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

"You've just hit a dry spell," I said.
"And you've hit a wet spell."
"Very funny."
She laughed. "I'll look forward to Mr. Smitz's arrival. Enjoy Guys and
Dolls."
"I will. See you tomorrow morning for our run."
"You sure you want me over there that early in case dream boat wants to
stay over?"
"You know me better than that," I said.
"Yeah, I do. Just kidding. See you tomorrow."
We hung up. I gave Mr. Smitz Ronnie's business card, directions to her
office, and sent him on his way. Ronnie was the best I could do for him. It
still bothered me that he wouldn't go to the police, but hey, it wasn't my
wife.
I've got two kids, he'd said. Not my problem. Really. Craig, our nighttime
secretary, was at the desk, which meant it was after six. I was running late.
There really wasn't time to argue with Bert about Mr. Smitz, but . . .
I glanced at Bert's office. It was dark. "Boss man gone home?"
Craig glanced up from his computer keyboard. He has short, baby-fine brown
hair. Round glasses to match a round face. He's slender and taller than I am,
but then who isn't? He's in his twenties with a wife and two babies.
"Mr. Vaughn left about thirty minutes ago."
"It figures," I said.
"Something wrong?"
I shook my head. "Schedule me some time to talk to the boss tomorrow."
"I don't know, Anita. He's booked pretty solid."
"Find some time, Craig. Or I'll barge in on one of the other appointments."
"You're mad," he said.
"You bet. Find the time. If he yells about it, tell him I pulled a gun on
you."
"Anita," he said with a grin, as if I were teasing.
I left him riffling through the appointment book trying to squeeze me
somewhere. I meant it. Bert would talk to me tomorrow. December was our
slowest season for raising zombies. People seemed to think you couldn't do it
close to Christmas, as if it were black magic or something. So Bert scheduled
other things to take up the slack. I was getting tired of clients with
problems I could do nothing about. Smitz wasn't the first this month, but he
was going to be the last.
With that cheerful thought I bundled into my coat and left. Richard was
waiting. If traffic cooperated, I might just make it before the opening
number. Traffic on a Friday night, surely not.




2

The 1978 Nova that I'd been driving had died a sad and tragic death. I was
now driving a Jeep Cherokee Country. It was a deep, deep green that looked
black at night. But it had four-wheel drive for winter and enough room to