"James McCann - Kith3" - читать интересную книгу автора (McCann James)

been for the display of Coffee Crisp bars. He sighed, smiled and tapped his palms on the
counter.
He said, “I have been on the road for many days and am very tired. The Greyhound
driver said this was the best coffee in Manitoba, so perhaps I should start with that.”
“Well okay then. Dare I complicate things further and ask regular, decaf or
espresso?”
 The Kith – 2 –

He laughed. “Just a regular, black, boring cup of Java … second thought, with cream
and sugar.”
Melanie found herself staring at him. His eyes had intensity about tem as though he
had lived many lives but all at once. Whether it was wisdom or a life led unapologetic
she could not be sure. The stranger made an obvious show of glancing at the security
camera, just as she had when he stared at her, and Melanie laughed. She creeped out the
creep.
“Cream and sugar is on the counter,” she said as she turned to the coffeepot behind
her. After grabbing a cup from the cupboard below the carafe she filled it with steaming
brew.
“I love the scent of coffee,” she said and turned to hand the cup to the customer.
“Spoken like a true addict! Why don’t you join me in a toast?”
“I don’t think my boyfriend would approve.” A lie she had rehearsed so often even
she sometimes believed it.
The stranger opened two creamers and a packet of sugar. After pouring them into his
drink he stirred until the black fluid turned golden brown. He sighed again and the said,
“I just thought it might be a nice welcome.”
“You’re staying?”
“Returning. I went away to school.”
Melanie started cleaning. “High school? You don’t look old enough for university.”
At the same time that the stranger laughed the door chimed. Melanie looked at the
clock that read five minutes to close as five men entered. Each sported leather jackets,
caps and sneakers with heels that lit whenever pressed. With practised unison they
surrounded the stranger, two on his right, two on his left and one behind.
“Well, well, well. Isn’t this all cosy and nice,” the fifth said.
Melanie looked at the stranger, her light blue eyes like a cold cloth on a fresh burn.
When she turned her gaze on the man behind him she snapped, “Robert! This is a
customer!”
“Customer?” Robert pushed against the stranger. “I didn’t see any trucks outside,
which makes him a drifter. Why don’t you continue to drift, punk.”
The stranger rose and turned to face the young man. He stood only as high as
Robert’s shoulders, but, though dwarfed by his bulk, a confidence emanated from the
stranger’s eyes that made the gang leader wary.
“My name is Trent.” He held out his hand in friendship.
“Get lost punk.”
“How about we all join one another in a cup of coffee? My treat.”
Robert suddenly grabbed him and pivoted his body, throwing him toward the door.
Trent stumbled, but caught his balance. Smiling, he placed a loony and two quarters on
the nearest table.
“For the coffee and the service.” The stranger turned and walked out the door.
“Punk chicken shit is what he is.” Robert called, his voice drowned by the bell’s
jingle.