Девять рассказов

           Thegirlstayedproppeduponherforearmandwatchedhim.Hereyes,morejustopenthanalertorspeculative,reflectedchieflytheirownsizeandcolor.

           Aman’svoice—stonedead,yetsomehowrudely,almostobscenelyquickenedfortheoccasion—camethroughattheotherend:"Lee?Iwakeyou?"

           Thegray-hairedmanglancedbrieflyleft,atthegirl."Who’sthat?"heasked."Arthur?"

           "Yeah—Iwakeyou?"

           "No,no.I’minbed,reading.Anythingwrong?"

           "YousureIdidn’twakeyou?HonesttoGod?"

           "No,no—absolutely,"thegray-hairedmansaid."Asamatteroffact,I’vebeenaveragingaboutfourlousyhours—"

           "ThereasonIcalled,Lee,didyouhappentonoticewhenJoaniewasleaving?DidyouhappentonoticeifsheleftwiththeEllenbogens,byanychance?"

           Thegray-hairedmanlookedleftagain,buthighthistime,awayfromthegirl,whowasnowwatchinghimratherlikeayoung,blue-eyedIrishpoliceman."No,Ididn’t,Arthur,"hesaid,hiseyesonthefar,dimendoftheroom,wherethewallmettheceiling."Didn’tsheleavewithyou?"

           "No.Christ,no.Youdidn’tseeherleaveatall,then?"

           "Well,no,asamatteroffact,Ididn’t,Arthur,"thegray-hairedmansaid."Actually,asamatteroffact,Ididn’tseeabloodythingallevening.TheminuteIgotinthedoor,IgotmyselfinvolvedinonelongJesusofasessionwiththatFrenchpoop,Viennesepoop—whateverthehellhewas.Everybloodyoneoftheseforeignguyskeepaneyeopenforalittlefreelegaladvice.Why?What’sup?Joanielost?"

           "Oh,Christ.Whoknows?Idon’tknow.