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The Stars My Destination ( Tiger! Tiger! ) :: Bester Alfred
Страница: 122 из 164Furniture, bedding, clothes, unconscious bodies, empty bottles, rotting food were scattered on the floor.
A roar challenged Foyle's appearance, but he was equipped to handle this situation. He spoke to the first hairy face thrust into his.
«Kempsey?» he asked quietly. He was answered outrageously. Nevertheless he grinned and handed the man a ~r 100 note. «Kempsey?» he asked another. He was insulted. He paid again and continued his saunter down the barracks distributing ~r 100 notes in calm thanks for insult and invective. In the center of the barracks he found his key man, the obvious barracks bully, a monster of a man, naked, hairless, fondling two bawds and being fed whiskey by sycophants.
«Kempsey?» Foyle asked in the old gutter tongue. «I'm diggin' Rodger Kempsey.»
«I'm diggin' you for broke,» the man answered, thrusting out a huge paw for Foyle's money. «Gimmie.»
There was a delighted howl from the crowd. Foyle smiled and spat in his eye. There was an abject hush. The hairless man dumped the bawds and surged up to annihilate Foyle. Five seconds later he was groveling on the floor with Foyle's foot planted on his neck.
«Still diggin' Kempsey,» Foyle said gently. «Diggin' hard, man. You better finger him, man, or you're gone, is all.»
«Washroom!» the hairless man howled. «Holed up. Washroom.»
«Now you broke me,» Foyle said. He dumped the rest of his money on the floor before the hairless man and walked quickly to the washroom.
Kempsey was cowering in the corner of a shower, face pressed to the wall, moaning in a dull rhythm that showed he had been at it for hours.
«Kempsey?»
The moaning answered him.
«What's a matter, you?»
«Clothes,» Kempsey wept. «Clothes. All over, clothes. Like filth, like sick, like dirt. Clothes. All over, clothes.»
«Up, man. Get up.»
«Clothes. All over, clothes. Like filth, like sick, like dirt . .»
«Kempsey, mind me, man. Orel sent me.»
Kempsey stopped weeping and turned his sodden countenance to Foyle. «Who? Who?»
«Sergei Orel sent me. I've bought your release. You're free. We'll blow.»
«When?»
«Now.»
«Oh God! God bless him. Bless him!» Kempsey began to caper in weary exultation. The bruised and bloated face split into a facsimile of laughter. He laughed and capered and Foyle led him out of the washroom.
A roar challenged Foyle's appearance, but he was equipped to handle this situation. He spoke to the first hairy face thrust into his.
«Kempsey?» he asked quietly. He was answered outrageously. Nevertheless he grinned and handed the man a ~r 100 note. «Kempsey?» he asked another. He was insulted. He paid again and continued his saunter down the barracks distributing ~r 100 notes in calm thanks for insult and invective. In the center of the barracks he found his key man, the obvious barracks bully, a monster of a man, naked, hairless, fondling two bawds and being fed whiskey by sycophants.
«Kempsey?» Foyle asked in the old gutter tongue. «I'm diggin' Rodger Kempsey.»
«I'm diggin' you for broke,» the man answered, thrusting out a huge paw for Foyle's money. «Gimmie.»
There was a delighted howl from the crowd. Foyle smiled and spat in his eye. There was an abject hush. The hairless man dumped the bawds and surged up to annihilate Foyle. Five seconds later he was groveling on the floor with Foyle's foot planted on his neck.
«Still diggin' Kempsey,» Foyle said gently. «Diggin' hard, man. You better finger him, man, or you're gone, is all.»
«Washroom!» the hairless man howled. «Holed up. Washroom.»
«Now you broke me,» Foyle said. He dumped the rest of his money on the floor before the hairless man and walked quickly to the washroom.
Kempsey was cowering in the corner of a shower, face pressed to the wall, moaning in a dull rhythm that showed he had been at it for hours.
«Kempsey?»
The moaning answered him.
«What's a matter, you?»
«Clothes,» Kempsey wept. «Clothes. All over, clothes. Like filth, like sick, like dirt. Clothes. All over, clothes.»
«Up, man. Get up.»
«Clothes. All over, clothes. Like filth, like sick, like dirt . .»
«Kempsey, mind me, man. Orel sent me.»
Kempsey stopped weeping and turned his sodden countenance to Foyle. «Who? Who?»
«Sergei Orel sent me. I've bought your release. You're free. We'll blow.»
«When?»
«Now.»
«Oh God! God bless him. Bless him!» Kempsey began to caper in weary exultation. The bruised and bloated face split into a facsimile of laughter. He laughed and capered and Foyle led him out of the washroom.