"Wilson-Retired" - читать интересную книгу автора (Wilson Robin)

there."

Excited, Arnie rose to pace between cases, snapping his fingers. "Figures
they're not just settin' up there twiddlin' their thumbs all week waitin' for
Saturday. They gotta have some way of knowin' when you show up with something
they can-- uh -- harvest. They musta, them guys up there in that thing, they
musta put something in when they took that thing outta you, back there, back in
March. Something like that gizmo they stick into bears and deers so's they can
track 'em, or that thing, in cop stories on TV, you know, that thing they stick
up under the tailpipe of a crook's car so's they can follow him around."

The logic was compelling. The truth overwhelming. Neither man doubted that Pop
must have something stuck up under his tailpipe.

Because they had been wise enough to eschew formal leadership, let those who
wanted to run things do so unless and until they angered too many members, the
Retired Men's Social Club & Ladies' Auxiliary seldom held anything that could be
called a meeting, or took a vote, or formed factions, cliques, alliances,
cabals, or blocs. Hence they generally drank and smoked together in
unfashionable peace and complained about whose turn it was to do what and with
which but without real animosity, although like all volunteers they took their
pay in hitching rights.

The first Saturday evening after labor Day was as close as they had come to a
formal meeting since the decision to buy the Wurlitzer two years before. Pop was
absent, presumably resting up as usual after an arduous afternoon on the lake.
But alter Arnie had shared the supposition that Pop probably had something stuck
in him somewhere that ought to be removed, the rest of the club spent a noisy
but generally good-natured three hours in a series of debates.

To their credit, although they all realized it might be the end of the best
health plan in America, the burden of discussion was not whether but how. A
D-Day veteran proposed an Entebbe-style raid during which the duty ER surgeon at
Community Memorial could be forced at gunpoint to look for and remove the
whatever.

"Yeah," said Chuck Binder, who'd been a sheriff's deputy for thirty-five years,
"that's about fifteen felonies, and what planet do we all go to live on when
we're done?"

Some of the lady auxiliaries who'd served on school or union committees or
negotiated deals to exact a little civility from their teenage children
suggested a meet-and-confer session with County Health. "Lay out the situation
in detail," said Marge Fromm. "Get the support of the medical professionals."

Mary Orton, who in forty years as a rural nurse practitioner had done at least
as much good doctoring as the Mayo brothers, snorted. Said nothing in the
ensuing silence, just snorted again, and Marge's suggestion died.

The debate rumbled to a halt at a little after ten when Pop, still unrested from