"Van Lustbader, Eric - Dark Homecoming(eng)" - читать интересную книгу автора (Van Lustbader Eric)

And here he was looking for clubs with live music because-
Almost all the way across the bridge, he stopped. Calmly, he folded back the page, folded it again until the small, square ad in the center was made more prominent. Somewhere not far distant a motorboat engine began to gurgle, curdling the placid water of the Intracoastal. The sweetish tang of marine diesel came to him briefly, before being borne aloft by the morning breeze. Salmon-colored light tinged the lateral cloud bank just above the eastern horizon. Soon, the parade of fishing boats and pleasure yachts would lift anchor, coming through here on their way to the Atlantic. He smelled the ocean, heard the gulls and frigate birds calling, but only distantly, as if they were part of another world.
At a club called the Lightning Tube on Washington Avenue in South Beach a band named ManMan was currently playing. He checked the dates and the show times. As he walked toward the hospital, he imagined Rachel at the Lightning Tube. She was wearing her manman jacket and she was talking to one of the members of the band. Maybe a tall, lean guitarist named Gideon, who covered her hand with his, transferring a one-ounce packet of coke. It seemed logical; better, it felt right. While he'd slept in Rachel's room his unconscious had drunk in the scent of her. In his mind, he could see her as she had been before the renal failure. He walked at her side, silent as a ghost, but alive as a spirit. He felt the nettles of her rancorous rebellion, fueled by her father's rejection and her need to disengage herself from her mother. It seemed clear to him that Gideon must somehow have a hand in that rebellion. Tonight, he'd find out.
On the other side of the Intracoastal, Croaker walked the three blocks north on Olive Avenue to Eucalyptus Street. A police patrol car passed him, slowing slightly as the driver checked him out, before driving on. Not surprisingly, Croaker saw no pedestrians at all. At the end of the street, he went into the hospital parking lot and checked on the T-bird. Miraculously, it was untouched. He was just about to enter the hospital when he heard a car door slam behind him and footfalls crunching the grit of the parking lot blacktop.
"Mr. Croaker?"
He turned. A tall, cadaverously thin man was walking toward him. He was neither sauntering nor hurrying, nevertheless there was a quality about him that gave Croaker pause.
He was dressed in a stylish cafe-au-lait tropical-weight suit. His hair, slicked back off his wide, gleaming forehead was the color of freshly oiled gunmetal. His face was almost all jaw. For the rest, a slash of a mouth, a knife-thin, knobbed nose, and eyes the color of undiluted coffee set beneath bony brows sufficed to define him as a man with both confidence and means. The two did not often go together, as Croaker had some time ago discovered, and he'd learned to mark men who possessed them.
The man came up to him. His skin was the color of polished teak, and his face had a slightly Latin cast. He was carrying an attach? so sleek and thin it seemed impractical. He wore black loafers of ostrich skin, a slim Patek Philippe wristwatch, and a simple gold wedding band on his left hand. Very elegant.
"You are Lew Croaker." He smelled faintly of sandalwood and lime.
"And you are?"
The cadaverous man smiled, showing teeth yellowed by years of tobacco smoke. "Marcellus Rojas Diego Majeur." A business card was proffered between his fingers.
Croaker gave it a quick read. Mr. Marcellus Rojas Diego Majeur was an attorney-at-law. It figured.
Croaker looked up. "Mr. Majeur, it's what, a little after six in the morning?"
Majeur crooked his left arm, glanced at his Patek Philippe. "Seven minutes past the hour, sir, to be exact."
Croaker frowned, "How long have you been waiting for me?"
"Since three." Majeur said it as if sitting in parking lots in the dead of night was routine.
"You look fresh as a daisy."
"Thank you." Majeur gave a little bow. "Mr. Croaker, I wonder if I could have a few moments of your time."
"Not right now," Croaker said. "I've got to get upstairs."
"Yes, I understand." Majeur nodded sorrowfully and, tongue against the roof of his mouth, made a clucking sound. All that was missing was for him to exclaim Oh, dear! like a beloved aged uncle.
"Some other time, maybe." Croaker nodded. "Give me a call. I'm in the book."
Another, darker look appeared on Majeur's face. "I'm afraid another time won't do, sir. Not at all. It's now or never."
"Then it'll be never."
Croaker was about to turn away when he saw the gleam of a small .25 caliber gun in Majeur's hand. It was pointing at Croaker's stomach.
"No," Majeur said with no emotion at all. "It will be now."
Croaker looked from the muzzle of the almost toylike gun to Majeur's face. "Do you expect me to believe you'll shoot me here on the steps of the hospital?"
Majeur shrugged. "It's been done before." A quick smile cut across his face like lightning in a nighttime storm. "But not by me." His dark and enigmatic gaze held Croaker's for some time. "I'm licensed to be armed, by the way."
"I'm sure you are, but I very much doubt you'd put yourself in that kind of jeopardy for any client."
Majeur's bland expression never wavered. "That would presuppose you knew something about me. You don't."
Staring into those coffee-colored eyes, Croaker took a gamble, cobbling together a thumbnail sketch from quick observation, intuition, and past experience. "I know what I need to know. You're the kind of man for whom clients are money. The larger the retainer the more you'll risk, the equation's as simple as that. If the pay is up to your standard, you're detached, professional, committed to the end. Tell me, how wide off the mark am I?"
A wry smile was creasing Majeur's face. "I can tell you that whoever said money isn't everything is not living my life." As swiftly as the .25 had appeared, it was gone. "I apologize for alarming you. I am not by nature a violent man, unless severely provoked. But I needed to gain your full attention, Mr. Croaker, because the nature of my errand is urgent. For my client-and for your niece."
Croaker felt a small shock wave go through him. "What are you talking about?"
"Don't play games with me, sir, it is an unproductive endeavor." He jerked his head toward the hospital entrance, "I've been up to visit her, you see."
"You?" Croaker took a menacing step toward him.
"Calmate, se?or," he said. "I mean your niece no harm. Quite the contrary."
"The nurses have no business-"
"I handed them my card." Majeur's mouth smiled. "You'd be surprised the liberties one can exercise as an attorney. I told them I represented a potential donor, which is, more or less, the truth."
Croaker suddenly felt chilled, then feverish. "Donor?"
Majeur leaned forward even as he lowered his voice to a stage whisper. "Kidney donor, se?or. I mean to say, that's what your niece is in need of, yes?"
The sky was a pellucid blue. High above, clouds were lit up with sunlight as if they were neon signs. The early morning air felt hot against Croaker's skin, and all of a sudden he was acutely aware of where they were standing. An ambulance was pulling up outside the adjacent Emergency entrance, and people-mostly doctors and nurses changing shifts-were drifting in and out.
He looked at Majeur, who was waiting patient as a buddha. "Is there anywhere we can go and talk?"
Majeur's eyes seemed to sparkle in the newly reborn sunlight. "I think my car will suffice." He lifted an arm to indicate the way.
Marcellus Rojas Diego Majeur's car turned out to be a pristine 1967 turquoise Mustang. He smiled as he unlocked it and opened the long door, which was one of the beautiful signatures of this automobile. "You see, right off the bat we have something important in common."
So he knew Croaker drove the vintage T-bird. How much else did he know? Croaker wondered as he peered into the interior. Inside, as outside, it was buffed and polished to perfection. This man loved his car.
"So what do you think?" Majeur stroked the chrome. "It is a beauty, no?"
"It's beauty, yes."
Majeur gave a strange laugh, a little girl's high tee-hee. "Want to take it for a spin?" He nodded as Croaker looked at him. "Sure as a verdict you do." He dropped the keys into Croaker's hand, went around to the passenger's side, and got in.
Croaker hesitated for just a moment, then slid behind the wheel and fired up the ignition. The engine thrummed happily.
"Make a right when you get to Dixie Highway," Majeur directed as they pulled out of the lot.
Had this been his plan all along? Croaker wondered. Had he been that sure of himself? He went north on Dixie, made the jog left, then right as it became Broadway. No man's land, dangerous for a white man. Stopped at a light, he risked a glance over at Majeur. He looked and spoke like a litigator. Croaker could imagine him in the courtroom, fiery with indignation as he addressed the jury. Croaker imagined him winning far more cases than he lost.