The Algorithm of Chaos (Сергей Огольцов) - страница 2

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The surest way to cut 2ic's rambling stream of talking and make him shut up gravely for no less than 10 minutes served the question how was his work today. He'll zip mum, gloomy, irresponsive.

Obviously, the story about the Jewish couple working for the government before they got fried up on the chair for leaking to the Soviets some scraps of know-how in A-bomb production impressed him deeply.

‘I was just kidding, 2ic, no need wetting your bed tonight. Easy, come down. What’s your message?’

'Uncle Tom's Cabin in two hours, sounds good?’

You can’t let down your buddy, a long-term bosom friend. The rule of some nymphomaniac slut of a Russian Empress was to keep enemies close to her chest. So that you feel and follow the weeniest budging in their souls and plots, said she. Bosh bullshit! It’s your bosom friends to be kept under your closest control. Your friends know your weak points better than you yourself. The most painful strike would be delivered by them. Surprisingly. Because they are your friends, they know when and how to get you. R.I.P., stupid asshole!

‘It’s OK with me,’ said V.

* * *

2

Surprisingly, there never was any Tom about the Cabin. Anyway, none of the trust-worthy old-timer patrons would recollect. Ma'am Harriet ran the establishment, an oldie but bitchy shrew with the response-time reflexes of a rattle snake. The venerable lady was damn well sprightly at wielding her lachrymator spray and for that reason in no need of keeping neither a baseball bat nor a bouncer about the premises.

By and large, in daytime The Uncle Tom’s Cabin was a family diner worthy of the name which at later hours turned into a restaurant of a well-deserved repute because Ma'am Harriet had a good cook (without stepping into minutiae of racially sensitive tinge, yes, you guessed right, it was The Uncle Tom's Cabin after all), delicious food upheld the lekker atmosphere…

V got seated in a corner stall and leaned back in calm relaxation. His left arm stretched along the double-seat back upholstered with skin the color… well… matching the interior.

Fortunately, burly frame of 2ic emerged in the doorway. Good timing indeed…

The double chin jutted imposingly from the unbuttoned white collar of his shirt. The jacket hanging loosely from the left shoulder draped the same side of his torso. A pretty precarious cloth-hanger it was, the 2ic's chubby shoulder was. It surely takes a brave jacket to risk assuming such a position.

On the other hand, the unorthodox spot chosen for the wear item conveyed a certain air of desperado-like nonchalance and a hint at possible erectility to the general aspect of 2ic's corpulent build. That way he cut a fine figure, yes, reminiscent of a hussar from the Czarist army in their spiffy uniform of which they used to don just one sleeve, the thing called ’mentick,' excuse my Russian. However, he advanced further, the mentioned dare-devil, this here 2ic, in leaving both jacket sleeves vacant, and he also was bereft of both cavalry and banditto moustachios