JК
The Colorado Kid :: Кинг Стивен
Страница: 2 из 81It was all a matter of the equipment you got in the lottery, was what Vince claimed; you ran it until fell apart, patching it up as needed along the way, and he was sure that even to folks who lived a hundred years—as he hoped to do—it seemed like not much more than a summer afternoon in the end.
“Butwhy?”
“Are you afraid I’m gonna stiff the Gull for the tab and stick Helen with it?” he asked her.
“No…who’s Helen?”
“Helen Hafner, she who waited on us.” Vince nodded across the patio where a slightly overweight woman of about forty was picking up dishes. “Because it’s the policy of Jack Moody—who happens to own this fine eating establishment, and his father before him, if you care—”
“I do,” she said.
David Bowie,The Weekly Islander ’s managing editor for just shy of the years Helen Hafner had lived, leaned forward and put his pudgy hand over her young and pretty one. “I know you do,” he said. “Vince does, too. That’s why he’s taking the long way around Robin Hood’s barn to explain.”
“Because school is in,” she said, smiling.
“That’s right,” Dave said, “and what’s nice for old guys like us?”
“You only have to bother teaching people who want to learn.”
“That’s right,” Dave said, and leaned back. “That’s nice.” He wasn’t wearing a suitcoat or sportcoat but an old green sweater. It was August and to Stephanie it seemed quite warm on the Gull’s patio in spite of the onshore breeze, but she knew that both men felt the slightest chill. In Dave’s case, this surprised her a little; he was only sixtyfive and carrying an extra thirty pounds, at least. But although Vince Teague might look no more than seventy (and an agile seventy at that, in spite of his twisted hands), he had turned ninety earlier that summer and was as skinny as a rail. “A stuffed string” was what Mrs. Pinder,The Islander ’s parttime secretary, called him. Usually with a disdainful sniff.
“The Grey Gull’s policy is that the waitresses are responsible for the tabs their tables run up until those tabs are paid,” Vince said. “Jack tells all the ladies that when they come in lookin for work, just so they can’t come whining to him later on, sayin they didn’t know that was part of the deal.”
Stephanie surveyed the patio, which was still halffull even at twenty past one, and then looked into the main dining room, which overlooked Moose Cove. There almost every table was still taken, and she knew that from Memorial Day until the end of July, there would be a line outside until nearly three o’clock. Controlled bedlam, in other words.
“Butwhy?”
“Are you afraid I’m gonna stiff the Gull for the tab and stick Helen with it?” he asked her.
“No…who’s Helen?”
“Helen Hafner, she who waited on us.” Vince nodded across the patio where a slightly overweight woman of about forty was picking up dishes. “Because it’s the policy of Jack Moody—who happens to own this fine eating establishment, and his father before him, if you care—”
“I do,” she said.
David Bowie,The Weekly Islander ’s managing editor for just shy of the years Helen Hafner had lived, leaned forward and put his pudgy hand over her young and pretty one. “I know you do,” he said. “Vince does, too. That’s why he’s taking the long way around Robin Hood’s barn to explain.”
“Because school is in,” she said, smiling.
“That’s right,” Dave said, “and what’s nice for old guys like us?”
“You only have to bother teaching people who want to learn.”
“That’s right,” Dave said, and leaned back. “That’s nice.” He wasn’t wearing a suitcoat or sportcoat but an old green sweater. It was August and to Stephanie it seemed quite warm on the Gull’s patio in spite of the onshore breeze, but she knew that both men felt the slightest chill. In Dave’s case, this surprised her a little; he was only sixtyfive and carrying an extra thirty pounds, at least. But although Vince Teague might look no more than seventy (and an agile seventy at that, in spite of his twisted hands), he had turned ninety earlier that summer and was as skinny as a rail. “A stuffed string” was what Mrs. Pinder,The Islander ’s parttime secretary, called him. Usually with a disdainful sniff.
“The Grey Gull’s policy is that the waitresses are responsible for the tabs their tables run up until those tabs are paid,” Vince said. “Jack tells all the ladies that when they come in lookin for work, just so they can’t come whining to him later on, sayin they didn’t know that was part of the deal.”
Stephanie surveyed the patio, which was still halffull even at twenty past one, and then looked into the main dining room, which overlooked Moose Cove. There almost every table was still taken, and she knew that from Memorial Day until the end of July, there would be a line outside until nearly three o’clock. Controlled bedlam, in other words.