The Hell Yo - lanyon Josh (бесплатные версии книг .txt) 📗
By contrast, the billions of white lights adorning the roof and trees and bushes of
Dauten Manor looked Spartan. I walked up the pseudo-cobblestones to the peacock blue
door framed by two topiaries.
I rang the bell, and Lisa answered, which was a jolt.
“Darling, you’re late,” she reproached. “It’s already the first inning.”
“First quarter?”
“Mmm. Possibly.” Then she smiled, reaching for the case of Beers of the World I had
picked up at Costco on the way over. “What a lovely job I did of raising you, Adrien.”
Adding under her breath, “He’s in the den.”
“He knows I’m coming, right?”
“Of course! You’re going to bond.”
Dear God.
I followed her through the immaculate and beautifully decorated foyer, into an
immaculate and beautifully decorated living room, through an immaculate and beautifully
decorated dining room, into a less immaculate, but still beautifully decorated family room,
which adjoined a kitchen that was full of girls. It sounded like an aviary. Or possibly a hen
house.
Actually it was only Lauren and Natalie.
“Hi, Adrien!” they chorused.
Did they all live here?
“Hey there,” I said. I could not for the life of me figure out why they were all beaming
at me with the delight of Aztec priests at the arrival of a well-nourished youth. What did
they imagine this bonding ritual entailed?
“For God’s sake,” shrieked Dauten from down the hallway. “The guy’s wide open!”
Lisa made whisking motions toward the den.
I went down a long hallway paneled with photographs of the Dauten girls through
years of bangs and braces and bustiers.
The den was neither immaculate, nor beautifully decorated. It was a barn-sized room
with a TV that took up an entire wall, two recliner chairs, and a long sectional sofa in a
muted plaid. A book shelf held a collection of beer steins and golf trophies.
Emma knelt at a huge coffee table littered with chicken wings and an assortment of
dips and chips. She was laboring over a pile of colored pencils, rulers, and what looked like a
Spirograph. Dauten lounged in one of the recliners. He held the TV remote control in one
hand, a beer mug in the other.
“Crrrrap!” he howled. “Go around the end! You idiot!” He glanced my way and said
pleasantly, “Hello, Adrien. Grab a beer and pull up a chair.”
I sat on the sofa, which was as wide as a twin bed. Emma looked up at me from under
the fringe of dark bangs.
“Hello. Who do you want to win?”
“Hello.” I reached over and selected a barbecue chip. “I don’t care.”
Her mouth dropped. Her eyes popped. I opened my mouth to retract this
unsportsmanlike sentiment, but she giggled and returned to her squiggles. I realized that a
twelve-year-old had successfully yanked my chain.
Natalie slipped into the room, deposited a bottle of Carlsberg and a frosted pilsner on
the table in front of me, gave me thumbs up, and slipped out again.
I stared at the screen watching the burly ant figures race up and down the green field,
my thoughts on the brief visit I’d paid the Library of Congress Web site before driving over.
Robert M. Friedlander, born in 1954, had several literary works to his name. Unlike the
early efforts of G.O. Savage, Friedlander wrote “beautifully written, critically acclaimed
literary fiction that no one wanted to read.” He had stopped writing in 2000, which
coincidentally was when Gabriel Savant had appeared on the literary scene with The
Illuminati Initiative, which had rocketed to the top of the New York Times Best Sellers list.
So you had two capable, but not particularly successful writers who had given up
writing at approximately the same moment that the immensely successful Gabriel Savant had
appeared on the scene with his “handler,” Bobby Friedman.
Gabriel Savant’s prose reflected none of the literary flourishes of Robert M. Friedman
or the pulpy excesses of G.O. Savage. It was fast-paced, easy-reading, well-researched mass-
market fiction. But the thing that truly set these books apart was the author himself. By all
accounts Savant was a marketing genius. He was tireless and inventive. He was handsome
and charismatic. He was a publisher’s dream come true – and he managed to turn out a book
every nine months like clockwork, while constantly touring and promoting.
I remembered my first visit to Friedlander at the Biltmore. He had been printing off his
laptop. His world disintegrating around him, his author-charge MIA, Friedlander had been
running off a manuscript. Now who did that sound like? It sounded like 99.9% of the writers
I knew.
Emma spoke, interrupting my reflections.
“Did you ever notice,” she said, tucking her long, dark hair behind her ear, “that if you
change the ‘p’ in pink for an ‘o,’ it spells oink?”
“No.”
“It looks really funny.”
“I bet.”
“Halftime.” Dauten snorted. “They call this excuse for a Las Vegas floor show halftime?
Emmy, do not look at this TV.”
“Do you know what?” Emma said, fixing me with those doe eyes. “Santa spelled
backward is Satan.”
I did a double take. She continued to look at me, all rosy-cheeked and innocent. I
mean, come on. What was I thinking. Damien?
“It spells Atnas, doesn’t it?” I objected.
She frowned at her paper. “Oh, yeah. It’s a mammogram.”
I narrowly escaped spilling my beer in my lap. “Anagram, maybe?” I suggested.
“Umm-hmm,” Her tone implied that this is what she had said. She went back to
working on her crossword or Da Vinci’s code, or whatever the heck she was scribbling at so
earnestly.
* * * * *
I didn’t want to go back home to my lonely flat after the noise and hubbub of the
Dautens’ – not that I could take five minutes longer at my future in-laws. I didn’t know
what I wanted.
Yeah, I did, but that wasn’t possible.
So I took a chance and went to see if Bob Friedlander had already checked out of the
Biltmore Hotel.
I didn’t bother inquiring at the front desk. He was either there, or he wasn’t. I didn’t
want to give him a heads-up.
The elevator opened onto the hushed hallway. There wasn’t a soul to be seen. I walked
slowly to the room, thinking they could use more lights up here.
