"Фредерик Браун. Night of the Jabberwock (англ) " - читать интересную книгу автора

I'd misjudged Miles Harrison; he was coming out of Smiley's already,
too soon even to have had a quick one, and he was opening a pack of
cigarettes. He saw me and waved, waiting in front of Smiley's door to light
a cigarette while I crossed the street.
"Have a drink with me, Miles," I suggested.
He shook his head regretfully. "Wish I could, Doc. But I got a job to
do later. You know, go with Ralph Bonney over to Neilsville to get his pay
roll."
Sure, I knew. In a small town everybody knows everything.
Ralph Bonney owned the Bonney Fireworks Company, just outside of Carmel
City. They made fireworks, mostly big pieces for fairs and municipal
displays, that were sold all over the country. And during the few months of
each year up to about the first of July they worked a day and a night shift
to meet the Fourth of July demand.
And Ralph Bonney had something against Clyde Andrews, president of the
Carmel City Bank, and did his banking in Neilsville. He drove over to
Neilsville late every Thursday night and they opened the bank there to give
him the cash for his night shift pay roll. Miles Harrison, as deputy
sheriff, always went along as guard.
Always seemed like a silly procedure to me, as the night side pay roll
didn't amount to more than a few thousand dollars and Bonney could have got
it along with the cash for his day side pay roll and held it at the office,
but that was his way of doing things.
I said, "Sure, Miles, but that's not for hours yet. And one drink isn't
going to hurt you."
He grinned. "I know it wouldn't, but I'd probably take another just
because the first one didn't hurt me. So I stick to the rule that I don't
have even one drink till I'm off duty for the day, and if I don't stick to
it I'm sunk. But thanks just the same, Doc. I'll take a rain check."
He had a point, but I wish he hadn't made it. I wish he'd let me buy
him that drink, or several of them, because that rain check wasn't worth the
imaginary paper it was printed on to a man who was going to be murdered
before midnight.
But I didn't know that, and I didn't insist. I said, "Sure, Miles," and
asked him about his kids.
"Fine, both of 'em. Drop out and see us sometime."
"Sure," I said, and I went into Smiley's.
Big, bald Smiley Wheeler was alone. He smiled as I came in and said,
"Hi, Doc. How's the editing business?" And then he laughed as though he'd
said something excruciatingly funny. Smiley hasn't the ghost of a sense of
humor and he has the mistaken idea that he disguises that fact by laughing
at almost everything he says or hears said.
"Smiley, you give me a pain," I told him. It's always safe to tell
Smiley a truth like that; no matter how seriously you say and mean it; he
thinks you're joking. If he'd laughed I'd have told him where he gave me a
pain, but for once he didn't laugh.
He said, "Glad you got here early, Doc. It's damn dull this evening."
"It's dull every evening in Carmel City," I told him. "And most of the
time I like it. But Lord, if only something would happen just once on a
Thursday evening, I'd love it. Just once in my long career, I'd like to have