American Skin
- Автор: Бруен Кен
- Год: 2008
- Язык: английский
- Год: Brandon
- ISBN: 978-0-86322-379-2
- Жанр: Криминальные детективы
Электронная книга - «American Skin». Краткое содержание книги:
“Tossed your cookies, huh.”
Dade was naïve enough to buy the tone. Jones put out his hand, said,
“Lemme give you a hand there, son.”
Put out his hand.
Later, when they finally extracted the nightstick from Dade’s ass, Jones said,
“Hey, I was looking for that.”
The judge, with an equally friendly, warm voice, asked,
“First offence, eh, partner?”
Dade had done a week of lockup, the nightly visits from the deputies, and he was no longer buying warmth. He glared at the judge, who continued,
“Don’t see why we should ruin a young life over a youthful prank, you listening to me, son?”
And Dade had dared to breathe.
Got a five-year jolt.
Served every day, came out with a brown paper bag, prison tats, a passion for Tammy Wynette, and a simmering ferocity he’d learned to put behind a smile. Dade had great teeth.
State issue.
First week of the term, a black guy had knocked out his teeth, going,
“Don’t need ’em for blow jobs.”
Six months later, Dade, a leading light in a white supremacist gang, had taken the guy’s eyes out with a spoon. No one fucked with him again.
He’d gotten a queen for his cell, a sissy out of North Carolina, and the bitch had been heavily into Tammy, played her all day. When Dade traded the cow for a piece, he’d kept the Tammy albums.
Speedway Avenue was where the students boogied. Dade, dressed in black 501s, a black T with a red lightning zag, felt it accessorised his scar, reading, “Metallica.”
Figured the students’d dig it. He let the T hang over his jeans, not as a fashion statement but to cover the Walther. No way he was rocking without weight. Last item, the boots, he studied the heels, stacked, getting worn, needed refit, said,
“Fuck it.”
Pulled them on, studied himself in the mirror, he’d a toke earlier, chill him out. Liked what he saw, a dude in black, easy smile and crinkly lines round the eyes. Pass for Clint Eastwood’s son. Maybe he’d score a college chick, give her a touch of the hard country. The baseball mitt was on the bed, he picked it up, smelled the old leather, made him sigh. Been a shame to waste the kid, he’d an arm on him and catch, shit, that kid had eyes in the back of his skull. Then he giggled, feeling the gun buck in his hand, giving Ben, the kid, a third eye. He put the mitt in his satchel, the maids, wetbacks, they’d steal anything. He raised his palm to his reflection, asked,
“Give me five, bro?”
He slapped his hand against the glass, then made a clicking sound with his tongue, said,
“Let’s boogie.”
The glass guy winked.
“Sherry was juicily conceived, but Marie squeezed
even more out of her, flirting coyly with Sterling
Hayden, conniving with Vince Edwards, snidely
blowing smoke up Elisha Cook’s aspirations.”