"Edward Bryant - Flirting With Death" - читать интересную книгу автора (Bryant Edward)

apartment.

She turned and headed for the kitchen, knowing exactly what Mr. Claws wanted.
Mr. Claws was an alley scrapper, a bulky gray cat getting a little long in the
fang. Linda had taken him to a vet the month before when it looked like the
cat's left eye was well on the way to liquefying and dropping from its socket.
The vet prescribed antibiotics and showed Linda how to clean the eye with a
cotton ball and a solution of boric acid. Mr. Claws had recovered just fine.
Both eyes seemed to work now, following squirrels and birds with endless
patience when Linda watched him stalking,

Now he padded around the kitchen, grumbling and hissing, waiting for Linda to
open a can. "Pressed chicken okay, Mr. Claws?" She took the package from the
refrigerator, extracted a slice, then knelt to feed him. The big gray grabbed
the meat from her fingers and shook his head as if trying to snap a mouse's
neck. Linda touched the lumpy top of his head. Mr. Claws growled with the
chicken still in his mouth and tried to take a swipe at her hand. "Living up to
your name, kitty," said Linda, quickly withdrawing her fingers. "I'll leave the
rest of the chicken in your dish. Suit you?"

She stood and rinsed her fingers in the sink. Mr. Claws happily attacked his
evening treat. "Just have a good meal," said Linda. "I'll be back before you
know it. This time use the litter box." She had reason to believe the cat was
box-trained, though he sometimes used the Navajo rug in her living room just to
be obnoxious.

From the doorway, she said, "You can earn your way tonight." The cat ignored
her. "I'd really like it if you'll stay and sleep with me." The cat still didn't
look up from his pressed chicken.

Propositioning a stray cat, she thought. Now that's pitiful. She left the
apartment, locking the deadbolt behind her. As she descended the open stairwell,
she realized it really was comforting tonight knowing there was something --
someone -- to come home to. Even if it was a flagrantly unfaithful big gray eat.

Linda's apartment building was only half a block from Paradise Avenue, and the
most immediate mile of Paradise held at least two dozen favored destinations for
nighttime wanderers. She strode briskly, passing bars and music clubs, a twin
cinema besieged with lines waiting for the final round of evening shows, and
neon-bright restaurants.

At the corner of 18th Street, a red convertible stopped for the light. One among
the four boys in the car yelled something at her. Another of the kids whistled.

Linda hadn't been able to decipher what the one boy had called out, so she gave
him the benefit of a doubt. "I'm as old as your mother," she said back.

The boy grinned. "You don't look like her."

Linda found it hard not to smile back. The light changed as she stepped into the