"Cook, Glen - Garrett 10 - Angry Lead Skies" - читать интересную книгу автора (Cook Glen)

Now I knew how he’d survived the Cantard. By being too young to
have gone.

Playmate put on a big-eyed, pleading face. “He’s as bright as the
sun, Garrett, but not real long on social skills.”

The boy managed to wriggle past Playmate’s brown bulk. Ah, this
child was definitely the sort who got himself pounded regularly
because he just couldn’t get his brilliance wrapped around the
notion of keeping his mouth shut. He just naturally had to tell large,
slow-witted, overmuscled, swift-tempered types that they were
wrong. About whatever it was they were wrong about. What would
not matter.

I observed, “And the truth shall bring you great pain.”

“You understand.” Playmate sighed.

“But don’t hardly sympathize.” I grabbed the kid as he tried to
weasel his million freckles into the small front room. “Not with
somebody who just can’t make the connection between cause and
effect where people are concerned.” I shifted my grip, brought the
kid’s right arm up behind his back. Eventually he recognized a
connection between pain and not holding still.

The Goddamn Parrot decided this was the ideal moment to begin
preaching, “I know a girl who lives in a shack . . . ” Playmate’s
friend turned red.

I said, “Why don’t we go into my office?” My office is a custodian’s
closet with delusions of grandeur. Playmate is big enough to clog
the doorway all by himself. We could manage the kid in there. If I
dragged him inside first.

In passing I noted that my partner had no obvious, immediate
interest in participating—beyond being amused at my expense.
Same old story. Everybody takes advantage of Mama Garrett’s
favorite boy.

“In there, Kip!” Playmate is a paragon of patience. This kid, though,
was taking him to his limit. He laid a huge hand on the boy’s
shoulder, pinched. That would smart. Playmate can squeeze
chunks of granite into gravel. I turned loose, went and got behind
my desk. I like to think I look good back there.

Playmate set Cypres Prose in the client’s chair. He stood behind
the kid, one hand always on the boy’s shoulder, as though the kid
might get away if he wasn’t restrained every second. For the time
being, though, the boy was focused. Totally.