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

phones. She kept a pencil in her sprayed hair, and wore a sweater against the chill of
the air conditioner. Other women, all under the age of thirty, sat in chairs along the
wall, waiting for their turn to be interviewed.
They’d gone inside one by one, and Preston had smiled at the group each
time he closed the door, as if he expected to get lucky with each and every one of
them.
He’d gotten lucky with Fala and her favorite pair of black shoes, which fell
apart—literally—as she walked through his office door. She’d tripped, leaving the
sole of her right shoe on the threshold. Preston had picked it up, ever so gallantly,
and that crooked smile of his had turned into the widest grin she’d ever seen.
“Now that you’ve established how badly you need the job,” he’d said, “how
about answering a few questions?”
She’d been so mortified that her cheeks felt as if they would burn off. She’d
pressed her hands against them, trying to cool them, and refused to look in his eyes
as he went through her one-paragraph resume.
When he gave her the job two days later, he’d told her it was because of the
shoe.
That was probably the only time in their entire relationship that Preston hadn’t
lied.
****
The signs went up a month after she bought the pawnshop. This time, they’d
been professionally printed, with the word “cash” in such large letters that a driver
could see it from the street.
When she arrived at work that morning, she saw one on the telephone pole
half a block away, and her stomach gave a little lurch. Other people stapled signs to
telephone poles and headed those signs with the word “cash” in gigantic black
letters. But she knew, even before she walked those last few yards, that someone in
Preston’s employ had stayed up all night walking the streets and stapling.
CASH!!
Planning to sell your home?
We’ll give you cash on the
dollar this week!
Fala memorized the phone number at the bottom of the sign, and then walked
away as if the notice meant nothing to her. Still, she opened her purse, grabbed the
unopened Pall Malls, and pulled them out, her blunt-edged fingernails finding the
edge of the cellophane wrapper. She opened the package like a chain smoker
missing her fix, tapped out the first cigarette, and stuffed it in her mouth before she
realized what she was doing.
By that point, she was at the shop. She left the cigarette in her mouth as she
unlocked the front door.
Only when she got inside did she toss the cigarette in the nearest wastebasket.
Her hands shook. She shoved her purse under the counter, placing one foot on top
of the open leather top before she was sure she wouldn’t grab another cigarette.
Then she reached for the phone, dialed a number she hadn’t used in nearly
two months, and counted the rings. At ten, someone picked up.
“He’s here,” Fala said, and broke the connection.
****
The hell of it was, the only job she had ever loved was her job at H.T.
Corrent. Every day she’d drive to the office, get a list of prospects from Reggie, the
office manager, then head to the first appointment. Fala always arrived two minutes