"Nina Kiriki Hoffman - Home for Christmas" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hoffman Nina Kiriki)

get to church this year.
She slipped out through the kitchen, suggesting that the back
door lock itself behind her. Then she headed downtown, trying to
avoid the dirty slush piles on the sidewalk.
“Hey,” said the bartender as she slipped into the Time-Out. “You
got I.D., kid?”
Matt shrugged. “I didn’t come in to order anything.” She wasn’t
sure how old she was, but she knew it was more than twenty-one.
Her close-cut hair, mid-range voice, and slight, sexless figure led
people to mistake her for a teenage boy, a notion she usually
encouraged. No one had formally identified her since her senior
year of high school, years and years ago. “I just came to find a
James Plainfield. He here?”
A man seated at the bar looked up. He was dressed in a dark
suit, but his tie was emerald green, and his brown hair was a little
longer than business-length. He didn’t look like his driver’s license
picture, but then, who did? “Whatcha want?” he said.
“Wanted to give you your wallet. I found it in the street.”
“Wha?” He leaned forward, squinting at her.
She walked to the bar and set his wallet in front of him, then
turned to go.
“Hey!” he said, grabbing her arm. She decided maybe
architecture built up muscles more than she had suspected. “You
pick my pocket, you little thief?”
“Sure, that’s why I searched you out to return your wallet. Put it
in your pocket, Bud. The other pocket. I think you got a hole in
your regular wallet pocket. The wallet doesn’t like being out in the
open.”
His eyes narrowed. “Just a second,” he said, keeping his grip on
her arm. With his free hand he opened the wallet and checked the
bulging currency compartment, then looked at the credit cards. His
eyebrows rose. He released her. “Thanks, kid. Sorry. I’d really be in
trouble without this.”
“Yeah, that’s what it said.”
“What do you mean?”
She shrugged, giving him a narrow grin and stuffing her hands
deep into her pockets. He studied her, looking at the soaked
shoulders of her jacket, glancing down at her battered boots, their
laces knotted in places other than the ends.
“Hey,” he said softly. “Hey. How long since you ate?”
“Lunch,” she said. With all the people shopping, the trash cans in
back of downtown restaurants had been full of leftovers after the
lunch rush.
He frowned at his watch. “It’s after nine. Does your family know
where you are?”
“Not lately,” she said. She yawned, covering it with her hand.
Then she glanced at the wallet. “This the guy?”
—Yes, oh yes, oh yes, oh joy.—
“Good. ’Bye, Bud. Got to be getting home.”
“Wait. There’s a reward.” He pulled out two fifties and handed