"Thompson, Jim - Recoil" - читать интересную книгу автора (Thompson Jim)

"How can I be of any use to you if I don't work for you?"
"Why should you have to be of any use to me?" His voice was an angry snarl. "Isn't it conceivable that I might want to help you unselfishly? Give you a break when no one else would?"
"I didn't mean to offend you," I said. "I merely hoped to do something in return for what you've done for me."
"Well, skip it," he said. "Maybe we ought to be getting out of here. Later than I thought it was."
He drove slowly, glancing out at the curving river of mud, which, except for its smell, was gradually being lost in the darkness.

3
We passed through the business district, through part of the residential section, and reached the state capital. Its grounds, as you may know, occupy a square mile on the outskirts of the city; the last level land in that neighborhood.
Doc took a street to the south, one leading up a canyon, and, after about a mile, turned in at a house which sat in a cutback against a hillside.
It was a rather old-fashioned, two-story, squarebuilt house, with a long veranda across the front. Except for the ivy-clad trellises, which practically concealed the windows, it seemed out of place in that setting.
Doc drove the car down the driveway and parked it in the one empty stall in the four-stall garage. A couple, a sports roadster, and another sedan--all late models--occupied the others. We walked back down the driveway and around to the front door.
It was standing open, and the lights were on. There was a hall, with rooms on each side, leading straight back to the rear. Glancing up the stairs, I saw that the second floor was arranged the same way.
Doc motioned me to follow him up the stairs.
Upstairs, we stopped in front of the first door on his right. Doc lifted his hand.
Music seeped out to us faintly, and I could hear a man talking in a quiet, hoarse voice and a woman's light laugh.
Doc tapped softly. The talking and the laughter ceased. Then there was a rustling, and the click of a door closing.
"Who's there?"
"Doc."
"Oh." The hoarse voice had an undertone of annoyance.
A key turned in the lock and the door was thrown open.
The man was about fifty, short, rather fat, not dissimilar to Doc in physique. Despite his tousled hair, his drink-flushed face, and the pajamas he was wearing, he looked pompous. He ignored Doc and scowled at me.
"Who the hell are you?" he demanded.
"This is the young man from Sandstone," said Dr. Luther. "Pat, I want you to meet Senator Burkman. The senator was very helpful in getting your release."
Burkman widened his eyes, exaggeratedly, and poked a stubby finger at my chest. "The hell he is," he wheezed. "You can't kid me. He's a fugitive from a country Sunday school, that's what he is."
Doc gave him a very thin smile. Perhaps no smile at all. Those overhung upper teeth were deceptive.
"Well!" said the senator, seizing my hand. "Pat-- Pat Cosgrove, isn't it? Glad I could be of service to you. Sorry I couldn't have met you under more auspicious circumstances." He laughed and gave my shoulder a pat.
"I hope I didn't disturb you," said Doc. "I was afraid you might leave before I had a chance to see you. Pat needs a job."
"I thought you were going to give him a job. I've done enough."
"I'm sorry you feel that way," said Doc. "I wonder if there isn't something I could say to change your mind."
He stared at Burkman thoughtfully, the three protruding teeth resting on his lower lip, and Burkman reddened.
"I'd like to, Doc. It's just that I need every job I've got for my own district. I've got a tight race coming up, man! Why not try Flanders, or Dorsey, or Milligan?"
"They have tight races, too."
"Well"--Burkman hesitated, scowling. "Oh, hell. I'll dolt. Send him around to the Highway Commission tomorrow."
"Shall I mention your name to Fleming?"
"Yes--no. I'll talk to him myself."
He closed the door quickly, as if he was afraid of being asked for something else. Doc and I went back down the stairs.
He picked up his hat from the bench, inserted a key in the door next to the entrance and waved me inside.
"Dear," he called. "Oh, Lila!" Then, leaving me standing, he strode into the adjoining room, and through the rest of the apartment.
I looked around. To my mind, the room was a little too crowded to be in good taste. There were well-filled bookcases, a piano, and a combination radiophonograph-television set. There was a long window seat at the front, a longer divan at the opposite side of the room, a chaise longue, and three over-stuffed chairs. In the approximate center of the room was a mirrored coffee table with a built-in flower pot.
Doc returned, slamming the connecting door.
"Mrs. Luther isn't around," he said, harshly. "Not, I suppose, that I really expected her to be. Well--"
A knock on the outer door interrupted him. He flung it open.
"And where," he demanded of the white-jacketed Negro before him, "have you been?"
"With the north suite party, sir." The Negro, a slender, clean-featured youth, smiled placatingly. "One of the gentlemen was a little ill."
"Mrs. Luther leave any message for me?"
"No, sir."
"Huh!" said Doc. "I suppose you have that south rear room ready? Or did you forget about it?"
"I believe it's ready, sir. I mean to say--"
"Come along. You too, Pat."
We went down the hail, Doc striding ahead and the Negro and I following. At the last door to the right, the Negro stepped swiftly to the front, took a brass-tagged key from his pocket and turned the lock. He snapped on the light, and Doc brushed past him.