"Thompson, Jim - Wild Town" - читать интересную книгу автора (Thompson Jim)

"Because, that's why. Now, be a sweet darling, hmm? Give Joyce one of those real pretty smiles."
"Horseshit!"
"With sugar on it? Hmm? Hmm? Come on, now, grouchy. Let's see you smile."
She tickled him in the ribs. Bugs squirmed, grinned unwillingly.
"Now, that's better . . . What did Mike want with you this morning, honey? What did he talk to you about?"
"Nothing. How do you know he talked to me at all?"
"Now, Bugs. I'm a very bright little girl, and the wife of the owner finds out lots of things."
"Then, find out what he talked to me about . . . Well, hell," Bugs said, "it wasn't anything much. Just wanted a report on the suicide. Why I thought Dudley had done it, and so on."
"Yes?"
"Well, he was short in his books I know. At least, Westbrook said he was. Incidentally, I suppose you've heard that Westbrook has--"
"Yes, yes," Joyce cut in. "Forget Westbrook. All I'm interested in is Dudley."
"Why? You and him pally, were you?"
"Now, silly. I hardly knew him to speak to. I doubt if I'd ever passed a half-a-dozen words with him. Why--"
"Whoa, whoa up, now"--Bugs drew his head back to look at her. "I just asked you a question. It's not a federal case."
"Well, I didn't know Dudley at all! He was just another one of the employees, as far as I was concerned. I only asked about him because of you."
"Yeah?"
"Yes! Now, stop it, Bugs! This is serious. Did Mike--did he blame you? I mean--well, you know. Do you think he, uh, held it against you for any reason? That he, uh, trusted you any the less because of it?"
Bugs was getting tired. Perhaps because of his increasing awareness that that was all he was going to get. He studied her covertly, noting the tiny wrinkles around her eyes, a thin furrow of powder on her neck--a dozen distasteful things which the excitement of sex play had blinded him to. Self-disgust rose in his throat. He felt ashamed dirty, filthy. He told himself--and he meant it--that he wouldn't take her now if she was served up on a platter.
God, what had he been thinking about, anyway? What kind of a guy was he getting to be? He knew what she was angling for, and here he'd gone right ahead and jumped at the bait.
"No, Joyce," he said. "No, he does not trust me any less, Joyce. Not one damned bit. And do you know why he doesn't, Joyce? Because he knows damned well he doesn't have any reason to. And, Joyce, he never will have!"
He nodded his head firmly. Joyce gave him a playful pat on the cheek, spoke with forced lightness.
"Now, isn't that nice? That's real nice, isn't it?"
"Yes," said Bugs. "I think it's very nice."
"It's too bad that he isn't a younger man. That he's sick and old. He might do a great deal for you. You're still young, and--What's the matter, honey?" Her eyes shifted nervously. "Why are you looking at me like that?"
"I was just thinking," Bugs said. "You know I used to play a lot of football? Pretty good at the game at one time."
"Football? But what--"
"It isn't worth getting up for, so I was wondering. Whether I could give you a good hard kick in the ass from a prone position."
"_Wh-aat!_" She let out a gasp, sat up angrily. "Well, of all--"
Bugs hand slid under her buttocks. He boosted, viciously, and she soared from the bed, came down on her feet on the floor.
"Now, beat it," he said. "Clear out before I bounce you out."
She sputtered furiously. Her eyes raged for a moment; there was something close to murder in them. And then she laughed. Laughing down his threats. Leaving him frustrated and disarmed.
She wouldn't get angry with him. She was not the kind to get angry where it would cost her. And after her first brief flash of temper, she had felt no anger. The rough stuff--she'd been weaned on it. She'd known plenty of guys who substituted a kick in the slats for a kiss, and more than once she had found herself thinking of them fondly. They weren't so bad, some of those fellows. At least, a girl never got bored around them.
So as Bugs grumbled and cursed futilely, she sat down on the bed, again; rumpled his hair, patted and poked him with caressing tenderness.
"Now, just stop it, you old bear. . . big overgrown brute. I'll come back tonight after you've rested, and--"
"You'd by-God better not come back tonight!"
"Well, soon then. Whatever you say. We'll have a nice, sweet talk real soon, and maybe . . ."
"_Get out of here!_ . . ."
"Okay, Mama knows he's tired, so she'll just tuck him in real good, and--"
"Mama? _Mama!_" Bugs's voice cracked with outrage. "Jesus Christ, what kind of a woman are you, anyway? How the hell can--"
"Now, now. Just hold your legs out like a good boy."
She gripped the cuffs of his trousers, pulled them off expertly. Draping them over a chair, she tucked the bedclothes up under his chin and planted a lingering kiss upon his mouth.
"Now," she said, gathering up her purse. "Now, you'll sleep _good!_ . . ."
It was probably the misstatement of the century. Despite two cold showers and four aspirins, he didn't sleep at all. And it did no damned good at all to tell himself that he was eight kinds of a heel, and that he ought to be ashamed.
He was _ashamed_. He was also frightened--plenty. But it didn't change anything.
He was so far gone that when Rosalie Vara came to do his room, he made occasion to brush against her.
She stood perfectly motionless for a moment, still bent over from the bedspread. Then, gently but firmly, her rounded hips returned the pressure of his body.
Bugs got out of the room fast.

10
By morning, he was approximately his old self again. He had wallowed in worry and reproach, shrived his shamed soul with the acid of disgust; and then finally he had emerged, shaky, a little frayed around the edges. But also spotless--practically--and filled with firm resolve.