"Thompson, Jim - South of Heaven" - читать интересную книгу автора (Thompson Jim)

"It's already fixed, Tommy. You know that."
"Well, yeah," I said. "I guess it is, isn't it?"
"Yes," she said. "Yes, it is, Tommy."
We looked at each other. I held out my hand and said, well, I guessed I'd better tell her good-bye. "I mean, I guess I'd better tell you," I said, "because I reckon a girl like you wouldn't want to kiss a fellow good-bye that she's just met. Right out in public, I mean."
She took my hand and squeezed it. Staring down at the ground and then slowly raising her eyes to look up into my face.
"What makes you think I'm going anywhere, Tommy?"
"What?"
"What makes you think I'm going anywhere? That I'm not staying right here."
"But . . ." I hesitated. "You mean you're meeting someone here in town? You know someone here?"
She shook her head. "I don't know anyone but you, Tommy."
"Well," I frowned. "I don't know what you'd do around town. Things will be busy for a few weeks after the pipeline camp opens up, but then they'll have to move it south to keep up with the job. So far away that the men can't make it into town."
Her head moved in a little nod, and she murmured indistinctly--about doing something around the pipeline, it sounded like. I looked down into her face, wondering why she was blushing so much.
"I'm sorry," I said. "But you sure couldn't work in the camp, Carol. They don't have jobs for women. Why, the highpressure wouldn't let a woman set foot inside a pipeline camp."
"The high-pressure?"
"The bosses," I explained. "It's kind of a bitter joke, something the Wobblies started, I guess. You know, like the bosses are always high-pressuring the working stiffs."
"Oh," she said. "That's, uh, very interesting."
"Actually," I said, "they don't push anyone too hard. They can't. A lot of the men just aren't capable of hard work-- they've been drifting, going hungry too long. And a lot more couldn't be pushed without buying yourself a broken head. They're jailbirds, chain-gang veterans, guys that would climb a tree for trouble when they could stand on the ground and have peace."
"My goodness!" Her eyes were very big and round. "Why aren't they arrested?"
"Who's going to do it?" I shrugged. "The line's a long way from civilization as a rule. It moves from county to county, through places where the population adds up to less than the pipeliners. Aside from that, the big bosses do a lot of covering-up where the law is concerned. They figure they have to, you know. Otherwise they'd lose a lot of time and the job would be held up, while the law poked around investigating and asking questions and arresting suspects, and so on."
Carol said my goodness again, or something like that. To show she was interested, you know. I went on talking, stretching things quite a little, as you've probably guessed, to make myself look bold and brave.
Actually, there was quite a bit of law around the line. Not much of the official sort, but the kind you get from a rifle butt or a hard-ash pick handle. Judge and jury were the highpressure, and they also carried out their own sentences. And troublemakers seldom came back for second helpings.
"Now, getting back to you, Carol," I said. "I was going to ask why. . . ."
I broke off for she was staring past me, a startled look in her eyes. I turned around to see what she was looking at.
It was Fruit Jar. He was clattering away from the garage in his T-Ford, the torn-off hose from the gas pump trailing from his tank.
I groaned, wondering just how stupid he could be to try such a stunt, getting his tank filled with gasoline and then trying to run off without paying. Where was he going to run to in an area like this? How far did he expect to get in a twelve-year-old Model-T? A car that was already bucking and stalling and trying to die on him.
The garage owner obviously wasn't worried. He was sauntering after Fruit Jar and taking his own sweet time about it. Then there was the roar of another motor, and Bud Lassen wheeled out from behind the garage.
Fruit Jar looked back over his shoulder. He tried to pour on more gas, and the car stalled and stopped. He fought with it for a moment, then threw himself out the door and started running.
Lassen shouted for him to halt--I'll have to admit that. But Fruit Jar kept on running, probably too scared to stop. So Lassen turned out on the prairie after him.
It was all over in a couple of minutes, but it seemed a lot longer than that. Fruit Jar running crazily, his smoked glasses flying off as he stumbled; Lassen zigging and zagging to follow him.
Lassen jumped out of his car, gun drawn. Fruit Jar looked around, then turned around, kind of stumble-running backwards. He tried to get his hands up, or so it seemed to me. But he tripped just then and, instead of getting them up, he made a wild grab at himself, as a falling man would.
It was all the excuse Lassen needed. He had six bullets in Fruit Jar before you could snap your fingers, and even from where I was I could see that his head was practically blown off.

5
By the time I got there, there was a pretty big crowd gathered. Mostly boes like me, and the rest the few people who lived in town. Someone had dropped a tow sack over Fruit Jar; the upper part of him, that is. His legs were sticking out, and the dirty soles of his feet were showing through the holes in his shoes.
"Hell," the garage owner was scowling at Bud Lassen, "that was a hell of a thing to do. Killing a man over a few lousy gallons of gas."
"I told him to halt, didn't I?" Lassen sounded a little defensive. "You all heard me tell him to halt."
"So what? You didn't need to shoot him, dammit!"
Lassen said he thought Fruit Jar was going to draw a gun on him. "It looked to me like he was reaching in his pocket. What the hell? You expect me to hold still while some thief takes potshots at me?"
There was a low murmur from the crowd. A pretty unpleasant murmur. Lassen's eyes shifted uneasily and fell on me, and he tried to work up a warm smile.
"You, Burwell. You knew this thief, didn't you? Had a pretty tough reputation, didn't he?"
"He had a reputation for getting drunk," I said. "Which hardly made him unique out here."
There were laughs. Ugly laughs. Lassen's eyes flickered angrily, but he kept on trying. "A mean vicious drunk, wasn't he, Tommy? When he got drunk he might do almost anything, right?"
"No, it isn't right," I said. "In fact, it's a damned lie and you know it."
"Why, you--!" He took a step toward me.
"The only mean vicious guy around here is you," I said. "And you don't have to get drunk to be that way."
That did it. He whipped his gun out, kind of swinging it in an arc to push the crowd back, then leveling it at me.
"Get in that car, Burwell! I'm taking you to Matacora."
"Not me, you're not," I said. "Anyway, what are you taking me in for?"
"For investigation. Now, _move!_"
"Huh-uh," I said. "I start to Matacora with you I'd never get there."