"Emil Petaja - The Time Twister" - читать интересную книгу автора (Petaja Emil)

"Yes?" Bill egged.
"Things kept happening to her. Accidents. Like the cliff suddenly dropping out from under her when she
was walking alone on Land's End. Like the funny storm that came up one Sunday morning when she was
sailing outside the Gate with friends. I guess you might say, besides her father's being old and sick, Ilma
was running back to the haven of her childhood home."
"Back to the old farm where nothing ever happens."
"You might say that. But why didn't she write to Art after she got back home? They were only waiting
for him to get out of the Army before they got married. Why didn't she write? All those months?" Steve
weighed the spool of tightly wound Mylar tape in his hand thoughtfully.
"Well, you know those hick towns." The curious intern's face brightened, eyes glinting with all the avidity
of a voyeur's. "Suppose I take a run down to the outpatient clinic and borrow a tape player? We'll give old
Art a fast listen, eh!"
Steve shrugged, then shook his head. "Sorry. I want to get the hell out of here. I've got things to do."
"Oh?" Bill Brandt didn't believe him and showed it. "Okay, stingy-guts. But let me know how they make
out? Promise?"
Steve promised.
It was midmorning. Ten-thirty-five by his Omega. A hell of a time to go anywhere, especially when
Steve didn't have much of anyplace to go. He had no family; any friends he'd made in his bookish life had
drained off to the work of the world, one way or another. Three years do that. It was October. One of
those brass-bright, Bay Area days; the hills of Marin lay like smokey cutouts against the skyline. From the
cab window he watched the Marina freeway spin by, gave Fort Mason a wince, the shiny boats of St.
Francis Yacht Harbor an envious look.
Where? Now he had it! Art's tape was burning a hole in his tweed pocket, but where to play it? What
else? "Take me to Tony's Restaurant in North Beach. You know where that is?"
The driver knew. Steve had met Ilma at Tony's. That last evening was clear and sharp in his
war-ravaged brain now, as the Yellow Cab swung down Bay and took the sharp right turn uphill two blocks
to the modest bistro. Tony's had never made any of the best restaurant lists and for this his regulars were
selfishly grateful; the food was sublime, the drinks, liberal and perfect, the panoramic view of the fishing
fleet, Alcatraz and Angel Island, magn ífico.
It was young Tony's (in his fifties but young because his father, old Tony, was now in his eighties and
sunned himself in the square fronting St. Peter and Paul's between bocce ball games with old cronies)
Steve and Art had picked for their last dinner before Art left for overseas, Steve soon to follow.
Two years plus the tides down there had swept under the Golden Gate Bridge. Paying off the cab and
swinging down the stairs where a moustachioed retainer was swabbing out the entrance, Steve felt a little
like he was coming home—and that Tony's was all the "home" he had to come back to.
"Not open yet," the moustached one grumbled.
"I know, but I'm a friend of Tony's. Is he around?"
"In the kitchen."
Tony Baccigaluppi sidled his rotund torso between the tables stacked with chairs for the morning
mop-up, peering fiercely across the gloomy, oregano-fragrant restaurant. On the point of booting the
intruder out so that he could get back to his lunch preparations, he gave a little yelp of welcome when he
saw who it was.
"Doctor Stephano! How good for you to come see Tony!" He skittered across the damp tile floor with
practiced ballet expertise. "I heard about the operation. How are you, Doc? And how is the big footballer,
Arturo?" He swiped his meaty hands down the big butcher's apron and pumped Steve's hand vigorously.
"I'm fine, Tony. The family?"
Tony went into a grimacing dissertation on teenagers while he pulled Steve to his favorite alcove and the
best view. Still chattering, he bustled away for the family coffee pot and two sturdy Italian mugs.
"Now. Tell me what they did to you." He clucked and went ahead talking. "I remember how I used to
hear the two of you arguing—that was while you were still in college and Arturo was a big name in football