"Kristine Kathryn Rusch - Sweet Young Things" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rusch Kristine Kathryn)

two tattoos—a butterfly on the back of her left knee, and an elaborate spider’s web
just above her right breast, the edge of the web partially visible above the bustier.
On the way inside the brand-new office building, she actually lit a Pall Mall
with her vintage lighter, and watched in satisfaction as the smoke wove its way down
the hall. This time, she didn’t have to force her hands to shake; they did so all on
their own as she took her first drag in nearly six months.
Of course, the receptionist made her tamp the cigarette out the moment she
stepped inside the office suite. The receptionist, another middle-aged woman who
didn’t look nearly as old as Reggie had, pursed her lips when she saw Fala’s outfit,
but said nothing. Instead she took Fala’s name and directed her to the fifth floor,
where their “experts” would take her information.
Fala climbed the stairs, still catching the faint hint of her now-lost cigarette in
the recycled air. Her legs hurt—she wasn’t used to walking this far in heels this
high—and she had to be careful not to let that leather mini ride up any more than it
already had.
When she reached the fifth floor, she wasn’t surprised to see a large
conference room set up with desk after desk after desk, rather like a Charles
Addams cartoon. Behind each desk sat serious young people in suits. In front of
each desk, an elderly person sat, clutching a purse or a pile of papers.
Fala was assigned Desk 14. Behind it sat a young woman wearing a black
business suit, a white blouse, and a tiny gold Phi Beta Kappa key on her right lapel.
She gave Fala a perfunctory smile as she bade her to sit down.
The young woman, who called herself Kayla, was clearly not a sweet young
thing.
 “Where’s your grandmother?” she asked, almost without preliminaries.
“She’s bedridden,” Fala said. “I explained that to your receptionist when I
made the appointment. I have to do all the stuff, and bring it to her to sign.”
“We have to work with her,” Kayla said. “We can’t do anything with you
unless you own the house.”
“I have her—what is it?—attorney power? I got that,” Fala said.
And Kayla softened, just as Fala knew she would. Kayla explained their rules
and regulations, all of them legal, pressed a sheaf of paper forward, and went
through it bit by bit.
Fala had no real house to sell, but she had given Kayla factual information
taken from the title of a house just outside the neighborhood, enough on the fringe
that she figured they hadn’t checked it out. She had: A young married couple had
just bought it from their grandmother, and the title was in the process of being
transferred.
For the moment, and only for the moment, all of the information (excepting
phone numbers) that Fala gave Kayla was correct.
The information was a lot less important than the procedure. Kayla worked on
a relatively new Dell. The other desks had the same equipment. It appeared that they
were networked. All the better for Fala.
As Kayla spoke, Fala tilted her chair sideways just enough so that she could
see the screen. Kayla used standard real-estate software. The toolbar showed a
continued Internet and e-mail connection, probably to check courthouse records.
And the desktop system itself looked like standard Microsoft.
Fala finished the meeting by exasperating poor Kayla. “My grandmother wants
to see the documents before we sign.”
“But you have power of attorney. If you deem this sufficient—”