"Laird Long - Broken Hearts" - читать интересную книгу автора (Long Laird)

I pushed my hands around some more, but my eyes were on Bull. We stared at each other. I could hear my wristwatch ticking down like the doomsday clock. Before it struck midnight, I spoke: "Do you have any idea where she might be? Any phone calls, letters, postcards-"

"No."

More silence.

"My fee-"

"Charge what you want! Find her!"

We stared at each other.

"You're not going to find her here!" he snapped. He plugged the cigar back into his tobacco-brown mouth and the conversation was over.

I started at the library. I read every newspaper and magazine article I could find on Malcolm Bull and his company, Allied Shipping. It wasn't a pretty story, but it was an interesting one. Rags to riches, and then by 1975 he was an eccentric recluse living in a plywood cave. He was quoted as saying that 'when you've done everything and know everything, what use do you have for people anymore? I'm the most interesting person I've ever met'. He would never be Governor of California with that attitude, but he could certainly be top dog at any movie studio in town. I felt a headache coming on and glanced at my watch - 9:30 p.m. Time for dinner.

I walked through the dark, empty parking lot, listening to my shoes clicking on the pavement. I had always liked that sound for some reason; shoes clicking on pavement or gravel. It sounded busy and efficient, and sure. My ears suddenly twitched as I heard a clicking echo, and then something bounced off the side of my head.

I hit the pavement, did a shoulder roll, and sprang to my feet. A six-foot-five-inch behemoth with a police-issue baton was facing me like he was waiting for the bell to sound to start the next round. I didn't hear a gong, but he charged me anyway. He swung the head-patter in a high arc and I caught it on the shoulder. I slammed a right to his kidney and he listed over to that side. I hooked a left to his stomach. Then, as he was doubling over with a groan, I nailed him with an uppercut to the jaw. He capsized with all senses lost.

When he was nicely settled on the pavement, I jammed my knee into his neck and put all of my weight on top of it. He lay still. I slapped his face a few times. His clock was loaded with scar tissue, and his nose meandered across the map like the Mississippi River. His eyelids rolled up slowly, like window shades, but the rooms were still vacant.

"Did we win, Tommy?" he asked in a thick voice.

"Who are you working for?" I shot back. I could tell by looking at the guy that he didn't have the brains to be an independent.

He sighed. "I got to sleep now, Tommy."

I kept him awake long enough to tell me a bedtime story.

I swear I could smell the cheap perfume two floors away. When I got to the door of the apartment, it smelt like the exterminators had just left. I kicked the door a couple of times with my foot. I heard someone skip across the room excitedly; like they were expecting someone. The door opened a crack and a shark eye looked out from behind the security chain. I kicked the door all the way open. The chain snapped neatly and the lady behind the door went spinning into the living room. She hit the side of a chair and then spilled onto the floor. It was a mess I wasn't going to clean up. I didn't have a large enough rag.

"What's the big idea, tough guy?" she demanded from the floor.

I shut the door, walked into the room, grabbed a chair out of the kitchen, spun it around, and sat down.

"Why'd you send a goon after me, Carla?" I asked pointedly. I didn't want to stay long - the perfume was already giving me girlish thoughts. Like revenge.

"How'd you know my name? Who the hell are you?"

She struggled to her feet and sat down in the chair she had collided with. She was dressed in a faded pink bathrobe and a pair of slippers. The slippers looked to be about size twelve. So did her mouth. She had long, bleached blonde hair and a fleshy face. She would be almost pretty after a few drinks in a dimly-lit bar. Her whole persona shouted working girl; and working a long time at that.

"Skip it! You sent Bobby Baker to rough me up. Unfortunately, you forgot to check his pedigree or you would have known that his nickname was 'Canvasback' when he fought in the ring. On account of his herringbone jaw. But I guess there's only so much a lady like you can afford."

Her eyes turned profane. She plucked a cigarette from her pocket, lit it, and puffed a couple of times. She didn't offer me one. She just stared at me. I could tell that she was going to let fly any second - she was just gathering her strength.

I pulled a flask out of my jacket pocket, unscrewed the cap, and took a generous swig. The fire in Carla's eyes was doused by the sight of the liquor.

"We can sit here all night," I said, stopping to take another chug. "Or I can call my buddy, Lieutenant Boyle, and get you bedded down for the night on an assault and battery beef."