"Thompson, Jim - Golden Gizmo, The" - читать интересную книгу автора (Thompson Jim)

The screen door closed, slammed at last by its aged spring. As from a great distance, Toddy heard the man's amused chuckle, a seemingly unending chuckle; then, a sharp "Perrito!"--Spanish for "little dog."
The dog's ears pricked to attention. "Ssor-ree," the dog said courteously. "Ssss ssor-ree."
"D-don't m-mention it," Toddy stammered. "A mistake. I m-mean--"
The dog dropped back down to the porch and took up a position behind him. The screen door opened again.
"Please to come in," said the man.
"I don't--that d-dog," said Toddy. _Dammit, was he dreaming this?_ "Won't he . . . will he hurt anyone?"
"On the contrary," the man said, and, helplessly, Toddy stepped inside. "He kills quite painlessly."

2
Todd Kent (the _more_ was phony) had been born with a gizmo. That--the GI term for the unidentifiable--was the way he had come to think of something that changed in value from day to day, that was too whimsical in its influence to be bracketed as a gift, talent, aptitude or trait.
For most of the thirty years of his life, the gizmo had pushed him into the smelly caverns where the easy money lay. All his life--and always without warning--it had hustled him out through soul-skinning, nerve-searing exits.
A runaway from a broken home, Todd had first hit the big dough when he was sixteen. He had landed as a bellboy in a big hotel. From that he advanced to bell captain, and he was in; the gizmo went to work. Before it was all over the job of bellboy in that hotel was priced at one thousand dollars--a sum which the purchasers grimly went about recovering (along with considerably more!) in various shady ways. Before it was all over--when the beefs flowed over Toddy's young head and those of the minor executives he had fixed--many of the bellboys were in jail and the hotel had a thoroughly bad name.
Toddy was too young to prosecute on a job-selling rap. But there was such a thing as a juvenile authority which could take charge of him until he was twenty-one. Not at all pleased with this prospect, he had a confidential talk with the hotel's lawyers. The result was that he left town . . . but without his spanking new Cadillac, his diamond rings and the contents of his safety deposit box.
In a trackside jungle, he watched an ancient and brow-beaten bum toss dice from a rusted can. The bum put the dice in the can, shook them vigorously and threw a point. Then he reshook them, rolled them again, and there was his point. Not immediately--it usually took several throws--and not always. But almost always. Often enough.
Toddy's gizmo swung into action.
Yeah, the flattered bum agreed, it was quite a trick. Any hustler could throw hot dice from his hand, but who'd ever seen it done from a cup? Many big gambling houses insisted on cup shots, particularly where there was heavy money down. They were supposed to be hustler-proof.
No, he'd never got a chance to put the shot to work; stumbled onto it too late for that. But if a guy had the front, the dough, this was how it was done . . .
You held one die on your point. You didn't put it inside the cup. You palmed it and held it outside, pressed against the cup in your shooting hand. Say you were shooting for Phoebe, little five. You held onto three of it, then you rolled, letting the held die spin down at the exact moment the other shot came from the cup. Yeah, sure; maybe fever didn't make. Maybe the free die came out on four and you'd crapped. But you'd lowered the odds against yourself, see, kid? You'd knocked hell out of 'em. And how you could murder them big joints on come and field bets!
Months later . . . but this episode shall be cut short. Months later, in the secluded parlor of a Reno gambling house, a lean taffy-haired young man sat watching a slowmotion picture of himself. The picture had been shot, apparently, from a concealed camera above the crap table, and it showed little but the movements of his hands. But that was enough. That was more than enough. Before the film was half-unwound, Toddy was drawing out his wallet, his bank passbook, and--oh, yes--the keys to a spanking new Cadillac.
He moved into the con games as naturally as a blonde moving into a mink coat. He rode them through Dallas, Houston, Oklahoma City, St. Louis, Omaha, Cleveland, New Orleans, Memphis. . . . He rode them and was ridden, to use a police term. The gizmo was fickle, and he was ridden, rousted and floated.
Since he shunned working with others, he was confined to playing the "small con"--the hype and the smack and the tat. Those, however, with the new twists he added to them, were more than sufficient to provide him with a number of pleasant possessions, not the least of which was a substantial equity in another Cad.
Then, the gizmo becoming frivolous again, it removed these belongings and added his biography (handsomely illustrated) to a volume compiled by the Better Business Bureau. It also left him wanted on seven raps in Chicago, his then base of operations.
That was the gizmo for you. Pushing you into clover one day, booting you into a weedpatch the next.
The gizmo pushed him into the Berlin black market and sixty-three grand in cash. But, naturally, it didn't let him out of the Army with it. What it let him out of the Army with was a six-months' brig tan and a dishonorable discharge.
He wandered out to Los Angeles, hating the gizmo, determined to be rid of it. But the gizmo was stubborn. Wash dishes, drive a cab, peddle brushes?--don't be foolish, Todd_more_. Use your head. You can always see a turn if you look for it . . . . What about all these winos and bums? The town's full of 'em, and they'd sell you their right legs for a buck. They'd sell you their--blood! The big labs pay twenty-five a pint for blood. If you did the fronting, sold for fifteen and bought for five . . .
Toddy was in and out of the blood business fast. He stayed only long enough to get a roll. The scheme was entirely legal. For the first time in his life he was playing something strictly legit . . . and he couldn't take it. If it was legal to nourish the desire to drink with a man's own blood, then he'd go back to his own side of the fence.
He was resting on his roll, deliberating over his next move, when the gizmo shoved Elaine at him. He hadn't had a real roll or even time to take a deep breath since then. He couldn't make enough, no matter what he made, to do the thing that Milt, the gizmo having introduced them, persuaded him he should do. There was good money, legit money, in buying from dentists and other commercial users of gold.
Toddy couldn't have the dough and Elaine, too. Somehow, though he knew Milt was right in so advising him, he couldn't bring himself to boot her out on her tail.
. . . So, now, now the gizmo had led him into this house, into the money _or_. And he had a sneaking hunch that this was going to be something fantastic, even for the gizmo, in the way of ors.

3
For the size of the House, the affluence which it outwardly bespoke, it--this living room, at least--was badly, even poorly, furnished. The few chairs, the undersize divan, the table, all were of maple, the cheapest thing on the market. Except for a throw rug or two, the floor was bare.
Toddy looked at the table, where, as a matter of habit, he had placed his open box. He saw now that there was another box on it, a kind of oblong wooden tray. A set of tong-type calipers partly shielded the contents; but despite this and the deep gloom of the room, Toddy could see the outline of a heavy gold watch.
He had taken this in at a glance, his gaze barely wavering from the man. The guy was something to look at. He was the kind of guy you'd automatically keep your eyes on when he was around.
He had no chin. It was as though nose and eyes and a wide thin mouth had been carved out of his neck. Either a thick black wig or a mopline bowl of natural hair topped the neck.
He stared from Toddy to the card, then back again. He waited, a faint look of puzzlement on his white chinless face. He smiled, suddenly, and held the card out to Toddy.
"I can read nothing without my glasses," he smiled, "and, as usual, I seem to have misplaced them. You will explain your business please?"
Toddy retrieved the bit of pasteboard with a twinge of relief. There was something screwy here. It was just as well not to leave his or Milt's name behind him.
"Of course, sir," he said. "I--that dog of yours took my breath away for a moment. I didn't mean to just stand here, taking up your time."
"I am sure of it." The man nodded suavely. "I am certain that you do not mean to do it now. Perhaps, now that you have recovered your breath, Mr.--?
"--Clinton," Toddy lied. "I'm with the California Precious Metals Company. You've probably seen our ads in the papers--world's largest buyers of scrap gold?"
"No. I have seen no such ads."
"That's entirely understandable," Toddy said. "We've discontinued them lately--well, it must have been more than a year ago--in favor of the personal contact method. We--we--"
He stopped talking. He'd seen plenty of pretty girls in his time, many of them in a state which left nothing of their attributes to the imagination. But this. . . this was something else again.. . this girl who had come through the doorway to what was apparently the kitchen. She wore blue Levi's and a worn khaki shirt, and a scuffed pair of sandals encased her feet; and if she had on any make-up Toddy couldn't spot it. And, yet, despite those things, she was out of this world. She was _mmmm-hmmmm_ and _wow_ and _man-oh-man!_
Toddy stared at her. Eyes narrowing, the man spoke over his shoulder. "Dolores," he said. And as she came forward, he caught her by the bodice and pivoted her in front of Toddy.
"Very nice, eh?" His eyes pointed to her buttocks. "A little full, perhaps, like the breasts, but should one quarrel with bounty? Is not the total effect pleasing? Could one accept less after the warm promise of the mouth, the generous eyes, the sable hair with--"
"Scum," said the girl in almost unaccented English. "Filth," she added tonelessly. "Carrion. Obscenity."
"_Vaya!_" the man took a step toward her. "_Hija de perro!_ I shall teach you manners." He turned back on Toddy, breathing heavily, eyes glinting. "Now, Mr.. . . Mr. Clinton, is it? I have allowed you to study my ward to the fullest. Perhaps you will confine your attention to me for a moment. You said you were sent to me by a friend?"
"Well, I'm not sure she was a friend exactly, but--"
"She?"