Chinaman’s Chance
- Автор: Томас Росс
- Серия: Arthur Case Wu #1
- Год: 1978
- Язык: английский
- Год: Simon & Schuster
- ISBN: 978-0-671-24070-7
- Жанр: Политические детективы
Электронная книга - «Chinaman’s Chance». Краткое содержание книги:
Madame Szabo opened the door to Betty Mae’s knock and then stepped back. “Welcome, madame,” she said in her deep voice that seemed to come from far down in her throat, the heavy accent turning her W into a V.
“Not late, am I, honey?” Betty Mae said.
“Not at all,” Madame Szabo said, although the accent made it come out something like “not tat tall.”
Privately, Betty Mae felt that Madame Szabo used too much makeup. Especially too much green eyeshadow. She could have been sort of pretty if only she’d have got rid of that black wig she always wore, which came down low over her forehead, almost reaching her eyes. It was hard for Betty Mae to tell just what color those eyes really were because Madame Szabo always wore a pair of wire-framed glasses with heavily tinted rose lenses.
Madame Szabo was about five feet six. That was plain enough. But it was difficult for Betty Mae to decide whether she was fat or thin or maybe sort of in between, because she always wore that very loose caftanlike thing that covered everything up except her hands, and they had all those rings on them that Betty Mae thought looked cheap.
The caftanlike robe was of dark green velvet, and it had a high turned-up collar that covered Madame Szabo’s throat and made Betty Mae suspect that the seeress might be sensitive about her neck’s turning crepey. But if that was true, then Madame Szabo had to be at least forty. Of course, she had once hinted to Betty Mae that she had narrowly escaped from Hungary back in ’56 when they were having all that trouble with the Russians, and that would make her about forty now maybe, but it sure was hard to tell with all that heavy makeup.
The two women moved down the hall until they almost reached the flight of stairs that led up to the second floor. There wasn’t much furniture in the hall, just a few pieces that looked hand-me-down. There was also a strip of carpet that had some worn traffic spots, especially around the stairs. Madame Szabo paused at a pair of sliding doors that opened into what had once been the dining room. She slid them apart, stepped back, and said, “Please,” although it came out “Pleece” — or almost. For some reason, Betty Mae loved to hear Madame Szabo talk.
The room that they entered was dimly lighted by a lone fringed floor lamp that had a weak bulb. The windows were entirely covered with heavy dark red draperies. There were a few pictures on the walls, mostly steel engravings of vaguely European street scenes. There were a worn brown couch and a couple of upholstered chairs, one green, the other sort of a wet sand color. A flowered rug, not new, was on the floor, and near the lone lamp was a small, round polished table with two chairs drawn up to it. The chairs looked as though they might once have belonged to a dining-room set. Spotted here and there about the room were some useless knickknacks — a plaster bust of somebody unimportant; a stuffed bird, probably a falcon; a single goldfish swimming aimlessly around in a square fish tank with a china cat clinging to its edge; and in a far corner a tall blue jar with some pussywillows sticking out of it. It looked like a fortune-teller’s room done by a cheap advertising agency with a low budget. Betty Mae thought it looked just great.
Madame Szabo waited until Betty Mae sat down in one of the chairs drawn up to the small round table. Then she slowly lowered herself into the chair opposite. She sat with her head bowed for a moment, then raised it slowly and stared intently at Betty Mae through the heavily tinted glasses. Betty Mae shivered a little in anticipation.
“The man Suárez,” Madame Szabo said after a moment.
Betty Mae nodded. “Santiago,”
“I have had signs.”
“What kind?”
“There is another woman.”
“His wife, huh? I’ve been expecting that.”
“No. Not his wife. This woman has red hair.”
“That son of a bitch.”
“Please do not swear. It interferes.”
“How’d you know about her?”
“Please,” Madame Szabo said, and held out her hand for Betty Mae’s own. Madame Szabo examined Betty Mae’s palm for several seconds. Then she nodded and said, “Here, you see.”
“Where?”
“There. Your fidelity line.”
Betty Mae bent over to look. “Oh, yeah, that one.”
“The slight interruption — just there.”
“Yeah. Un-huh. What’s it mean?”
“Her name is Red — no, not Red. Rusty. Yes, Rusty.”
“Rusty Portugill,” Betty Mac said. “Little bitch works weekends down at the Thief. Santiago swore he wasn’t gonna see her anymore.”
“I’m afraid that that is not true.”
“When?”
“Two nights ago.”
“Bastard.”
“Please do not swear.”
“Sorry, Madame Szabo, but it just makes me so damn mad. I don’t care if he sees her, but she’s gonna take him for every dime he’s got and probably give him a dose while she’s doing it. And Santiago’s got this real nice wife down in Mexico, and three kids, I’ve seen pictures of ’em, and he’s been trying to save enough to bring ’em all up here and I’ve been trying to help him out, you know, and now he’s messing around with her. You know about her, don’t you?”
“I have only the signs to go by.”
“Well, let me tell you about Rusty Portugill. She was a hooker working Hollywood until about six months ago and then she got shacked up with Donnie Sumpter, that big mean spade who lives about three doors down — or did until they busted him a couple of weeks ago. He’s still in jail and now Rusty’s looking to shack up with somebody else, and lemme tell you, she s got her cap set for Santiago on account of he’s got a steady job and he hasn’t exactly got too much of the smarts, if you know what I mean. But he’s sweet.”
Madame Szabo threw her head back and gazed up at the ceiling. Her lips moved soundlessly for a few moments. Then she whispered, “Sumpter... Sumpter... I am getting something... Sumpter...”
“Donnie Sumpter,” Betty Mae said helpfully.
“Yes... yes... he was in — inside this place—”
“In jail.”
“Do not interrupt, please.”
“Sorry.”
“He was in... yes, inside... and now, there is something else, it is difficult... and now he’s out. Yes, that is it. He is out.” Madame Szabo’s head dropped abruptly so that her chin almost rested on her breast.
She raised her head slowly. Once more she examined Betty Mae’s palm. “Yes, it is here, see?” She pointed to a line. Betty Mae nodded.
“You will have no more trouble with the redheaded woman. This man — Sumpter?”
“Yeah, Sumpter.”
“He has taken her away.”
“No shit,” Betty Mae said.
“Please do not swear.”
“He busted out, I bet. That’s why the cops are out there now. Of course, you knew about that, didn’t you? The cops, I mean.”
“Cops?”
“Police,” Betty Mae said. “We call ’em cops in this country, but shoot, I bet you know that. Well, they’re outside now. I thought maybe they had an eye on your place, but I guess what they’re really looking for is old Donnie.”
Madame Szabo rose quickly and went to the window, drawing back the heavy red draperies just enough to peer out. Betty Mae was now beside her.
“See ’em?” Betty Mae said. “That black Plymouth over there.”
Madame Szabo almost spun around from the window. Her usual composure, almost implacable, seemed shattered. She bit her lower lip hard. “I’m afraid we will have to cancel the rest of today, my dear,” she said and almost, but not quite, lost her accent.