"Илья Франк. Английский язык с Крестным Отцом (Метод чтения)" - читать интересную книгу автора

still think screwing is really like those dopey songs (глуповатые, жалкие,
пошлые; dopey также - находящийся под воздействием dope ( наркотика) you
used to sing." She shook her head and said, "Poor Johnny. Good-bye,
Johnny." She walked into the bedroom and he heard her turn the key in the
lock (в замке).
9 Johnny sat on the floor with his face in his hands. The sick,
humiliating despair overwhelmed him (унизительное, унижающее отчаяние
одолевало, захлестывало его). And then the gutter toughness (упрямство,
крепость уличного мальчишки; gutter - водосток, канава) that had helped him
survive the jungle of Hollywood made him pick up the phone and call for a
car to take him to the airport. There was one person who could save him. He
would go back to New York. He would go back to the one man with the power,
the wisdom, he needed and a love he still trusted. His Godfather Corleone.

1 In a garishly decorated Los Angeles hotel suite, Johnny Fontane was
as jealously drunk as any ordinary husband. Sprawled on a red couch, he
drank straight from the bottle of scotch in his hand, then washed the taste
away by dunking his mouth in a crystal bucket of ice cubes and water. It
was four in the morning and he was spinning drunken fantasies of murdering
his trampy wife when she got home, if she ever did come home. It was too
late to call his first wife and ask about the kids and he felt funny about
calling any of his friends now that his career was plunging downhill. There
had been a time when they would have been delighted, flattered by his
calling them at four in the morning but now he bored them. He could even
smile a little to himself as he thought that on the way up Johnny Fontane's
troubles had fascinated some of the greatest female stars in America.
2 Gulping at his bottle of scotch, he heard finally his wife's key in
the door, but he kept drinking until she walked into the room and stood
before him. She was to him so very beautiful, the angelic face, soulful
violet eyes, the delicately fragile but perfectly formed body. On the
screen her beauty was magnified, spiritualized. A hundred million men all
over the world were in love with the face of Margot Ashton. And paid to see
it on the screen.
3 "Where the hell were you?" Johnny Fontane asked.
4 "Out fucking," she said.
5 She had misjudged his drunkenness. He sprang over the cocktail table
and grabbed her by the throat. But close up to that magical face, the
lovely violet eyes, he lost his anger and became helpless again. She made
the mistake of smiling mockingly, saw his fist draw back. She screamed,
"Johnny, not in the face, I'm making a picture."
6 She was laughing. He punched her in the stomach and she fell to the
floor. He fell on top of her. He could smell her fragrant breath as she
gasped for air. He punched her on the arms and on the thigh muscles of her
silky tanned legs. He beat her as he had beaten snotty smaller kids long
ago when he had been a tough teenager in New York's Hell's Kitchen. A
painful punishment that would leave no lasting disfigurement of loosened
teeth or broken nose.
7 But he was not hitting her hard enough. He couldn't. And she was
giggling at him. Spread-eagled on the floor, her brocaded gown hitched up
above her thighs, she taunted him between giggles. "Come on, stick it in.