"Pendragon - 01 - The Merchant Of Death" - читать интересную книгу автора (MacHale D J)

“Denduron. I got it. What is it, some kind of password?”

“It’ll get us where we’re going.”

Okay, could this have been anymore mysterious? Why didn’t we just say “abracadabra” or something equally stupid? I was beginning to think this was all some kind of big old joke.

“Why are you telling me this?” I asked nervously. “We’re going together, right?”

“That’s the plan, but if anything—”

“Stop right there!”

Uh-oh. We weren’t alone. We both stopped short and whipped around to see…a cop. Busted. For what I’m not sure. Trespassing, I guess.

“You boys want to tell me what you’re doing down here?” The cop looked confident—no, cocky. He was a clean-cut guy, with a perfect khaki-colored uniform, a big badge, and an even bigger gun. At least it was still in its holster. Even though we were busted, I was actually kind of relieved to see him. To be honest, Uncle Press was starting to freak me out. I didn’t think he’d gone off the deep end or anything, but this adventure was getting stranger by the second. Maybe now that a cop was here, he’d have to explain things a little better. I looked up to Uncle Press, expecting him to answer the cop. I didn’t like what I saw. Uncle Press was staring the cop down. I could sense the wheels turning in his head, calculating. But what? An escape? I hoped not. The gun on the cop’s hip looked nasty. There was a long moment of silence, like a standoff, and then somebodyelse joined the party.

“Can’t you leave me in peace?”

We all shot a look over to a dark corner where a pile of garbage sat. At least it looked like a pile of garbage, until it moved and I saw that it was a homeless dude. Correction, he had a home and we were standing in it. He was a big guy, and I had no idea how old he was because all I saw was a tangle of hair and rags. He didn’t smell so good either. He pulled himself to his feet and shuffled toward us. When he spoke, it was with a kind of slurred, crazy-speak.

“Peace! That’s all I want! Little peace, little quiet!” he jabbered.

Uncle Press squared off and stood firm, glancing quickly back and forth between the cop and the homeless guy. He was thinking fast, calculating.

“I think you two better come with me,” the cop said to us calmly. He wasn’t rattled by the new arrival.

I looked to Uncle Press. He didn’t move. The homeless guy got closer.

“Castle! This ismy castle! I want you all to—”

“What?” asked Uncle Press. “What do you want us to do?” I couldn’t believe he was trying to talk to this crazy guy. Then the platform started to rumble. Another subway train was on its way.

“I want you all to go away! Leave me alone!”

For some reason this made Uncle Press smile. Now I was totally confused. Whatever he was trying to calculate, he had his answer. He turned away from the homeless guy and faced the cop.

“You don’t know this territory, do you?” he said to the cop.

Huh? What was that supposed to mean? Behind us, the light from the subway train started to leak into the station. It would be here in a few seconds.

The homeless guy started waving his arms for emphasis. “You! I’m talkin’ to you! I want you out of my castle!” he yelled at the cop.

I was afraid the cop would pull his gun on the guy for his own protection. But he didn’t. He just stood there, staring at Uncle Press. They looked like two gunslingers, each waiting for the other to blink. Then he gave a little smile and said, “What was your first clue?”

“The uniform. City cops in this territory wear blue, not khaki,” answered Uncle Press.

This guy wasn’t a cop? Then who was he? The train horn blared and the screeching of metal wheels on track grew closer.

“I’m flattered though,” said Uncle Press calmly. “You came yourself.”