"Alan F. Troop - Dragon DelaSangre" - читать интересную книгу автора (Troop Alan F)

belonging to Jeremy Tindall, my family's attorney and the comanager of LaMar Associates. Frowning, I
wonder why he's chosen to work late. It's unlike Jeremy to show such initiative.
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I toy with the impulse to go upstairs and pay him a surprise visit. But I have little desire to confront him
tonight. Knowing Jeremy as I do, I never doubt whether he's plotting against me, looking for new ways
to divert some of my family's considerable wealth. Only the vigilance of his comanager, Arturo Gomez,
and the threat of my family's power keep him in check.

A long time ago I asked Father why he tolerated such an employee. He sighed. "Great wealth always
results in great temptation and great temptation invariably destroys honor. If I could, I'd do
without them all," he said. "But if you have to have employees, it's better to know one is a thief
than be surprised by it. I've found in my long life that the only men who could do great damage to
me were the ones I trusted.

"At least with Tindall, I know what I have. I can rely on him to behave in certain ways and
because of that, I can control him. But I would never trust him or any of the others, not even
Gomez. And you shouldn't either."

I make a mental note to call Gomez in the morning, warn him to be more vigilant, and then I turn my
attention to the bustle of the cars, the rush of people going about their business, celebrating another
evening in the Grove.

As I cross the street, passing the office buildings, I smile. I've missed the feel of concrete and asphalt
under my feet. As the neighborhood turns more residential and I walk past the manicured lawns and the
towering trees that fill each yard, I take deep breaths, smell the richness of the vegetation, the sharp tang
of newly cut grass and I relaxтАФthinking only of the evening before me.

Detardo's Steakhouse sits on the corner of 27th Avenue and 12th, a good two-mile hike from the bay.
Once fashionable, the area's on the wrong side of U.S. I now, almost hidden beneath the concrete
columns that shoulder the weight of the elevated Metrorail tracks. Only the restaurant's legendary
gargantuan steaks at picayune prices continue to lure patrons.

People still come, even though they have to park their oversize luxury cars in an unguarded lot,
illuminated by a few murky yellow security lights. They scurry past the dozens of winos who spend their
evenings lurking nearby, hidden behind the bushes and crouching in the shadows.

Max Leiber nods to me when I enter, motions me past the waiting crowd. "Mr. DelaSangre," he says,
winking a wrinkled eyelid, "the table you reserved is waiting."

The ancient maltre d' grasps my right elbow with his bony hand and guides me to a small table in a dimly
lit alcove. "You always seem to stay so young," he says as he hands me a menu he knows I won't use
and lights a small table candle I don't need. "I wish I knew your secret."

I smile in return, hand him the twenty-dollar bill he's come to expect. "Remind the chef how I like my
food prepared," I say, wishing him gone. He smells of age gone bad, weakened bladder and stale
cigarettes.