"Wilson, F Paul - adversary 2 - The Tomb" - читать интересную книгу автора (Wilson F. Paul)

"You know the address?"
"I know it's a yellow townhouse on Sutton Square. There's only one."
"I'll tell her to expect you."
And then she hung up.
Jack tossed the receiver in his hand, cradled it on the answerphone again, and
flipped the switch to ON.
He was going to see Gia today. She had called him. She hadn't been friendly and
she had said she was calling for someone elseЧbut she had called. That was more
than she had done since she had walked out. He couldn't help feeling good.
He strolled through his third-floor apartment's front room, which served as
living room and dining room. He found the room immensely comfortable, but few
visitors shared his enthusiasm. His best friend, Abe Grossman, had, in one of
his more generous moods, described the room as "claustrophobic." When Abe was
feeling grumpy he said it made the Addams Family house look like it had been
decorated by Bauhaus.
Old movie posters covered the walls along with bric-a-brac shelves loaded with
the "neat stuff" Jack continually picked up in forgotten junk stores during his
wanderings through the city. He wound his way through a collection of old
Victorian golden oak furniture that left little room for anything else. There
was a seven-foot hutch, intricately carved, a fold-out secretary, a sagging,
high-backed sofa, a massive claw-foot dining table, two end-tables whose legs
each ended in a bird's foot clasping a crystal sphere, and his favorite, a big,
wing-back chair.
He reached the bathroom and started the hated morning ritual of shaving. As he
ran the Trac II over his cheeks and throat he considered the idea of a beard
again. He didn't have a bad face. Brown eyes, dark brown hair growing perhaps a
little too low on his forehead. A nose neither too big nor too small. He smiled
at himself in the mirror. Not an altogether hideous grimaceЧwhat they used to
call a shit-eating grin. The teeth could have been whiter and straighter, and
the lips were on the thin side, but not a bad smile. An inoffensive face. As an
added bonus, there was a wiry, well-muscled, five-eleven frame that went along
with the face at no extra charge.
So what's not to like?
His smile faltered.
Ask Gia. She seems to think she knows what's not to like.
But all that was going to change starting today.
After a quick shower, he dressed and downed a couple of bowls of Cocoa Puffs,
then strapped on his ankle holster and slipped the world's smallest .45, a
Semmerling skeleton model LM-4, into it. He knew the holster was going to be hot
against his leg, but he never went out unarmed. His peace of mind would
compensate for any physical discomfort.
He checked the peephole in the front door, then twisted the central knob,
retracting the four bolts at the top, bottom, and both sides. The heat in the
third floor hall slammed against him at the threshold. He was wearing Levis and
a lightweight short-sleeved shirt. He was glad he had skipped the undershirt.
Already the humidity in the hall was worming its way into his clothes and oozing
over his skin as he headed down to the street.
Jack stood on the front steps for a moment. Sunlight glared sullenly through the
haze over the roof of the Museum of Natural History far down the street to his
right. The wet air hung motionless above the pavement. He could see it, smell