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

The audiences were axiomatically boobs. Mostly well-to-do boobs, middle-aged widows and spinsters; women suffering from a vague itch which might be scratched for a bundle. So . . . well, you never knew, did you?
You could keep your eyes open, without going out on a limb.
The clown finished his act. Baskets were passed for the "Adoration Offering." Moira tossed her program in one of them, and walked out. Grinning, Dillon followed her.
She was lingering in the lobby, making a business out of pulling on her gloves. As he approached, she looked up with cautious approval.
"Now, what," he said, "was a nice girl like you doing in a place like that?"
"Oh, you know." She laughed lightly. "I just dropped in for a glass of yogurt."
"Tsk, tsk. It's a good thing I didn't offer you a martini."
"It certainly is. I won't settle for less than a double Scotch."
They took it from there.
It took them rapidly to where they were now. Or reasonable facsimiles thereof.
Lately, today in particular, he sensed that she wanted it to take them somewhat further.
There was just one way of handling that, in his opinion. With the light touch. No one could simultaneously laugh and be serious.
He let his hand walk down her body and come to rest on her navel. "You know something?" he said. "If you put a raisin in that, you could pass as a cookie."
"Don't," she said, picking up his hand and dropping it to the bed.
"Or you could draw a ring around it, and pretend you're a doughnut."
"I'm beginning to feel like a doughnut," she said. "The part in the middle."
"Oh, fine. I was afraid it might be something shameful." Then, cutting him off firmly, pulling him back into line, "But you see what I'm driving at, Roy. We don't know a thing about each other. We're not friends. We're not even acquainted. It's just been early to bed and early to bed from the time we met."
"You said you weren't knocking it."
"I'm not. It's very necessary to me. But I don't feel that it should begin and end with that. It's like trying to live on mustard sandwiches."
"And you want pate?"
"Steak. Something nourishing. Aah, hell, Roy"-- she shook her head fretfully. "I don't know. Maybe it isn't on the menu. Maybe I'm in the wrong restaurant."
"Madame is too cruel! Pierre weel drown heemself in ze soup!"
"Pierre doesn't care," she said, "if madame lives or dies. He's made that pretty clear."
She started to rise, with a certain finality of movement. He caught her and pulled her back to the bed, pulled her body against his again. He felt of her carefully. He smoothed her hair and kissed her lips.
"Mmm, yes," he said. "Yes, I'm sure of it. The sale is final, and no exchanges."
"Here we go again," she said. "Out into outer space, before we have our feet on the ground."
"I mean, I went to a great deal of trouble to find you. A very nice little partridge. Perhaps there are better birds in the bushes, but again there might not be. And--"
"--and a bird in bed is better than a bush. Or something. I'm afraid I'm crabbing your monologue, Roy."
"Wait!" He held onto her. "I'm trying to tell you something. That I like you and that I'm lazy. I don't want to look any further. So just show me the price tag, and if! can I'll buy."
"That's better. I have an idea it might be quite profitable for both of us."
"So where do we begin? A few evenings on the town? A fling at Las Vegas?"
"Mmm, no, Iguess not. Besides, you couldn't afford it."
"Surprise," he said curtly. "I wouldn't even make you pay your own way."
"Now, Roy . . ." She rumpled his hair affectionately. "That isn't the kind of thing! have in mind, anyway. A lot of girls, glitter and glassware. If we're going some place, it ought to be at the other end of the street. You know. Relaxed and quiet, so that we can talk for a change."
"Well. La Jolla's nice this time of year."
"La Jolla's nice any time of year. But are you sure you can afford--"
"Keep it up," he warned her. "One more word of that song, and you'll have the reddest butt in La Jolla. People will think it's another sunset."
"Pooh! Who's afraid of you?"
"And get the hell out of here, will you? Go crawl back under your culvert! You've drained me dry and got me to splurge my life's savings, and now you want to talk me to death."
She laughed fondly, and got up. When she was dressed, she knelt again at his bedside for a good-bye kiss.
"Are you sure you're all right, Roy?" She smoothed the hair back from his forehead. "You look rather pale."
"Oh, God," he groaned. "Will this woman never leave? She puts me through a double shift, and then she says I look pale!"
She left, smiling smugly. Very pleased with herself.
Roy arose wearily, his legs wobbling as he made the round trip to the bathroom. He dropped back down on the bed in a heap, a little worried about himself for the first time. What could be the cause of this, anyway, this strange overpowering fatigue? Not Moira, surely; he was used to her. Not the fact that he had eaten very little during the past three days. He often had spells when he didn't feel hungry, and this had been one of them. Whatever he ate bounced back, in a brownishcolored liquid. Which was strange, since he'd eaten nothing but ice cream and milk.
Frowning, he leaned forward and examined himself. There was a faint purplish-yellow bruise on his stomach. But it didn't hurt any more--unless he pushed on it very hard. He'd had no pain since the day he was slugged.
So . . .? He shrugged and lay back down. It was just one of those things, he guessed. He didn't feel sick. If a man was sick, he _felt_ sick.
He piled the pillows on top of one another, and reclined in a half-sitting position. That seemed to be better, but tired as he was he was restless. With an effort, he reached his trousers from a nearby chair, and dug a quarter from the watch pocket.
Offhand, it looked like any other quarter, but it wasn't quite. The tail side was worn down, the head was not. Holding it back between the fleshy part of his first two fingers, hidden edgewise by them, he could identify the two sides.
He flipped it into the air, caught it and brought it down against his other hand with a _smack_. For this _was_ the smack, one version of it. One of the three standard short-con gimmicks.
"Tails," he murmured, and there was tails.