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

Joyce Hanlon? Well, she was capable of it, all right. And it would perfectly suit her purposes to swing a club like this at him. She wouldn't actually want the money, of course. It would simply be a means of making him sweat, crowding him into a corner. Then she would step in and offer him a way out.
Unfortunately--unfortunately since Bugs wanted her to be the culprit--he knew that Joyce could not have been the lady in the bathroom. He'd talked to her seconds after Dudley's tumble from the window. She couldn't possibly have got from Dudley's room to her own in time to receive that call.
So that left Rosalie Vara; she had to be it. Rosie whom he had always liked and gone out of his way to be nice to.
She'd gotten the five grand, and now . . . Well, maybe Dudley had kidded her that he had more, another five. Or maybe she was just making the old college try.
A man may not have much, but he's apt to bust a gut getting it. _If_ it seems the only way to stay out of jail or the chair.
Bugs shredded and re-shredded the letter, and dropped it into a sand jar. He guessed he must have kind of been expecting something like this--although not from Rosie. Because he was worried, naturally, but not greatly surprised. This was the kind of lousy break he always got. It would have been damned strange if he got anything else.
But he'd smartened up a lot since his last bad break. And he had a lot more to fight for than he used to have. So maybe he'd wind up catching it in the neck again--catching it worse than he ever had before--but he sure as hell didn't plan to. What he planned (and the details were already forming in his mind) was something else entirely.
Rosie . . .
Slowly, his eyes lifted up to the mezzanine, seeking her, then shifted to the huge square-faced clock at the head of the lobby.
Eleven-thirty She'd be, or should be, up on the room floors at this time.
Bugs pushed himself up from his chair. He strolled over to the elevator bank and ascended to the twelfth floor. He was very calm, casual. Maybe, he guessed, the full implications of his predicament hadn't had time to register on him. Or it could be that he found it hard to feel anything much toward Rosie but hurt and irritation. At any rate, he had seldom been calmer, more sure of himself, in his life.
She had admitted herself to his room with her maid's key, and was now busily at work. Bugs got some cigarettes and a clean handkerchief out of his dresser drawer, said that, yes, he had been getting out of the room early the last couple of nights.
"Figured I was getting stale, y'know, just eating and sleeping and working. I'm going to try getting out a lot more, from now on."
"Well, now, I think you should, Mr. McKenna," she nodded seriously. "This night work . . . well, of course, I'm very happy in my job. But I do find myself getting into a rut."
It was an opening, she'd handed it to him herself. Casually, Bugs moved into it. "You get that way, too, huh? Well, look, I'm driving over to Westex City the day after tomorrow. Pulling out right after work. How about coming along with me?"
"_With you?_" She gave a start. "But--but--"
"Fellow I've got to see a few miles the other side of Westex. Owns a lot of property in that section. I'm having him rush me some money tomorrow, so I'll have to go over and fix up a note or something."
"But . . . well, that's awfully nice of you to ask me, Mr. McKenna. But I--"
"I could drop you off there in town, and pick you up in a couple of hours. Don't suppose it would be very exciting for you; just the ride and lunch. But--"
"Mr. McKenna," she said. "Mr. McKenna . . ."
"Yeah?"
"I don't think I'd better. There isn't as much prejudice here in the Southwest as there is in the South, but I am a Negro, and--"
"So what?" Bugs shrugged. "You don't look like one. You won't be wearing a sign on your back."
Her eyes flashed; her lips came together in a proudly angry line. Because even for Bugs McKenna, the statement set a new high or low for tactlessness. And, yet, maybe it was that tactlessness--the apparently complete lack of guile--that turned the trick.
She stared at him a moment, eyes narrowed, lips compressed. Bugs looked back at her, the very picture of innocence personified. And, suddenly, she was laughing, bubbling over with delicious amusement.
"All right, Mr. McKenna." She dabbed at her eyes. "I'd like to go very much, if you're sure you want me. And as you say I won't have a sign on my back."
"Now, I didn't mean that like it sounded," Bugs said, sheepishly "I--"
"I know. I know how you mean it. . . .The day after tomorrow, you said?"
"That's right. I've got an appointment here in town tomorrow. Anyway, I have to be here to receive the money this fellow's sending me."
It went over perfectly, it seemed to Bugs. She left and he locked the door and sat down at his writing desk.
He took a half-dozen sheets of stationery from the drawer, tore them into crude oblongs. He stuffed them into a lettersize envelope, and stamped and addressed it. Later that night, he mailed it at a box outside of the hotel.
The night passed in the usual manner of his nights. Retiring at the end of his shift, he followed the routine of the previous two mornings. It wouldn't work indefinitely he guessed. Joyce was a very determined dame, and she was playing for big stakes. So, sooner or later, she'd start pressing. She'd ignore that sign on his door, or insist that the operators put her calls through.
But . . . first things first. He'd take care of her when the time came. Right now, there were other things to be taken care of.
He arose at five o'clock, was on his way in thirty minutes. There were a couple of call-slips in his box--and he leaned over the desk to make sure they were call-slips. Leaving them in the box, he went out the doors to the street.
He bought a bouquet of flowers, the best that five dollars would buy. Also, after a little mental calculation, he bought a one-pound box of candy Carrying these modest burdens, he knocked on Amy Standish's door at five minutes of six.
He knocked. He knocked and knocked. He noticed for the first time that all the shades were drawn, that there was no sound of activity in the house. He hesitated, uneasily, wondering if he could possibly have got mixed up on the invitation; whether it had been for tonight or some other night.
And the door cracked open an inch, and Amy spoke to him through the crevice. "Mac"--her voice sounded muffled, choked up. "What are you--? Didn't you get my message?"
"Message? Oh," Bugs said, remembering. "Well, I guess there was one in my box. But--"
"I'm sorry. We'll have to make it some other night, Mac."
"But look, what's the matter?" Bugs protested. "What's wrong? Did I do something that--"
"No, it's nothing you did. I--I can't talk about it now, Mac. Now, if you'll excuse me . . . _please_, Mac . . ."
Bugs persisted stubbornly. Hell, if she was sick or something, he wanted to know about it. Suddenly her voice cracked, rose hysterically.
"I said to go on! Leave me alone! I've told you and told you that I c-can't talk, and if you had any sense you'd-- you'd. . . ."
The door slammed in his face. Bugs glowered at it furiously. Then, he flung the candy and flowers to the porch and stamped back to the car.
He had a very bad time with himself for the next few hours. Disappointment mingled with anger, and anger with hurt. And . . . it was a very bad time. So bad that it burned itself out before much of the night had elapsed, and he could reason and be reasonable.
Of course, there was no excuse for what Amy had done. Couldn't be any that he could think of. Still, she had doubtless thought she had a reason for standing him up, even if she didn't have. And no matter how sore he was--or had been--he couldn't see her pulling such stunts for the hell of it. To see, that is, how much she could get away with. She'd been badly upset, too. She hadn't liked it any better than he did.
He became reasonably placid again, reasonably at peace with himself. By the end of his shift, he had firmly decided to forgive Amy . . . provided, naturally that she was properly contrite, and that she satisfactorily explained her actions.
. . . He picked up Rosalie Vara a couple blocks from the hotel. He had previously purchased a couple of containers of coffee and some sweet rolls, and they ate breakfast as they rode. Neither did much talking. Rosalie seemed very tired from her night's work, and Bugs was reluctant to talk. In view of what he had to do--and what she was doing to him--even maintaining a decent silence was an almost intolerable strain.
Westex City was a city in fact as well as name. Not a large one--the population was under fifty thousand--but one that was prosperous and important, since it was the field headquarters for various oil companies.
It was less than sixty miles from Ragtown. But what with the narrow highway and the heavy traffic, it was almost eleven when Bugs and Rosalie arrived. He made arrangements for meeting her later--entirely unnecessary arrangements, he thought grimly--and asked where she would like to be let out. She said politely that any place in the business district would be fine, so he dropped her off seven or eight blocks from the post office.