"Gardner Dozois - A Kingdom by the Sea" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dozois Gardner)

here, that he was getting laid tonight. Kaplan was dumb enough to believe it. He paused, hanger in hand,
surprised at his sudden vehemence. Kaplan was no dumber than anybody else. And why couldn't he be
getting laid up here? Was that so hard to believe, so surprising? Shit, was he supposed to curl up and
fucking die because his girl'd left, even a longtime (three years) girl? Was that what Kaplan and the rest
of those bastards were thinking? Well, then, call Kaplan and tell him you're sorry you can't make it, and
then describe what a nice juicy piece of ass you're getting, make the fucker eat his liver with envy
because he's stuck in that damn dingy bowling alley with those damn dingy people while you're out
getting laid. Maybe it'll even get back to Emma. Kaplan will believe it. He's dumb enough.

Mason took a frozen pizza out of the refrigerator and put it into the oven for his supper. He rarely ate
meat, didn't care for it. None of his family had. His father had worked in a meat-packing plant too—the
same one, in fact. He had been one of the men who cut up the cow s carcass with knives and cleavers.
"Down to the plant," he would say, pushing himself up from the table and away from his third cup of
breakfast coffee, while Mason was standing near the open door of the gas oven for warmth and being
wrapped in his furry hat for school, "I've got to go down to the plant."

Mason always referred to the place as a meat-packing plant. (Henderson had called it a slaughterhouse,
but Henderson had quit.)

The package said fifteen minutes at 450, preheated. Maybe he shouldn't tell Kaplan that he was getting
laid, after all. Then everybody'd be asking him questions tomorrow, wanting to know who the girl was,
how she was in the sack, where he'd picked her up, and he'd have to spend the rest of the day making up
imaginary details of the affair. And suppose they found out somehow that he hadn't had a woman up
here after all? Then they'd think he was crazy, making up something like that. Lying. Maybe he should
just tell Kaplan that he was coming down with the flu. Or a bad cold. He was tired tonight. Maybe he
actually was getting the flu. From overwork, or standing around in the rain too long, or something.
Maybe that was why he was so fucking tired—Christ, exhausted—why he didn't feel like going bowling.
Sure, that was it. And he didn't have to be ashamed of being sick: he had a fine work record, only a
couple of days missed in six years. Everybody gets sick sometime, that's the way it is. They'd
understand.

Fuck them if they didn't.

Mason burned the pizza slightly. By the time he pulled it out with a washcloth, singeing himself in the
process, it had begun to turn black around the edges, the crust and cheese charring. But not too bad.
Salvageable. He cut it into slices with a roller. As usual, he forgot to eat it quickly enough, and the last
pieces had cooled off when he got around to them—tasting now like cardboard with unheated spaghetti

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 A Kingdom by the Sea

sauce on it. He ate them anyway. He had some beer with the pizza, and some coffee later. After eating,
he still felt vaguely unsatisfied, so he got a package of Fig Newtons from the cupboard and ate them too.
Then he sat at the table and smoked a cigarette. No noise—nothing moved. Stasis.

The phone rang: Kaplan.

Mason jumped, then took a long, unsteady drag on his cigarette. He was trembling. He stared at his
hand, amazed. Nerves. Christ. He was working too hard, worrying too much. Fuck Kaplan and all the
rest of them. Don't tell them anything. You don't have to. Let them stew. The phone screamed again and