, and I went back into the house. And, of course, I didn't feel very easy. I couldn't help but worry.
I fixed myself a couple of drinks. They kind of eased me down a little, so I fixed another one. I sauntered over to the sideboard with it, and picked up the newspaper clippings again. I thumbed through them absently, wondering why they were there and why Fay'd had me come here--and suddenly I stopped wondering. Suddenly I knew why. I didn't know the how of it, the details, but I knew what it was all about.
I dropped the clippings, as though they'd all at once caught fire. I turned back around, and there she was, just coming out of the bedroom. She was pale and sicklooking, but she seemed fairly sober. She sat down and reached for the bottle, smiling at me in a kind of tired, taunting way.
"Well, Collie?" she said. "Well, my blushing boy, my beamish friend?"
"Well, what?"
"You really don't know?" She poured a big drink of whiskey. "You've been slapped in the face with a polecat and you still can't smell anything?"
I shrugged. She drained her glass, and reached for the bottle again.
"Sure, you know." She nodded. "This house and a crooked ex-cop and those pictures, and--and you. Even you could add that one up."
"About that crooked ex-cop. About him... and you. He sort of acts like--I mean he said a thing or two to me that--"
"Yes? Well, that's one thing you _don't_ need to worry about. There's nothing between us. There isn't going to be anything."
"I don't think he looks at it that way. It's none of my business, of course."
"Right. So let's get back to something that is. Listen closely to Old Mother Anderson, and then get the hell out. Because I'm only laying it on the line for you once. . . A chump is required, Collie. A Grade-A hundred-proof sucker. Someone with a barrel of nerve and a pint of brains. Does that description fit anyone of your acquaintance?"
"I wouldn't care to say. It might partly fit certain people I've met. Women who drink too much and talk while they're drinking."
"Boing!" She triggered a finger at her forehead. "But I'm my own chump, Collie. Strictly my own. Oh, I do an occasional benefit performance, but, by and large and on the whole, to coin a phrase--correction: two phrases--"
"I thought you were going to tell me something. You make a big production out of it, and then you don't say anything."
"I'll tell you something. This. All you need to know, Collie. If he thought you were half-way bright, Uncle Bud wouldn't want you. He's not too sharp himself--if he was he'd still be on the force--and he won't play with anyone who is:,
"Including you?"
"Forget about me. I don't count--and you can sing that to any tune you like."