Девять рассказов
Down at the Dinghy
Afteracoupleofminutes,BooBoolettheimagego.ShepeeleddownhercigaretteArmystyle,andthenstartedtowardthepier.
ItwasOctober,andthepierboardsnolongercouldhitherinthefacewithreflectedheat.Shewalkedalongwhistling"KentuckyBabe"throughherteeth.Whenshereachedtheendofthepier,shesquatted,herkneesaudible,attherightedge,andlookeddownatLionel.Hewaslessthanonoar’slengthawayfromher.Hedidn’tlookup.
"Ahoy,"BooBoosaid."Friend.Pirate.Dirtydog.I’mback."
Stillnotlookingup,Lionelabruptlyseemedcalledupontodemonstratehissailingability.Heswungthedeadtillerallthewaytotheright,thenimmediatelyyankeditbackintohisside.Hekepthiseyesexclusivelyonthedeckoftheboat.
"ItisI,"BooBoosaid."Vice-AdmiralTannenbaum.NeeGlass.Cometoinspectthestermaphors."
Therewasaresponse.
"Youaren’tanadmiral.You’realady"Lionelsaid.Hissentencesusuallyhadatleastonebreakoffaultybreathcontrol,sothat,often,hisemphasizedwords,insteadofrising,sank.BooBoonotonlylistenedtohisvoice,sheseemedtowatchit.
"Whotoldyouthat?WhotoldyouIwasn’tanadmiral?"
Lionelanswered,butinaudibly.
"Who?"saidBooBoo.
"Daddy."
Stillinasquattingposition,BooBooputherlefthandthroughtheVofherlegs,touchingthepierboardsinordertokeepherbalance."Yourdaddy’sanicefella,"shesaid,"buthe’sprobablythebiggestlandlubberIknow.It’sperfectlytruethatwhenI’minportI’malady-that’strue.
