"Eddings, David - High Hunt" - читать интересную книгу автора (Eddings David)

"What the fuck you want my fuckin' boots for?"

"You gonna call?"

"All right. My fuckin' boots are in."

"Put 'em on the table, sport."

He scowled at me and started unlacing his boots. "There," he snapped, plunking them down on the table, "you're called."

"You're still a buck light." I knew I was being a prick about it, but I didn't give a damn. I get that way sometimes.

He stared at me, not saying anything.

I waited, letting him sweat. Then I dropped in on him very quietly. "Your pants ought to cover it." Some guy laughed.

"My pants!" he almost screamed.

"On the table," I said, pointing, "or I take the pot."

"Fuck ya!"

I reached for the pot again.

"Wait a minute! Wait a minute!" His voice was desperate.

He stood up, emptied his pockets, and yanked off Ms pants. He wasn't wearing any shorts and his nudity was grossly obscene. He threw the pants at me, but I deflected them into the center of the table. "All right, you son of a bitch!" he said, not sitting down. "Let's see your pissy little straight beat a full-fuckin' house!" He rolled over his third seven.

"I haven't got a straight, friend."

"Then I win, huh?"

I shook my head. "You lose." I pulled the joker away from the queens and the nine and slowly started turning up my buried aces. "One. Two. Three. And four. Is that enough, friend?" I asked him.

"Je-sus Christ!" some guy said reverently.

The fat man stood looking at the aces for a long time. Then he stumbled away from the table and almost ran out of the cargo hold, his fat behind jiggling with every step.

"I still say it's a mighty hard way to play poker," Sergeant Riker said softly as I hauled in the merchandise.

"I figured he had it coming," I said shortly.

"Maybe so, son, maybe so, but that still don't make it right, does it?"

And that finished my winning streak. Riker proceeded to give me a series of very expensive poker lessons. By the time I quit that night, I was back down to four hundred dollars. I sent the fat guy's watch, boots, and pants back to him with one of his buddies, and went up on deck to get some air. The engine pounded in the steel deck plates, and the wake was streaming out behind us, white against the black water.

"Smoke, son?" It was Riker. He leaned against the rail beside me and held out his pack.

"Thanks," I said. "I ran out about an hour ago."