"Thompson, Jim - Wild Town" - читать интересную книгу автора (Thompson Jim)
Bugs looked down at the walk, not answering him. He couldn't. He couldn't put his feelings into words, nor, naturally, would he have dared to if he could have. He was guilty, technically guilty of at least manslaughter. There was a growing impression in his mind that he had been given his job for a sinister purpose, and that tacitly he had agreed to that purpose. So he could be held by Ford, forced to bend to him. And Ford knew it, and he was making him admit it.
The silence lasted for seeming hours. Then Ford cleared his throat, and his tone was casual again.
"Looks like you made quite a hit with Amy. Can't say when I've seen her quite so taken with a fella. How'd you like her anyway?"
"I liked her fine," Bugs said gruffly. "A lot more than I should, I guess."
"Yeah?"
"I mean, well, I'm just getting a start here. Never really had anything in my life, and don't know that I ever will have. And if she's your fiancee . . ."
"Mmm? Well, yeah, I believe I did say that, didn't I? But that's kind of a loose expression out this a-way. Gal and a fella goes steady for years, it's just kind of taken for granted that they're engaged. Don't really have to do nothin' or say nothin' about it themselves."
"Well," said Bugs. "I--uh--see."
"Had an idea you didn't like the way I talked to her tonight. Kind of got the impression you didn't like it a-tall."
"I didn't! I thought it was a goddamned lousy thing to do!"
"Yeah? Uh-huh?"
"What do you mean, 'yeah, uh-huh'?"
"I mean, you got some right not to like it? I mean, just what the hell is she to you for you to like or dislike it? Sure, you ain't got nothing, but you're still young and you're a pretty fair figure of a man, and Amy ain't the kind to count the money in your pocket. She was pretty taken with you; that's all that counts with her. And you seemed to reciprocate the feeling. And remember, I ain't standin' in your way. Got too much pride to use my job in a personal matter, even if I did want to . . . So let's have your answer. Just what the hell is she to you? Or maybe I should say, what'd you like to have her be to you?"
"Hell." Bugs squirmed. "What's this all about, anyway? I'm busy, and I hardly know the girl and--"
"You can be unbusy a minute longer. And maybe you know her too well. You feel like you know her too well, and you don't like what you know."
"For God's sake, Ford! I told you that--"
"Why don't you say it? Spit it out. Say that she might be all right for you to play around with, but she ain't good enough for anything more."
_So all right_, Bugs thought savagely. _I do feel that way, kind of. And how can you blame me for that?_
He didn't say anything, however.
Although he might as well have.
Ford stared at him, lip curling, his face a mask of profane wonderment. "Well, I," he said, incredulously, "I will be a son-of-a-bitch! Never let no one call me that in my life, but I'll say it myself. I will be a dirty double-donged son-of-abitch! . . . A jailbird like you. A stupid, stubborn jerk that never did a damned thing right in his life, that's fouled up everything, and you think . . ."
He turned slowly and walked away.
Scowling defensively, Bugs re-entered the hotel. So maybe he had botched up his whole life. Or, rather, since it wasn't his fault, it had been botched up for him. That was why he had to be extra careful now. Because he wasn't so young any more, and just about one more wrong move would foul him up for good.
And just where--and this was what completely bewildered Bugs--where did Ford get off at lecturing another guy about Amy? He was no good, a crook and a grafter. She'd been a sweet clean girl, and he'd made her into something not so sweet and clean. And then, the low-down louse, he kidded her about it in front of a stranger! He was that kind of guy, he did that to her. And yet he had the gall to bawl out the aforesaid stranger for his entirely natural concern with what had happened before he came along!
Hell, hell, hell!
Bugs stood in a corner of the vaulted lobby, smoking a cigarette in short angry puffs. Noting absently that Rosalie Vara had returned from her dinner--or wherever she had been--and was once again at work on the mezz'.
She saw him looking at her and flirted a hand at him. He grinned back weakly, and sauntered toward the elevators.
Well, nuts, he thought. He was getting all up in the air over nothing. Getting the cart a mile in front of the horse. This was a hell of a time to be thinking about Amy Standish, her or any other woman. To be thinking about anything except hanging onto his job, and staying out of trouble. And he wouldn't have been if Ford hadn't hailed him there in the coffee shop, and acted like the doubledistilled son-of-a-bitch which he admitted being.
Well. Well, maybe it was all for the best. Maybe Ford had done him a favor. He hadn't been afraid, exactly, but naturally he'd been pretty shaken up over what had happened to Dudley. And then Ford had latched onto him, diverting his mind from Dudley until it could accept his death without shock. Until he was prepared to face up to the death in front of Ford with no telltale nervousness.
Yeah, everything had worked out for the best. The means hadn't been exactly pleasant, maybe, but the result had been perfect. Because he was safe, now. He'd been in a mess that might have meant curtains for him, but now he was safe.
He wondered why he felt so lousy.
He wondered why, meaning as well as he did, he was always getting into messes.
7
. . . Bugs was working as a guard in an aircraft plant when World War II broke out. Since the beginning of his working career, he had almost always landed in jobs as a night watchman or a guard or something of the kind. He wasn't trained for a well-paying position--the kind a man might be proud to hold. And having a little authority, even at relatively low pay, helped to buck up his ego.
This particular job was somewhat better than average, and Bugs did his best to hold onto it. He did everything he was supposed to, nothing that he shouldn't; sticking to the rule book right to the letter. And his best wasn't good enough.
The chief engineer's wife showed up at the plant one day. She had a pass, as was required, but she also had a sealed package. And Bugs, over her vehement protests, insisted on opening it. It contained a box of sanitary napkins.
She departed the plant in tears. About thirty minutes later--just as quickly as she could reach her husband by telephone and he could get in touch with the plant superintendent--Bugs departed with his final paycheck.
The loss of the job lost him his draft deferment. Bugs went into the Army where he shortly found himself an MP. He was patrolling the airplane hangars one evening when he discovered a man in a Russian officer's uniform prowling amongst the planes. Accosted by Bugs, the man complimented him on his alertness, and displayed the credentials of an American general.
Well. As Bugs admitted at his court-martial, he recognized the credentials as genuine; he had even recognized the general. Still, the masquerade had been a damned stupid thing, a violation of regulations in itself. And he, Bugs, had been entirely within his rights in insisting that the general march ahead of him to a guard post where an officer could dispose of his case. The general had refused, profanely and violently. He had started to walk away from Bugs. Bugs told him to halt. When he kept on going, Bugs shot him in the hip.
The shooting cost him two years in the Army stockade. He was also sentenced to a dishonorable discharge, but a higher court toned that down to a discharge under honorable conditions, also remitting six months of his previously forfeited pay.
He was in San Diego, looking around and resting on the money when he met his wife-to-be.
It happened one Sunday, at the city's justly famous zoo. Bugs was standing in front of the monkey cages, one of the crowd of people tossing peanuts through the bars and watching the animals' antics. He was standing there gawking and grinning, and thinking he looked pretty nice in his new suit of clothes, when a monkey reached behind him suddenly, came up with a brimming handful of ordure, and flung it all over him.
Talk about messes. He looked like he'd just crawled through a sewer. And everyone was laughing at him, really knocking themselves out. And he didn't know what the hell he was going to do; how he could get across town ten miles to his room where he could wash up and change clothes.
Then a hand touched his arm, closed over it gently, and he looked down into a face that wasn't laughing, but only tender and sympathetic. And he realized later that a dame didn't get a pan on her like that in less than forty years. But at the time, she looked like an angel to him.
She had a little apartment nearby. He was more than welcome to come there and get himself in order. Gratefully, he accepted the invitation.
He bathed and scrubbed himself, while she worked over his clothes in the kitchen. Then, with a sheet pulled around him, he sat down on the bed to wait for the return of the garments. She came in with them, finally, dressed in a robe. She started to hand them to him, and somehow accidentally-on-purpose her robe fell open. And apparently she'd had some laundry to do of her own, because she sure as hell wasn't wearing any.
Naturally, she was thoroughly mortified. As she put it, she felt just like sinking through the floor. By the way of compromise, she sank down on the bed instead, where, needless to say, her nudity was promptly covered with more of the same.
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