"Smith, Anthony Neil - Kills Bugs Dead" - читать интересную книгу автора (Smith Anthony Neil)

Peter holds his hands up, fingers curled just a little, because he's never had a gun pointed at him before. It feels right to have them up, flinching, alive.

"I don't know what you think you know? But I just answer my calls. Your wife needed the kitchen sprayed. With the baby and all--"

"Stop it," Gene says. He sighs, stares out the windshield at nothing, long seconds that feel warmer than regular ones to Peter. Then Gene says, "Drive."

Peter thinks this is the last thing he wants to do, the last thing he'll do anyway if he does. He stalls. "Where? Drive where?"

More barrel wiggling. "Just go, anywhere. I'll tell you after we get started. Crank this up."

The gun is a heavy cannon of a revolver, stainless steel and looking well-cared for. Maybe it's a bluff, maybe a scare tactic, Gene wanting to get the point across, knowing about the Wendy-fucking, but not really wanting to kill him with his own gun. Peter wonders about Gene and his guns--just art objects for display at home, or real hunting? Maybe some target practice at the local range once a month, leave it loaded by the bedside in case of burglars, take it out and hold it while watching football games and point it at the screen, do a fake recoil and pop his lips like he's Elvis.

Peter starts the van and pulls out into the street. The barrel isn't pointed so straight anymore, Gene relaxing or getting nervous, turning his head back and forth. Peter takes a left at the four way stop on the corner. This neighborhood was built in the fifties, small houses with big yards and roadside mailboxes, tidy but with the rough edges showing: dirty sewer grates, fences with holes in them, cracks in the pavement. At the end of the road, Peter turns onto a wider avenue that borders the public golf course. There are small businesses to his left, and he is sweating because he forgot to turn the air on.

"We need a place to go, don't we? No matter what, we can't drive in circles. I've got other appointments," Peter says.

"Where do you keep the money?" Gene says.

"What money?"

"You do this all day, taking money from people and spraying stuff that doesn't work that good so you can come back a month later and do it again. I'll bet you're more rich than you let on. Have you got a box, or is it in your pocket?"

"I don't take any money."

Gene flicks the tip of the gun barrel against Peter's earlobe. It throbs and Peter shouts, "Damn it!" and grabs his ear. Hurts, but there's no blood. Peter remembers something he saw on Discovery Channel one night about Israeli martial arts, something like that. One thing was, If anyone points a gun at you, grab the gun. You have to grab the gun. Get it away. Fight for dear life, but don't let go of the gun.

Peter grabs the revolver and pushes it down and back, catching Gene by surprise, takes him a moment to fight back. Peter holds on, got the barrel, the hammer, part of Gene's hand.

"Let go of the gun," Gene says. He's scared. The voice gives it away. "Let go, I'm going to start shooting anyway."

Peter is still driving, trying not to swerve but it's hard. "You're not going to do that. Start shooting with me driving, what happens if I hit a tree? What if we get in a wreck? You're just as dead."

Both are quiet for a moment--Peter seething--before Gene says, "About the money."

"I don't have any money. We bill people, and we take checks. Your wife and maybe a handful, maybe, of others give me cash. She's the only one today. I can give you back what she gave me. I've got another twenty or so in my wallet."

But Gene isn't listening. The van passes a vegetable stand, a gas station and a Fast Lube, traffic beginning to close in on the four lane avenue. The light ahead turns yellow, then red, and Peter brakes. Both men grip the gun. Peter thinks that Wendy told Gene about the spraying, and about paying cash, and Gene thought up the quick-score scenario.

Peter thinks he's got the upper hand. He says, "You just want money?"

"What the hell else would I want? Bug spray?"

Peter yanks the gun hard, rips it from Gene's hand and spins it, holds on to the rubber grip. Gene lunges but Peter pulls the gun back out of reach. He holds it to Gene's head, and the guy settles back into his seat.

"I mean, you don't know that I'm fucking your wife? You didn't figure that out, you stupid fuck? Wendy was pretty loud today, waking the baby, when I was taking her from behind and she was rubbing herself, shouting, 'Oh, it's sweet, baby, so sweet.' Surprised you didn't hear her." Peter still has her taste in his mouth, and it's not sweet at all, but salty. He waits. Gene's face screws up like he wants to say something, wants to cry.

Gene finally huffs, "You sonabitch, son of, fucking bastard...."

The light turns green, and Peter floors the van. Gene falls into the back in a heap. Peter tries to watch the road and Gene at the same time, takes wobbly aim.