"W. T. Quick - Whatever gets you through the night" - читать интересную книгу автора (Quick W T)

Whatever Gets You Through the Night
by W. T. Quick
The windows of Keller's, a small bar on a side street in a run down section of San Francisco, were
smeared over with dark green paint to keep sunlight from disturbing the early morning drinkers. The paint
was cracked in places and admitted a watery glow. The inside of the place was like a dingy aquarium
filled with red-eyed, wrinkled patrons who resembled those prehistoric fish they keep finding in
out-of-the-way parts of the world. I was filling my glass with Dewars scotch when the explosion rattled
the thin walls and flaked even more paint from the windows.

"Jesus," Herbie Johnson said. "What the fuck was that?"

I was pleased to note my hand didn't shake. I finished topping off my glass and placed the bottle back in
the middle of the table, where Herbie grabbed it and took a long, shuddering swallow straight from the
neck.

"Easy, boy. That jug has to last all day." Keller's was the kind of law-bending dive that sold booze by the
glass, the bottle, or the keg, for all I knew.

Herbie wiped his lips and let out a long sigh. "You want to go look?"

"Huh uh. If something out there wants us, it can come inside."

The morning bartender, a new guy whose name I hadn't bothered to learn, came round from behind the
bar, an anxious look on his bugeyed face and a sawed off baseball bat in his hand. He sidled warily to the
door and opened it a crack.

"See anything?" Herbie called.

The bartender shook his head. "I don't see nothing."

"Stick your head out. If something shoots it off, then we'll know." Herbie sounded cheered by the
thought. The bartender glared.

"Why'nt you stick your head out, you old gasbag? Then if something happens, it won't be no loss."

Herbie turned back to his own drink. "Young punks," he muttered. "Got no respect."

I tasted my scotch. It was my first of the day, and it went down smoothly, a tight little bomb of warmth
straight to my gut.

"Ah," I said. "Better."

The bartender was still peering nervously through the cracked door, shaking his head. "I'm telling you,
ain't nothing out there."

"So go on outside. Send us a telegram," Herbie advised. "We'll wait right here till you get back."

"God, you're a nasty man," the bartender said.

Herbie cackled. He was good at that. He had just the right kind of ruined face and gap-toothed mouth