"Michael Scott Rohan - Chase the Morning" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rohan Michael Scott)

you've lost a whole lot of blood like that -'
'Hey, don't I get any?' demanded Dave.
-Clare sniffed. 'Yours is coming. Steve's hurt himself!'
'Oh yah, I heard.' He peered around his terminal. 'How's you, me old
massa? Can't be too bad, he's still upright, enney? Not on crutches or in a
bathchair or anything!'
'Can't you see how pale he is?' Clare protested, so fervently it took me
aback.
Dave crowed. 'Me you're asking that? All you palefaces look alike to me
-' He ducked as Clare swiped at his ear. 'Okay, okay, maybe he does look a bit
green! That's usual - good night out, was it, Steve? Wasser name then?' Dave's
real accent came from a very upmarket school, better than mine, but he would
try to sound like an East End kid.
'Come on, Dave, I cut my arm, that's all.' I turned to Clare, still
fussing over me, trying to find out what sort of bandage I had on and getting
my eyes full of long blonde hair. 'Better get him some coffee too, love, or
he'll be impossible all morning. Instead of just improbable. Oh, and ask Barry
if he's spoken to Rosenblum's yet...'
It gave me an excuse to get rid of her. I needed it. Clare in this
mother-hen mode unnerved me. By the time she got back I could be comfortably
sunk in my work, much too busy to let things get personal again. 'And you,
Dave, anything turned up on this Kenya container mess yet?'
He lounged over to the printer and ripped off the protruding form. 'Just
sorting it out when you came in, boss. Been sitting up a branch siding near
the airport, getting mouldy. They're scrubbing it out now, with apologies.
I've slapped on demurrages up to today, but told them to t*ang on to it till
we see if there's some kind of return lo^d we can get.'
'proj-n Kenya? Should be, for a refrigerated container. That's well
done, Dave.' I typed for some listings on my terminal, and peered down them.
'I'll get on to Hamilton, for a start- and see if he wants an extra half-tonne
of red snapper this week. Meanwhile, could you get me those roughs of the
German veg oil contract? And all that EEC crap abov»t shipping it -'
The phone buzzed before I could pick it up. 'Barry for you,' said
Clare, 'about the Rosenblum's business -
urgent!'
Yes, this was real life all right.
And yet, as the day wore on, I found it wasn't quite the same- I sank
myself into my work, determined not to be districted, not to let myself
maunder over weird wondering8 about last night; I kept Dave and Clare too busy
cha5**^ this way and that to chaff or cluck over me. It seemed to get results.
I managed to wrap up everything that could be settled that day in little more
than half the normal time. And yet it left me less at ease, less satisfied
than evef •
'Not feverish or anything, are we?' enquired Barry, perching elegantly
on the edge of my desk and flicking through a sheaf of forms as if pulling the
petals off a rose. He tapped his l°ng blunt nose. 'I mean, you know as well as
I do how bloody important every one of these contracts is Steve- I'd far
rather you took your time and went through them with your usual sharpened
toothcomb than - well, skated over something significant.'
I gf inned. 'Can't win, can I? You've been after me for years to speed