"Goodis, David - Nightfall" - читать интересную книгу автора (Goodis David)

"I think now ought to be all right," Pete said. "What do you say, John?"
"Hold it awhile," the driver said.
"We're almost there," Sam said. "How about it, John? Just to get him accustomed to it."
"Maybe you're right," John said. "And then get him down on the floor and keep him there. I don't want him to see the layout until after we got him inside. So now, if you want to, you can go to work on him."
Pete twisted and threw a punch that hit Vanning on the side of the head, and an instant later Sam smashed him on the jaw, using brass knuckles. He lowered his head, testing the pain and the dizziness, feeling another blow and still another and yet another, and then he was going to the floor and they were kicking him. He wondered how long it would be until he lost consciousness. He looked up and saw the brass knuckles coming toward his face, and he threw himself to the side and the brass knuckles went past his head. Then the edge of a shoe caught him in the mouth and he realized there was only one way to stop this sort of thing. They weren't quite ready to kill him, and if he was going to get the slightest satisfaction out of this entire deal, now was the time to get it.
He came up from the floor, feinted at Pete, then swerved and let go with both hands, sending his fists into Sam's face. There was an opportunity for a follow-up, but instead of using it, Vanning swerved again, turned his attention to Pete. He leaned away from Pete's outstretched arm, then got under the arm, got his elbow under Pete's chin and heaved with the elbow, sending Pete's head quite a distance back, and then he hit Pete in the mouth, pistoned the same hand into Pete's mouth, then used both hands on Pete's face. That was about all he could do with Pete, because now Sam was showing a revolver and Sam was cursing and a lot of blood was flowing from Sam's nose.
"Bullets already?" Vanning said.
"Put the gun away," John said.
"I feel like blasting him." Sam was holding the gun a few inches away from Vanning's head.
"I told you to put the gun away," John said. "You're too fidgety with a gun, Sam. That's no good. I've told you that a lot of times. Give the gun to Pete."
"Sure," Pete said, the sound staggering through blood. "Let me have that gun."
"Be careful with it," John said. "We have a long night ahead of us. Just keep him covered and keep him on the floor."
Pete's foot thudded into Vanning's chest, forcing him against the floor and the front seat. "Stay there," Pete said. "Just stay there and regret the whole thing."
"I thought it was fun," Vanning said. "Didn't you?"
"The real fun hasn't started yet," Pete said.
The car made an acute turn, its wheels squealing. Vanning closed his eyes and told himself it was time to accept the thing for what it was. And it was very clear. It was very simple. Tonight he was going to lose his life. It was inevitable that someday this thing should catch up with him, and although he had sensed that all along, he had tried to stretch it as far as possible. That was a wholly natural way to take it and he couldn't condemn himself for acting in a natural way. All in all, it was one of those extremely unfortunate circumstances, and it had started on a day when it simply hadn't been his turn to draw good cards. He could have died on tkat day or on the day following or the week following. He could have died on any of those several hundred days in the months between then and now, so what it actually amounted to was the fact that all this time he had been living on a rain check and it was only a question of how long it would take until payday arrived.
The car was making turns, going long stretches without turns, making more turns, then sweeping around somewhere in a wide circle, slowing down.
"Put something around his eyes," John said.
"Why bother?" Sam said. "This is the last stop."
"Don't talk like that," Vanning said. "You make me feel blue."
"Bring your hand over here," Pete said. He was handing a large breastpocket handkerchief, folding it over, folding it again, then winding it around Vanning's head, drawing it tightly, knotting it.
"That's too tight," Vanning said.
"That's too bad," Pete said.
The car had stopped. They were getting out. They were taking Vanning across some sort of field. He could feel high grass brushing up against his ankles. Then the high grass gave way to hard-packed soil and it went on that way for a few minutes, and then they were walking up steps that had to be wood because there was considerable creaking. After that the sound of a key in a lock, the sound of a door opening, the feeling of entering a large room, going through the room with big hands pushing him, holding him back, pushing him again. Now a stairway, a long climb, and now a corridor, and then another door opening, and the sound of a wall switch and light getting through the fabric that covered his eyes. He was working his lips toward a smile. He managed to build the smile. There was some fatalism in it, and a trace of defiance. And underneath the smile he was terribly frightened.


4

Lavender light came down on a purplish river. There was a huge ferry boat crammed with people. The ferry had shut off its power and was floating toward the wharf when suddenly a monster wave came from noplace and hit the ferry on starboard and knocked it over on its back. And there were no people to be seen. Only the ferry floating on its back. And the river, calm again. And Fraser twisted his face against the pifiow and let out a groan. He opened his eyes. He closed them again, opened them again and saw his wife sitting up beside him, looking at him.
"You're all worked up," she said.
"What was I doing?"
"Making noise."
"Did I say anything?"
"I couldn't make it out. Can I get you something?"
"No," Fraser said. "Just put on the light."
She switched on a lamp at the bedside. Fraser blinked and rubbed his eyes. He reached toward a table near his side of the bed, fumbled with a pack of cigarettes and a book of matches. She didn't want a cigarette. She wanted him to go back to sleep. Lighting his cigarette, he got out of bed, walked to the window and looked out. The East River was glimmering black pitch and the lights were points of spears lancing a smoldering night.
He took several short puffs at the cigarette. "I can't get it out of my mind."
"You should be on time and a half for overtime," she said. "You work twenty-four hours a day."
"Not always."
"Want a drink of water?"
"I can get it."
"Let me get it."
She climbed out of bed, and Fraser was alone in the room and he wanted to get dressed and leave the apartment. He was putting on his socks when she came back with the water. She let him finish the water and then she picked up his shoes and took them back to the closet.
"Take off your socks," she said, "and stop the nonsense."
"I feel like doing something."
"On what basis?"
"I don't know," Fraser said.
"I wish you'd get yourself a job in Wall Street. Keep this up and you'll be gray in no time."
She sat down beside him on the edge of the bed. She put a hand on his shoulder. For a while they sat there quietly, then Fraser got up and walked to his dresser. He opened the top drawer of the dresser and took out a brown paper portfolio and began extracting paraphernalia. He stood there at the dresser, studying various papers.
This went on for several minutes, and then she came toward him. He looked at her, and she had her arms folded and she was saying, "Now stop it"