"Kenneth Robeson - Doc Savage 173 - Once Over Lightly" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robeson Kenneth)

Later that evening, I found my redskin pilot, Mr. Coming Going, near the swimming pool. He wore a
swim suit and two feathers, was having trouble with one of the feathers drooping over an eye, and was
sitting with his legs cocked up on a table, watching female guests disporting in the pool.

“Ugh!” he said to me.

From that beginning, I worked the conversation around to Doc Savage, and asked for information about
the star guest. I had touched a sympathetic chord, because Mr. Going's eye brightened. He said “Ugh!” a
couple of times enthusiastically, changed to perfectly good Kansan City English, and told me that Doc
Savage was a noted celebrity, a righter of wrongs and punisher of evildoers.

“I got that same line from my girl-friend-employer,” I said. “But it sounds a little screwball.”

“That Savage fellow is no screwball,” said Coming Going. The glint in his eye was probably
admiration—not for me, but for Savage. “What gave you such an idea?”

“That evildoer nemesis and wrong-righter stuff,” I said.

“It's straight.”

“Gadzooks. It sounds like strictly from the place where the bells hang.”

“Well, that's what he does.”
“You mean that's his profession?”

“Yep.”

“How does he make it pay off?”

Coming Going shrugged. “I'm not his historian. Strikes me you should have heard of Savage. How did
you miss it?” He gazed at me with more approval than he had evidenced hitherto. “You seem to be a
pleasantly ignorant wench. The type I admire, incidentally.”

I noticed that Mr. Coming Going had blue eyes. “Just how much Indian are you?” I asked.

He pretended to be alarmed lest we he overheard. “My pop once bummed a cigarette off Chief Rose
Garden, but don't tell anybody on me.”

“What tribe did Chief Rose Garden belong to?”

“Kickapoo, I guess. He was selling bottled Kickapoo Snake Oil off the tailgate of a wagon that stopped
in our village for a while.”

I left Mr. Coming Going without being certain whether I was being kidded.

That night, Glacia asked me to share her room. Somehow I did not seem at all surprised when she did
so, which must mean that I had sensed something of the sort coming. Glacia was off-handedly high and
mighty about it. “You'd better move in with me, and cut expenses,” she said. And added, “I've already
had your things brought to my suite.”