"Christopher Moore - Island of the Sequined Love Nun" - читать интересную книгу автора (Moore Christopher)

earning her own pink Oldsmobile ducked into an examining room and sucked
lungfuls of oxygen to chase the dizziness that comes from meeting one's
Messiah. Mary Jean was coming.
Mary Jean Dobbins did not travel with an entourage, bodyguards, or any
other of the decorative leeches commonly attached to the power-wielding rich.
"God is my bodyguard," Mary Jean would say.
She carried a .38-caliber gold-plated Lady Smith automatic in her bag:
the Clara Barton Commemorative Model, presented to her by the Daughters of the
Confederacy at their annual "Let's Lynch Leroy" pecan pie bakeoff, held every
Martin Luther King Jr. Day. (She didn't agree with their politics, but the
belles could sure sell some makeup. If the South did not rise again, it
wouldn't be for lack of foundation.)
Today, as Mary Jean came through the doors of the main lobby, she was
flanked by a tall predatory woman in a black business suit--a severe contrast
to Mary Jean's soft pastel blue ensemble with matching bag and pumps.
"Strength and femininity are not exclusive, ladies." She was sixty-five;
matronly but elegant. Her makeup was perfect, but not overdone. She wore a
sapphire-and-diamond pin whose value approximated the gross national product
of Zaire.
She greeted every orderly and nurse with a smile, asked after their
families, thanked them for their compassionate work, flirted when appropriate,
and tossed compliments over her shoulder as she passed, without ever missing a
step. She left a wake of acutely charmed fans, even among the cynical and
stubborn.
Outside Tucker's room the predatory woman--a lawyer--broke formation and
confronted the maggotry of reporters, allowing Mary Jean to slip past.
She poked her head inside. "You awake, slugger?"
Tuck was startled by her voice, yanked out of his redundant reverie of
unemployment, imprisonment, and impotence. He wanted to pull the sheets over
his head and quietly die.
"Mary Jean."
The makeup magnate moved to his bedside and took his hand, all compassion
and caring. "How are you feeling?"
Tucker looked away from her. "I'm okay."
"Do you need anything? I'll have it here in a Texas jiffy."
"I'm fine," Tucker said. She always made him feel like he'd just struck
out in his first Little League game and she was consoling him with milk and
cookies. The fact that he'd once tried to seduce her doubled the humiliation.
"Jake told me that you're having me moved to Houston. Thank you."
"I have to keep an eye on you, don't I?" She patted his hand. "You sure
you're feeling well enough for a talk?"
Tucker nodded. He wasn't buying the outpouring of warm fuzzies she was
selling. He'd seen her doing business on the plane.
"That's good, honey," Mary Jean said, rising and looking around the room
for the first time. "I'll have some flowers sent up. A touch of color will
brighten things up, won't it? Something fragrant too. The constant smell of
disinfectant must be disturbing."
"A little," Tuck said.
She wheeled on her heel and looked at him. Her smile went hard. Tuck saw
wrinkles around her mouth for the first time. "Probably reminds you of what a