"hardboiled" - читать интересную книгу автора (Depolo Harold)

"Oh, quite so, indeed, Mr. Sorrenti, sir," agreed the butler solemnly,
retreating and silently closing the door.

Pete the Muscle mixed himself a drink--not too strong--and sipped it in
highly pleasant contemplation. He continued, fondly, gazing at the robin.
Pretty soft, he guessed, being able to sit here in a classy study--yeah,
that's what they called it--and be able to look out over a lot of nifty
Westchester country that was all your own. Pretty soft, all right, to be
grabbing all this peace and quiet and watch a little bird roosting on your
window. Boy--oh, boy--but was he fixed for fair in the world now?

Mr. Sorrenti had been proud of the name he had earned--and certainly no one
could say he hadn't earned it. He'd muscled into every racket in the game,
and he'd always ended up by being the big shot. Booze, laundry, dry cleaning,
numbers, fish and vegetables--hell, all of 'em. He sure had made New York sit
up and take notice, and no one had ever been able to put the finger on him,
not even when he'd had to get rubbed out maybe thirty or forty guys to keep
holding his hand. He'd made a wise play to retire, though, with the rackets
fading fast. Now he had his jack all safely invested--government bonds and
trust funds and things like that--with a pippin of an income of just about
seventy grand a year. Yeah, pretty soft, all right.

He liked this country life, at that. He liked to watch things grow and get
born. He'd get the whole works, now that him and Lena had moved out here and
got settled. Horses and cows, sheep and pigs, turkeys and chickens and geese
and everything. No more rackets for him. No more city stuff. No more cute
dames. Just him and his wife sitting back here easy and watching things grow
and get born. Damned if he didn't wish he'd thought of it sooner, even before
he had so much coin put away. It gave a guy a sweet kick, having a big farm
estate here in the sticks. It hit you hard, brought home to you how wonderful
nature was, to have a robin come right up to your room, you might say. Cripes,
he was anxious to see them four little beaks break through them shells. He'd
feed 'em worms himself, make 'em come to trust him; sure he would. Be a
regular papa to 'em, like he'd told Lena last night.

As he chuckled contentedly, finished his drink and started to pour another
one, a knock came on the door. He answered pleasantly, this time, the end
of his laugh still in his voice:

"Come right in, Ernie. You know, nice and quiet."

"Mr. Louis the Dope, Mr. Sorrenti, sir," announced the butler, opening the door.
"He has been searched and passed by your bodyguard."

Pete the Muscle, getting hardboiled the way you always had to with punks and
palookas, spoke out of the corner of his mouth:

"Whadda you want?"