"Patrick O'Leary - The Black Heart" - читать интересную книгу автора (O'leary Patrick)

The Black Heart
by Patrick O'Leary


So. His flight was delayed and he was reading Fortune in the gate area, waiting for word on the plane. First it was minor repairs. Then it was de-icing. Then there was backup over La Guardia. His luggage checked, his seat reserved, his stuffed black briefcase lying on the empty seat beside him. The snow streaming down like stars in hyperspace. So he was stuck with the stink that surrounded him, affronted his nostrils so that he did most of his breathing under his moustache. Baked pretzels, hot dogs, frozen yogurt, pizza, coffee, disinfectant. And the rank travelers dressed for the blizzard, sweating in their seats, checking their watches, calling on the grimy stainless steel pay phones. He could never get used to them—the layers of human scent and body grease, the aftermath of burps and yawns, the excretion of people in stress, late, detoured, waiting—that useless human ritual which always brought out the unmistakable tang of mortality, the final departure, the denied knowledge that they were about to embark on something alien: flight, hurtling themselves 600 miles per hour through the air. And all it took was one lightning strike, one undertrained mechanic, one drunk pilot, one careless flight controller and they were going down, they were going to decorate the skin of the planet like bugs on your windshield.
They knew it. No wonder they stank.
Reviewing an executive summary of Tiger Woods' endorsements, he sensed a presence standing beside him, a shadow seen out of the corner of his eye. Then he heard the unmistakable sound of a blackjack card being snapped down on formica. He saw her as she moved away: a small round woman with short black hair, waddling from marooned traveler to traveler, laying down her card beside each. A card with a red eye on the back. She had set it on his briefcase.
These people. Foreigners begging. Hari Krishnas with their orange robes and foul incense. Chipper Filipino nurses in starched white uniforms, like the one over there, standing in the middle of the concourse, like a rock in a river, holding out a white can marked with a red cross. These presences. A business associate who had introduced him to the delight of distilled spirits had put it well. "They remind me of the nuns in grade school. Even their postures made you feel guilty. I always wanna say: 'Hey! Sister! I'm not starving anybody here. If they're orphans maybe momma should have kept her legs crossed.' "
Well, exactly. Maybe Momma Should Have Kept Her Legs Crossed.
But, on the other hand, he never begrudged the act of giving. For all appearances he was a remarkably generous man. He always emptied the filthy change out of his pockets, grateful to be rid of the odor. PR. Goodwill. Cover. But he never made eye-contact and he never responded to their staged gratitude. He knew it was theater. And he relished the swell of silent respect around him as the travellers pretended not to notice his munificence. Some with guilt and resentment. He could almost smell those, too.
And these card sharks. He could recite their spiels by heart. He didn't even have to read her card. "I am a deaf person. I am an exchange student. I am an immigrant from Peru. This is a whistle. A compass. A holy card. Any donation will be gratefully accepted. Would be most appreciated. Would be so helpful. God bless you! God Bless America! God Love you." God, evidently, was everywhere the needy were.
Most airports had regulations against this sort of soliciting in public spaces. Rules they announced repeatedly. But you couldn't count on them. This was after all, America. Now in Frankfurt they had it down. Floors you could watch yourself in if you so chose. Armed militia with molded plastic sub machine guns and perfect uniforms. Trams that rode like clockwork. Toilets and sinks so clean you could eat off them. Not America. They let anybody in their terminals. Even hustlers passing for passengers enroute until they could zero in on their marks. The thing to do was to ignore them and sooner or later they'd retrieve their cliches, vacate your space and take their smells to the next gate of suckers.
He felt the shadow again and looked up to see the short lady in black inspecting him. She held a fistful of cards. Black bangs. Nice round little body. Splendid black Polartec vest—a remarkable material which consisted of plastic milk jugs shredded, melted, extruded and buffed into a luxurious skin of felt. Black shirt and jeans. And Doc Martens on her feet—the soles were so thick they could have been moonboots, resting on the grey carpet in a Mandelbrot stain of salt.
"You didn't read my card," she said.
So. So not deaf then. He picked the card up. Her scent was remarkably inoffensive. She smelled, actually, like a bird. Not the pets who ate where they shat, but the wild ones. The way they gathered tears of moisture in their wings, tiny bubbles that with each stroke hoarded both body grease and soiled air until they had accrued enough weight to roll harmlessly away, leaving perfectly groomed spikes of feather. Cleanest animals alive, though no one else seemed to credit them for it. He twitched his black mustache to savor as he read: "I am a fortune teller. I will tell you your future. If you don't like it, you don't have to pay. Stella"
So that was her game. "Free, huh?"
She nodded. "If you don't like it."
He regarded the red eye on the back of the card. It reminded him of something. Staring at him like that. A famous book. He gave the card a sniff then reached over and set his heavy briefcase on his lap. He gestured for her to take the seat beside him, then with an open palm indicated the top of his briefcase. She laid out the playing cards crisply on the black polished hide—regular playing cards. A row of six.
She turned the first one over. An Ace of Spades. "You're stuck. You're not going anywhere tonight."
A voice on the intercom said, "Ladies and gentlemen, Flight 641 to New York La Guardia has been canceled." Groans throughout the gate area. "Should you wish to change your flight or destination …"
"So," he said. "So you read the board or got the word a few moments before everyone." Tedium, he thought.
She turned over the second card. King of Spades. "You're an important figure. You're on a lucrative assignment for your company."
Flattery, he thought. Well, his Italian briefcase, his Rolex, and his Vincini leather coat could have told her that. Pathetic, these con artists. Amateurs who couldn't survive a week in the business.
The third card. Queen of Spades. Three in a row, he thought. The verge of a pattern.
"Secrets are involved. You are—how do they say it?—incognito."
"That's supposed to impress me, Stella?"
Her eyes did not leave the cards. "I'm not in the impressions business, sir. Frankly, I couldn't care less."
Now that was interesting. Attitude or arrogance. Not something you expect in a low-level con. Perhaps she was a pro. The top of her head was speckled with melted snow as if she'd just stepped in from the storm. Tiny beads, each containing a rainbow.
The gate area swarmed with people filing out, dragging carryons with squeaking wheels, talking into the cellphones. "You're not gonna believe this." "Friggin' Northwest." "I know, I know—but Charlie will have to handle it." "I need you to get me a room. Pronto." "What's her temperature? Put her on."
A satisfying void was imminent.
The fourth card. Ten of Spades. Her fat finger tapped it on his briefcase. He felt an unpleasant vibration on his thighs. Then she flipped over the fifth: Three of Spades. She hesitated, and turned the last. Two of Spades.
All Spades. Descending.
For a moment she looked up at him and he saw her eyes were brown but as close to black as he had ever seen. Her hands scooped up all the cards and evened out the edges. Definitely a pattern. Now he was curious. "All spades, eh?"
She unzipped the black pouch at her waist, put away the deck.
"You get a lot of that?"
She shook her head and loosed a fizz into the air. None of it landed on him.
"So. So what did the last cards say?"
She looked around the gate area, folded her hands over her pouch. "The storm will clear tomorrow."
"She could have told me that," he said, indicating the counter lady with a dip of his head. They were the only ones left at the gate. She and a beer-scented man who rested one elbow on the counter, watching her type, saying, "You call this service?" She replied, "Take a deep breath, sir, and let it out. You'll live longer."
He decided he would drink tonight. After he made the confirmation call. Sit on the end of his bed before the TV and drink tiny bottle after tiny bottle, as was his preference, until he'd fall back on the heavy bedspread. In the morning he would wake up in the same position and he would feel nothing in his legs. He liked that. He would sit and count the pile of empties littered at his feet until sensation returned to his lower extremities.
The little fat woman was standing when he said, "Wait." He said, "You're holding back."
For a long minute she looked at him, then sighed and sat. "My Nana used to say it was a gift. But I don't know."
"A gift?"
"Second sight." A sad sad smile. "Since I was little I knew which of my friends was honest. Which would die. How they would die. It's a terrible gift."
"What spooked you?"
She looked sharply at him.
"I am a salesman, Stella. Like you, I make my living reading people." A very good living he might have added.
She sighed again and lifted her eyebrows. "You won't like it."
He shrugged. "Then I won't have to pay, will I?"
Her sadness puzzled him, but they were on familiar ground. He needed to know; she needed to live. It was like any negotiation. You knew when you had the upper hand. You recognized the moment and applied the necessary pressure. It all came down to need.