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

"If you're that dumb, yeah. Me, I got an awful low boiin' point for dumbness. Riles me worse'n a cactus under a saddle blanket."
"But what--"
But there was no use asking that again. Ford, in a way, occupied the same position Bugs was in.
Did he want Mike Hanlon kiled?--Bugs's cooperation in murdering the old man? Possibly, in fact, very probably, it would seem. But Ford couldn't say so until he was sure of Bugs's feelings.
Or did he want the opposite? To pin a rap of conspiracy of attempt to commit murder on Joyce Hanlon? That also was possible. But again Ford could not admit it without knowing Bugs's sentiments. Bugs might tip off Joyce. Forewarned, she would hold her plans in abeyance, and Hanlon would never be safe.
"Well?" Ford said. "Well, Bugs?"
"I don't know what you're talking 'bout," Bugs said. "I don't know and I don't want to know."
Ford took the cigar from his mouth, studied the tip of it absently. He rolled it between his fingers, then let it drop into the wastebasket.
"So you don't know," he said. "Ain't got the slightest idea of what I been talkin' about. Could be that that's an answer itself, which ain't to say, of course, that I'm real fond of it."
"Look, Ford," Bugs said. "Honest to God, now, don't you think you're asking a hell of a lot?"
"Well, maybe," Ford nodded judiciously. "Yes, sir, I could be. Wouldn't be too much to ask of a man, but seem' that you're more in the nature of a man with a boy's head . .
"Go on," Bugs grunted. "You know I have to take it."
"Ain't it the truth? Yes, sir, it's plain gospel an that's a fact . . ."
Ford continued to talk. For a full five minutes, the bitter, biting drawl lashed Bugs unmercifully, leaving him sick and shaking with fear and fury. Then, at last, it was over, and the deputy stood up.
"Been meanin' to tell you that for a long time," he said mildly. "Just by way of bein' helpful, y' know. It ain't got no direct bearin' on the problem we been discussin'. About that now--that no-answer answer you gave me--I guess we'll just have to wait an' see. Or maybe it'd be better to say I'll wait and see. I'll do the waitin' and seem', and you can be doin' some real hard hopin'."

16
Bugs ate dinner at Amy's house that night. It was a simple but tasty meal of baked beans, salad and cornbread. But you couldn't have proved it by him. As absorbed in worry as he was, he could have eaten sawdust and brickbats and never known the difference.
A full stomach stilled the worries to an extent. Replaced them with an uneasy sluggishness. He helped her wash and dry the dishes, and then they moved into the livingroom. They talked, seated on the ancient horsehair sofa, with Bugs's contributions to the converstion growing fewer and fewer, shorter and shorter. Finally, he lapsed into a complete and prolonged silence.
Amy nudged him. She got up suddenly, sat down on his knees, and kissed him on the mouth. Now, she said, would he wake up? Would he or not wake up? Bugs woke up. Even in his black mood, the treatment was effective. Amy allowed him to demonstrate that he was fully awake. Then, pulling away a little, she tilted his chin up with her hand.
"Mac ... what's bothering you? I'm sure something must be."
"Naw," Bugs shrugged. "Just dopey, is all. Didn't sleep too good today" Then he shifted his eyes, added casually, "What have I got to be bothered about?"
"I don't know. Would you tell me if you were in--if you were having trouble of any kind?"
"Well, sure. Why not? If I thought you wanted to hear about it."
"You wouldn't be . . . you wouldn't think that you couldn't trust me?"
Bugs kissed her. He couldn't or wouldn't answer the question in his own mind, so he did it that way. Amy seemed satisfied, and dropped the subject.
But the following night, as he was leaving, she brought it up again.
"I'm not asking what the trouble is, Mac. Just if there is any."
"Now, listen, Amy--"
"I'm sorry. I just thought that might be the reason, you know. Why you didn't say anything to me about. . . anything. I mean, if you were in trouble you might feel that-- Oh, just listen to me!" She laughed suddenly, with brittle shrillness. "Did you ever hear anyone so mixed-up in your life?"
"Amy . . ." Bugs began.
"No. No, please, Mac!" She stepped back through the door, leaving him on the porch. "I'm tired and it's getting late, and--You run along, now, and I'll see you tomorrow night."
The door closed, the lock clicked, the hall light went off. Bugs turned uncertainly and headed for the hotel.
It was still short of ten-thirty when he reached the Hanlon. Plenty of time yet before he was due on the job. He parked his car at the side of the building and remained in it. Smoking and brooding. Watching the street ahead of him.
The more he thought about it, the more chagrined he became over his trip to Westex City. He'd really pinned a label on himself with that stunt. Tied a rope around his neck and handed the other end to Lou Ford. And, hell, even if he hadn't run into Ford, or if Ford hadn't been tailing him, the trip still would have been so much time wasted.
He couldn't hang around the Westex general-delivery window. He couldn't hang around indefinitely outside the building. Rather, he could, but what the hell could he expect it to make him? Because, naturally as any damned fool should know, the blackmailer wasn't going to go near the place. There'd be a third party, someone Bugs wouldn't know or recognize. And why in the name of God, he hadn't seen that--!
Well--Bugs grudgingly excused himself--there'd been no apparent necessity for him to think of it. He'd been sure that the blackmailer was Rosalie Vara--equally confident that she was sufficiently naive to walk into his trap. He'd've known better, of course, if he'd known that the woman in question was a mickey artist. But he'd had no way of knowing that. So he'd done what he had, and it wasn't particularly stupid under the circumstances. And, anyway there was no use in beating himself over the head about it now.
The point was that the traditional trap for a blackmailer-- the only one he could think of--would not work in this case. Not for a man who was on the wrong side of the fence himself and could get no aid from the other side. Somehow, he'd just have to figure out who she was--if it was a she. And he already knew that it wasn't, that it couldn't be, and he also knew that--
Savagely, Bugs hurled his cigarette out the window, severed the nagging circle of his thoughts.
Similarly he refused to think about what he would do when, and if, he caught up with-him-her-it--whoever the blackmailer was. He'd do _something_, that was a cinch. Whatever was necessary. Couldn't say what it would be until the time came.
A bellboy was crossing the intersection at the next corner. A slick-haired youth, with a pale phlegmatic face. A cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth, and he carried a canvas mailsack over his shoulder.
He came down the walk with the tiredly jaunty stride peculiar to bellboys. Nearing the side entrance, he took a long pull on the cigarette, flicked it into the street. And went through the double doors at what was practically a trot. Bugs grinned sourly to himself. Those damned bellboys; they worked at a hotel, rather than for it. The hotel was only one of numerous bosses, the people they waited on: the cranks and drunks, the grouches and snides, the rubes and the sharpies. And to survive they learned every trick in the book. They had to be pulling some kind of swiftie--no matter how small--or they just didn't feel right.
This lad now, he'd probably dogged it all the way to the post office and back. But, returning, he went through the door like he was shot out of a gun.
Bugs smoked another cigarette. Then he got out of the car and moved slowly toward the side door. The mail the bellboy had brought would be the last one until tomorrow. It was a light mail, due to the lateness of the pick-up, so it should be all put up in the room-boxes by now. He could find out now whether--
He didn't want to. If there was a letter, well, there'd be a letter. But there was no point in running to look for a headache.
He walked around to the front of the Hanlon and entered the coffee shop. He had coffee and some cherry pie a la mode, and went through the doors to the lobby
Feet dragging unconsciously, he came down the marble checkerboard of its floor to the front office. He stopped parallel with the key rack, turned and looked.
There wasn't any letter. Only another call-slip from Joyce Hanlon. He accepted it with a suppressed sigh of relief and began his tour of the corridors.
Probably he decided, he ought to give Joyce a ring sometime soon. After all, she might want to talk to him about something other than what he had assumed she did. And, anyhow, there could be no harm in just talking. It could be, even, that he'd be doing himself a favor. Might find out something from her that would be useful to know. As, for example, just how things stood between her and Lou Ford.
Yeah, he guessed he'd better do it. Every reason why he should, and none--practically--why he shouldn't.