"Roger Zelazny - Amber 06 - Trumps Of Doom" - читать интересную книгу автора (Zelazny Roger)

Someone enjoyed trying to kill me once a year, it was as simple as that.
The effort failing, there would be another year's pause before an attempt was
made again. It seemed almost a game.
But this year I wanted to play, too. My main concern was that he, she, or
it seemed never to be present when the event occurred, favoring stealth and
gimmicks or agents. I will refer to this person as S (which sometimes stands
for "sneak" and sometimes for "shithead" in my private cosmology), because X
has been overworked and because I do not like to screw around with pronouns
with disputable antecedents.
I rinsed my coffee cup and the pot and set them in the rack. Then I picked
up my bag and departed. Mr. Mulligan wasn't in, or was sleeping, so I left my
key in his mailbox before heading up the street to take my breakfast at a
nearby diner.
Traffic was light, and all of the vehicles well behaved. I walked slowly,
listening and looking. It was a pleasant morning, promising a beautiful day. I
hoped to settle things quickly, so I could enjoy it at my leisure.
I reached the diner unmolested. I took a seat beside the window. Just as
the waiter came to take my order I saw a familiar figure swinging along the
street - a former classmate and later fellow employee Lucas Raynard: six feet
tall, red-haired, handsome in spite, or perhaps because, of an artistically
broken nose, with the voice and manner of the salesman he was.
I knocked on the window and he saw me, waved, turned and entered.
"Merle, I was right," he said, coming up to the table, clasping my
shoulder briefly, seating himself and taking the menu out of my hands. "Missed
you at your place and guessed you might be here."
He lowered his eyes and began reading the menu.
"Why?" I asked.
"If you need more time to consider, I'll come back," the waiter said.
"No," Luke answered and read off an enormous order.
I added my own.
Then: "Because you're a creature of habit."
"Habit?" I replied. "I hardly eat here anymore."
"I know," he answered, "but you usually did when the pressure was on.
Like, right before exams - or if something was bothering you."
"Hmm," I said: There did seem to be something to that, though I had never
before realized it. I spun the ashtray with its imprint of a unicorn's head, a
smaller version of the stained-glass one that stood as part of a partition
beside the doorway: "I can't say why," I finally stated. "Besides, what makes
you think something's bothering me?"
"I remembered that paranoid thing you have about April 30, because of a
couple of accidents."
"More than a couple. I never told you about all of them."
"So you still believe it?"
"Yes."
He shrugged. The waiter came by and filled our coffee cups.
"Okay," he finally agreed. "Have you had it yet today?"
"No."
"Too bad. I hope it doesn't pall your thinking."
I took a sip of coffee.
"No problem," I told him.