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

He drove on, as though he were heading out of town. then, after a block or so, he whipped around a corner and sped back toward the business section.
He found a suitable parking place. A side-street spot which was near his destination and hers. He left the car in it, hastened up to the main thoroughfare, and entered a restaurant.
It was directly across from the post office. Seated a few stools down the counter, he could see both entrances of the building.
If he had been less intent on those entrances, if say he had taken a good look around the restaurant, he might have seen--
But, no, probably he wouldn't have. The place was expensive, pretentious, dimly lit in the sometime fashion of such places. So, even if he had looked around, it is doubtful that he would have seen the two people in the distant rear booth.
But he could be seen. Not by Amy Standish, since her back was to the entrance. But Lou Ford, seated on the opposite bench, could see him perfectly.
He gave no sign of the fact to Amy made no mention of Bugs's presence. He went on with his meal, drawling idly grinning at the girl's bitter or dispirited rejoinders. But he was watching interestedly, noting Bugs's watchfulness, the course of his intent stare. And so he saw what Bugs saw. And when Bugs jumped up and left the restaurant, he also arose.
Bugs had given her a couple of minutes inside the post office. He reached the entrance just as she was coming out of it, shoving something into her purse. And her eyes widened, and she stopped dead in her tracks.
"Why, Mr. McKenna," she faltered. "What. . . I thought that--"
"I know what you thought!" Bugs gripped her by the arm. "Come on!"
"But--" Her trembling smile fell apart. She held back fearfully. "B-but--what have I done? Why are you--?"
"I'm warning you, Rosie!" Bugs gritted. "I don't want to hurt you, but if you don't move I'll move you. I'll rip that arm right off you!"
She held back a moment longer, started to say something else. Then, all the spirit seemed to go out of her, all the quiet pride and self-assurance. And she went with him meekly.
He hustled her back to his car. He shoved her into it roughly, crowded in at her side. She was crying a little now, pressing her fingers against her eyes to hold back the tears.
Bugs took here purse, and yanked it open. . . .

12
The place was a few miles outside of Ragtown; there are places like it near almost every town and city. Areas densely overgown with trees, cluttered with shrubs and bushes, laced with a winding maze of footpaths and car tracks. They are isolated, yet easily accessible. They have various names, all carrying the same slyly lewd connotation.
. . . The two "girls"--women of about thirty--had draped their clothes over some convenient tree limbs. Now, stripped to their slips, they shivered in the chilly West Texas morning.
"Wonder what's keeping those guys?" grumbled the girl called Peg. "Why the hell couldn't they undress here, like we did?"
"Now, honey" murmured her companion, Gladys. "Real swell fellas like that, you can't ask a lot of questions. You don't find guys every day that pop for twenty bucks."
"Yeah. I guess . . . You s'pose our purses are all right in the car, Glad?"
"Why not? The fellas are lockin' it up tight, aren't they?"
"Well, I wish I'd brought my coat with me, anyhow. I paid five hundred bucks for that hunk of fur, and--"
"And what did I pay for mine, hon? Exactly the same, wasn't it? We both started saving for 'em at the same time. Now, you know we wouldn't want to drag those nice coats around these bushes."
"But I'm cold, darn it! I'm absolutely freezing!"
"Well, now, you won't be very long, hon. The fellas are bound to--"
The sudden roar of a motor drowned out her sentence. A lessening roar as a car was slammed into gear and driven away The girls looked at each other dumbfounded. They broke into curses, scampered a few futile steps in pursuit. Then, weeping, they fell into one another's arms.
Ed and Ted Gusick were stripping the purses as they drove. Slowing down, they tossed them into the bushes, then gathered speed again. And then, as they neared the highway, Ted suddenly slammed on the brakes.
A man had stumbled out of the underbrush, tumbled directly in the path of their car. He lurched to his feet again--a man in shape only--a ragged, bedraggled, stinking bundle of filth. Cursing frightfully he wobbled toward them.
"Friggers! Caught you, didn't I? Up'n the goddamned floor, an' no friggin' around about it!"
"Listen, Mr. Westbrook. . ." Ted and Ed eased out of the car, watching him cautiously "It's me--you know, Ted Gusick. And here's Ed, right here with me. Now--"
"No 'scuses!" Westbrook bellowed. "Makes no difference who y'are. Either y'cut the stuff'r--I'll show you, by God!"
He came at them in a rush. Ted tripped him nimbly Ed caught him under the arms, and lowered him gently to the ground.
He began to cry, sobbing out curses as the tears streamed down his bristled, filth-smeared face. Ed looked worriedly at his brother.
"Jesus," he whispered. "What are we gonna do with him, Ted?"
"Do with him? Why we're gonna take him with us, you jerk."
"But--what then? I mean, what are we gonna do?"
Ted didn't have the slightest idea. Being at a loss for one--and in typical Gusick fashion--he responded with a kind of self-righteous abuse.
"I suppose you want to leave him here, you rotten sonof-a-bitch! Just walk off and leave a fine man like Mr. Westbrook. Well, I always thought you were pretty goddamned low-down, and now by God, I know it!"
He swung irritably, landing a painful punch in Ed's ribs. Ed swung, with identical results. These formalities dispensed with, they loaded Westbrook into their car, made him peaceful with a gently expert tap on the button and drove off.
They lived in the old-family section of town, in an excellent apartment, which, before its transformation, had been the loft of the family barn. The building was on an alley, a good two hundred feet removed from the house. The lower floor was boarded up, and the only entrance to their apartment was from the alley. Briefly they could just about do as they pleased, come and go as they pleased, without being heard or observed. And lovers of privacy that they were-- for reasons which need not be gone into--they were delighted to pay the boom-town rental of three hundred dollars a month.
They got Westbrook up the stairs unseen and installed him in the master bedroom. They bathed him, fed him, waited on and catered to him; and they continued to do so from that day on.
They got him through the d.t.'s with drugs pilfered from the hotel doctor. They doled out drinks to him, trying to taper him off the binge. They were partially successful in this, getting him down to a mere few pints a day. But even this relatively small amount, combined with Westbrook's totally hopeless outlook, was enough to keep him sodden. He had nothing to hang on to. Nothing to go forward or back to. So he succumbed to the booze, accepted its deadening and deadly embrace without resistance.
Ted and Ed pleaded with him. They declared--as they believed--that he was the best damned hotel man in the country; one of the few real hotel men left--and if he'd just pull himself together . . .
Things were going to pot at the Hanlon. A new manager had lasted just one day, and now old Mike was trying to swing the job himself, with the help of the chief clerk. And, brother, were they bitching up the joint! He'd be tickled to death to get Mr. Westbrook back, if he'd just get off the goddammed whiz. So--so how about it, huh, Mr. Westbrook. Get right off it, huh, sir, and everything'll be swell.
Westbrook wept babyishly, charging them with prevarication and boobishness. Then, getting a grip on himself, he lashed them with ear-purpling profanity He would do something, all right! He would keep them under the closest observation, see to it that they did not cut his throat and steal his clothes, as, indubitably, they planned on doing.
He would see to it that they conducted themselves properly while in his presence; that never in any way did they give any outward manifestation of their pimpish, thieving, shiftless, impertinent and generally bastardly souls. They would tell him no more of their goddamned lies about the hotel--and anything they said _would_ be a goddamned lie. He had put up with them as long as he intended to, and from now on, by God, they would toe the mark, or he personally would kick the crap out of them.
"And I can do it, get me?"--this with a belligerently redeyed glare. "You think I can't, just give me a little more trouble."
"Yes, sir. Certainly, sir, Mr. Westbrook"