"Masterton, Graham - The Djinn" - читать интересную книгу автора (Masterton Graham)

Not that I disliked Max Greaves. The truth was I didn't feel much of anything, because I hadn't seen either Max or Marjorie in years. In the days when my parents used to take me out to Winter Sails as a kid, Max was always cheerful and talkative, but as years went by he grew increasingly morose and difficult to get along with. In the end, I gave up trying. I sent Christmas cards and small birthday gifts, but I stayed away from Hyannis. It's no fun trying to hold a conversation with a grumpy old man.

One of the reasons I needed this vacation was that I had just broken off a long and frequently painful affair with a blond WASP named Alison McAllister. For a time, we loved each other, but then we did nothing but argue. One day I went into P.J.'s for a beer and saw her cuddling some Man-Tanned jock from NYU, and that was just about the end of it.

Another reason was that I was having a crisis oЈ confidence about my work. My work is kind of difficult to explain, especially since I don't look like what I do. I mean, if you met a dignified but balding 33-year-old from Cleveland, Ohio, with a rather large nose and a tendency to squint at distant objects, you wouldn't automatically jump to the conclusion that he was a clairvoyant

I used to be in advertising, but I gave that up after my agency was taken over and I lost two of my favorite accounts. I tried a couple of other jobs, like taking German tourists around Manhattan ("und hier ist das Woolworth Building") and even walking dogs. But in the end I kind of found my niche in fortunetelling for those homely old ladies who have plenty of money but not quite enough style to shop on Fifth Avenue. I decorated my apartment to look like a wizard's den (purple drapes and leather-bound books), and I placed daily advertisements in the New York Post. Business was always fair to moderate, since I have a kind of a knack for making up exciting but very ambiguous fortunes, and an even greater knack for making old ladies feel that someone really wants them and needs them. I make enough to pay the rent and run a new Mercury Cougar, but not quite enough to take regular vacations.

The trouble was I was beginning to feel disillusioned with the spirit world. Sometimes you can really sense that there's something out there, something lurking in the mysterious beyond. But at other times, you get to thinking that it's all hokum, and that can make you bitter as a bottle of bock beer. For months now, I'd been turning over Tarot cards, peering at tea leaves, and feeling that my great occult talent had deserted me forever. That's another reason I came to Max's funeral. Maybe, in the company of recently departed souls, I would find the inspiration to carry on. On the other hand, maybe I wouldn't. Whatever happened, it was a change.

I managed to edge my way around the room and home in on the young lady with the red lips. From dose up, she was older than she first appeared, but also more attractive. She was short, but she had a more-than-bounteous pair of breasts and the kind of foxy-eyed look that always reminds me of Sophia Loren.

With my usual charm, I handed her my card. She lifted the smoky veil on her black turban hat and read it aloud.

" 'Harry Erskine. The Beyond Is My Business.' What on earth does that mean?"

"Well ... it means I tell people's fortunes. Old ladies, mostly. Like a clairvoyant."

"A clairvoyant? You mean, you look into crystal balls, that kind of stuff?"

"Well, not exactly crystal balls. I can do crystal balls, if you're interested. But generally it's Tarot and tea leaves. I'm also quite handy with the Ouija board. It's a living."

The girl looked at me oddly. "I never met a clairvoyant before. Do you really read the future?" "I guess so. Within limits. I think I've gotten better with practice. It's like anything else. You can't service an automobile without practice, and you can't probe the future without practice either. The occult is kind of delicate, you know, and you can't go blundering around the spirit world in hobnail boots."

The girl smiled. "No, I guess not. I've never considered it"

"Well, take it from me."

The girl sipped sherry. "Did you know Max Greaves very well?" she asked.

"Pretty well. He was my godfather. He was a close friend of my father's, way back at college or something. We always used to call him 'Uncle.' He was a pretty interesting guy."

"Nobody seems exactly heartbroken that he's dead."

I shrugged, "Well ... he got kind of cranky in his old age. He used to be real kind and gentle and generous when I was young. That's the way / recall him. I remember he gave me a terrific clockwork train outfit for my tenth birthday, and he never forgot to send me a Christmas card. But he turned into a recluse when he got older. Very short-tempered. I haven't seen him in years now. I suppose he was one of life's great characters, but he got like all great characters-more than a little hard to live with."

"What did he do?" asked the girl. "I mean, for a living?"

"He used to be in oil. Some independent refinery I think. I don't recall. But he spent most of his early life in Arabia-something to do with Mideast oil. That was before the days of Arabian oil politics, of course, when every white man was a big cheese. He used to have a lot of Arabian junk around the house, although it looks like it's all been sold. I used to like to play with his camel saddles. You know, the Lone Ranger, that kind of thing."

The girl raised an eyebrow. "Who played Tonto?"

"I never had a Tonto. I guess I've always been something of a lone Lone Ranger." "Not married?"

"Are you kidding? Can you imagine trying to support a wife and five kids on tea leaf readings?"

The girl said nothing; she just smiled. I finished my sherry. If you ask me, it was the amontillado that Edgar Alien Foe had bricked up into his cellar wall.

"Listen," I told the girl, "I know a terrific lobster restaurant just up the cape. How about lunch? That's if you're not too full of cakes."