"R. A. MacAvoy - Black Dragon 2 - Twisting the Rope" - читать интересную книгу автора (MacAvoy R A)

"Judy doesn't like old George." Marty made this announcement as they were halfway back to the motel room.
Her grandmother sighed. "Why should Judy be any different than the vast majority of humanity?"
Long looked down at the little girl he was carrying. "Who is… Martha Rachel Frisch-Macnamara, where are
your sunglasses?"
She slapped her eyes with both palms and made an outsize grimace of astonishment. "I have no idea,
Daddo. No idea in the slightest!"
Martha took her and set her on her feet. "Sometimes she sounds so like Elizabeth I get the chills!" She saw
Long looking intently back the way they had come and said, "Don't bother. We went the whole length of the
pier and across the beach and a busy street. Probably by now they're at the bottom…"
But he had already turned back and was halfway across the street against the light, moving between the cars
smoothly, with an odd dignity. Martha watched him slide through the beach crowds, avoiding all touch, yet
with his gaze fixed on the far end of the pier. Could he see the ground that far in front of him? Could anyone?
Martha shook her head. There was no telling what he could do. Here he was, so fine, learned, and wealthy: a
live-in babysitter for a three-year-old. Taking beginning keyboard lessons. A millionaire road manager for a
group that toured in a dilapidated van.
It was all so splendid that she laughed aloud.
Marty looked up resentfully. Like most people, she disapproved of private jokes. "Judy gets scared a lot. Not
like me."
Marty had been with the group for four days, long enough for Martha to learn something of her grandchild's
outgoing nature. "Is Judy a hotel maid or is she a waitress?"
Marty snorted, sounding just like her grandmother. "Ní h'ea.";
Martha translated this negative in her mind. "So Pádraig has been teaching you Irish. That's nice."
Marty grimaced again at the extent of adult stupidity. "Not Pádraig, Martha. Daddo. Only, it's Chinese."
Martha didn't think so, but she didn't want to belabor the point.
"And did he tell you to call him 'daddo'? Did he tell you what it means?"
The little girl nodded strenuously. "It means 'grandfather.'"
Then Martha set her lips and stared after Long, whom she could no longer see.
"Worshipping at the source of all earthly energy?"
Martha gave a little jump. It was Ted standing behind them, the wind blowing through the layers of his hair. He
was smiling, and though his face was young, the skin around the corners of his eyes crinkled. He wore
shorts and rubber thongs on his feet and nothing else. He looked rather like a young sun god himself, and his
exposed skin was the color of fresh cherrywood.
Californians, she said to herself. "Actually, Marty and I are keeping off His Worship with para-aminobenzoic
acid. We burn."
"The skin comes off my nose," said Marty in corrobo-ration.
He nodded and then sat down on the pavement next to Marty, forcing passersby to step out into the street.
Martha was about to say something about this when she noticed that none of the people inconvenienced
looked in the slightest put out.
Californians.
"That's a bummer. But, you know, it gets better. Just you lard that stuff on every time you go out, and the sun
will get in so slowly that you'll turn without ever burning."
"To turn is casadh,"; said the girl. "In Irish, it is."
Martha stifled an impulse to contradict Marty and say the word was Chinese.
Ted's dark innocent eyes went even more innocent. "Is it? Like to turn brown, you mean?"
"To turn anything. To turn a tune, fr'insanse."
It occurred to Martha that Teddy was sailing very near the wind, discussing things with Marty. She was very
demanding of grown-ups. If he had shown the least hint of condescension… If he had let her tell him things he
already knew. But he never did that; Ted Poznan was a great favorite of Marty's. Martha was encouraged to
add her bit of education to Marty's little store. "That's our theme song, Marty. 'Casadh an t'Súgáin': 'Twisting
the Rope.' We play it twice every night: fast and slow."