Пролетая над гнездом кукушки

           "Hello,buddy;what’sthatyou’replayin’?Pinochle?Jesus,nowonderyoudon’tcarenothin’aboutshowingyourhand.Don’tyouhaveastraightdeckaroundhere?Wellsay,herewego,Ibroughtalongmyowndeck,justincase,hassomethinginitotherthanfacecards—andcheckthepictures,huh?Everyonedifferent.Fifty-twopositions."

           Cheswickispop-eyedalready,andwhatheseesonthosecardsdon’thelphiscondition.

           "Easynow,don’tsmudge‘em;wegotlotsoftime,lotsofgamesaheadofus.Iliketousemydeckherebecauseittakesatleastaweekfortheotherplayerstogettowheretheycanevenseethesuit...."

           He’sgotonwork-farmpantsandshirt,sunnedouttillthey’rethecolorofwateredmilk.Hisfaceandneckandarmsarethecolorofoxbloodleatherfromworkinglonginthefields.He’sgotaprimer-blackmotorcyclecapstuckinhishairandaleatherjacketoveronearm,andhe’sgotonbootsgrayanddustyandheavyenoughtokickamanhalfintwo.HewalksawayfromCheswickandtakesoffthecapandgoestobeatingaduststormoutofhisthigh.Oneoftheblackboyscircleshimwiththethermometer,buthe’stooquickforthem;heslipsinamongtheAcutesandstartsmovingaroundshakinghandsbeforetheblackboycantakegoodaim.Thewayhetalks,hiswink,hisloudtalk,hisswaggerallremindmeofacarsalesmanorastockauctioneer—oroneofthosepitchmenyouseeonasideshowstage,outinfrontofhisflappingbanners,standingthereinastripedshirtwithyellowbuttons,drawingthefacesoffthesawdustlikeamagnet.

           "Whathappened,yousee,wasIgotinacoupleofhasslesattheworkfarm,totellthepuretruth,andthecourtruledthatI’mapsychopath.