"Wayne Wightman - The Attack Of The Ignoroids" - читать интересную книгу автора (Wightman Wayne)

"Do it now, boss? Get some seed and --"

"I want you to keep an eye on the front yard tonight. You can --"

"I get a lawn chair, stay outta sight, they come back, I tap-dance on their
jewels, boss, you better believe it, that's right."

"Right, right. You ever sleep Cleetis?"

"Huh?"

About five that afternoon, Vera Kamchatka called to tell me she'd rented my old
house, the roach breeding colony. "What? Why? Vera, the deal was to leave it
empty a month and see if someone would burn it down --remember? You're in real
estate, you're supposed to understand these things."

"There was a good reason. We need to talk about it."

When she spoke, I could visualize those legs of hers, coming out of her body
about three feet below her voice.

"I've got three burn holes in my front yard, still unresolved fears that the IRS
is going to ask how I can afford to live in this house, a houseboy who, at this
very moment, is out screaming at dogs or something in the front yard, and I need
simplicity, Vera, not to be a liable landlord responsible for some human being
living in that trap. I could be sued."

Her voice lowered. "Ramsden, I need to talk to you. There have been anomalous
occurrences."

I loved it when she talked to me like that.

Still, from the front yard, Cleetis's shrill voice whooped and yapped
incoherently.

Enough was enough. I'd fire the half-wit. I didn't need any more strangeness in
my life. He kept the place clean but I didn't need someone who stood in the
front yard and screamed.

"Vera, I need to go see if Cleetis has hurt himself or if he's just longing for
the old days."

"Can you come over this evening?" she asked. "Seven o'clock."

Visions danced in my head. Vera stood an even six feet tall and in her real
estate clothes looked like a Detroit parole officer--hair back in a tight black
bun, eyes the color of frozen slag, and her thin lips the color of an aluminized
rose.

"I'll be th -- "