"Laurell K. Hamilton - Anita Blake 04 - Lunatic Cafe" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hamilton Laurell K)

38
39
40
41
42
43

Laurell K. Hamilton
The Lunatic Cafe
1

It was two weeks before Christmas. A slow time of year for raising the
dead. My last client of the night sat across from me. There had been no
notation by his name. No note saying zombie raising or vampire slaying.
Nothing. Which probably meant whatever he wanted me to do was something I
wouldn't, or couldn't, do. Pre-Christmas was a dead time of year, no pun
intended. My boss, Bert, took any job that would have us.
George Smitz was a tall man, well over six feet. He was broad shouldered,
and muscular. Not the muscles you get from lifting weights and running around
indoor tracks. The muscles you get from hard physical labor. I would have bet
money that Mr. Smitz was a construction worker, farmer, or something similar.
He was shaped large and square with grime embedded under his fingernails that
soap would not touch.
He sat in front of me, crushing his toboggan hat, kneading it in his big
hands. The coffee that he'd accepted sat cooling on the edge of my desk. He
hadn't taken so much as a sip.
I was drinking my coffee out of the Christmas mug that Bert, my boss, had
insisted everyone bring in. A personalized holiday mug to add a personal touch
to the office. My mug had a reindeer in a bathrobe and slippers with Christmas
lights laced in its antlers, toasting the merry season with champagne and
saying, "Bingle Jells."
Bert didn't really like my mug, but he let it go, probably afraid of what
else I might bring in. He'd been very pleased with my outfit for the evening.
A high-collared blouse so perfectly red I'd had to wear makeup to keep from
looking pale. The skirt and matching jacket were a deep forest green. I hadn't
dressed for Bert. I had dressed for my date.
The silver outline of an angel gleamed in my lapel. I looked very
Christmasy. The Browning Hi-Power 9mm didn't look Christmasy at all, but since
it was hidden under the jacket, that didn't seem to matter. It might have
bothered Mr. Smitz, but he looked worried enough to not care. As long as I
didn't shoot him personally.
"Now, Mr. Smitz, how may I help you today?" I asked.
He was staring at his hands and only his eyes rose to look at me. It was a
little-boy gesture, an uncertain gesture. It sat oddly on the big man's face.
"I need help, and I don't know who else to go to."
"Exactly what kind of help do you need, Mr. Smitz?"
"It's my wife."
I waited for him to continue, but he stared at his hands. His hat was
wadded into a tight ball.
"You want your wife raised from the dead?" I asked.