"Perry, Steve - JustAsk" - читать интересную книгу автора (Perry Steven)

"Thirty minutes."

"Great. How'd the painting go, Dad? Was it yellow again?"

"It was. And I bet it was one of your friends who did it."

"Come on, Dad, just because they rolled the place one time with toilet paper --"

"What about the load of OCA political signs?"

"My friends didn't do that."

"Hah!"

"Anyway, nobody I know would waste that much energy for a joke." That was
probably true, Tabby and most of her friends made garden slugs look like track
stars on steroids. But he said, "Maybe. We'll see." He mimicked jacking a shell
into the action of a pump shotgun, pointed the imaginary weapon and said,
"Blam!"

Tabby flicked a quick gaze at the ceiling. "Really, Dad." She headed for the
television.

"Give my love to Oprah," he yelled after her.

"Really, Dad, Oprah has been over for hours. It's Geraldo."

At about midnight, hunched under the small oak tree in the sleeping bag without
-- at Carly's insistence -- the shotgun, Sam dozed off. Not more than five
minutes, he checked his watch when he jerked awake suddenly. Five minutes tops.
Okay, six minutes.

The house was yellow again.

He stared at it. No way. No way could somebody paint the whole front of an
entire house in six minutes. Maybe if they had a sprayer the size of a Mack
truck and the Flash was running it, but it would have to make a lot of noise
even so, and no way could they drive up, paint the house and leave in five --
okay, six -- goddamned minutes. Not without waking him up. No way, no how, no
ma'am.

Well . . . damn.

Carly was still awake reading when he went inside. Another of those
get-your-shit-together books. The path to somewhere or the other. The joy of
breathing.

"How's it going out there, Mr. Bond?" She hummed a bit of the theme from
Goldfinger.