Death of a Pirate King - lanyon Josh (читаем книги онлайн бесплатно .TXT) 📗

It meowed, showing all its little sharp teeth. It really was an unprepossessing creature. Its head was too big for its body -- sure, partly that was because it was so damned skinny -- its color a dirty dun.

“I don’t know what she sees in you,” I told it. “It must be your winning personality.”

He ignored me, waiting for the door to open. I used my foot to block him, and slipped inside, closing the door firmly behind me.

The shop was quiet and warm. I went upstairs to my flat, let myself in. It was too warm up there as well. And too quiet.

There were no messages on the answering machine.

I changed into a soft gray T-shirt and faded, comfortable Levi’s and tried to figure out what to eat. I knew I needed to eat something, but I couldn’t think of anything that sounded appetizing. I wasn’t sure there was anything in the cupboards; I’d got into the habit of relying on Guy to bring home takeout.

I opened doors, examined shelves, but I just couldn’t work up enthusiasm for ramen or oatmeal -- and the cornflakes were stale. I could run out and get something, but I didn’t have energy for that either.

Giving it up, I went into the front room and poured a brandy. I sat down in one of the comfortable overstuffed chairs and…suddenly I couldn’t think of anything I wanted to do.

Ever again.

I closed my eyes. Everything seemed like too much effort. The silence seemed complete and final. I could just about hear the dust settling around me. What did I used to do before Guy?

Sit around wishing Jake would call?

No. Because it was Wednesday, and Mondays and Wednesdays had been “our” nights together. Work and his straight life permitting, Jake had turned up like clockwork on my doorstep and in my bed. In fact, by the end he was turning up more and more frequently and less scheduled, and ironically I had thought that was a good sign, that we were moving closer to each other.

What the hell was the matter with me? Sitting here feeling sorry for myself, drinking brandy -- which was definitely a no-no for now. I’d been fine. For two years I’d been perfectly fine. This was silly. This was sad.

I got up and spilled the brandy down the kitchen sink, opened a can of salmon, and dumped it on a plate.

I took a couple of bites. There had to be something creative you could do with salmon, but I decided the most creative thing I could do was feed my neighbor in the alley. I carried the plate downstairs, set it outside the door.

“Yo, Top Cat,” I called.

With an alacrity that indicated Natalie was probably feeding him on a regular basis, the thing slunk out of the nest of cardboard boxes against the cinder block wall. He trotted across the alley, keeping a wary eye on me, and delicately sniffed the plate.

“Yep, you should be worried about poison,” I told it. “And cars. And rats bigger than you -- which would be any rat in town.”

He took little bites of the salmon, giving his flea-bitten head a tiny shake every so often.

Ear mites…fleas…bubonic plague. I shuddered and closed the door on him.

The phone was ringing as I reached the top landing. I paused in the doorway, stared at it, then crossed to pick it up.

Dial tone.

Well, I could always spend my evening doing what I used to do when I didn’t have anyone, and kill way too much time poking into other people’s lives.

I had a niggling feeling about that fatal accident of Langley Hawthorne’s. Maybe he hadn’t had a problem with his daughter’s relationship with Paul Kane -- there had been an awful lot of money at stake. And that was an awfully convenient accident -- not that it couldn’t happen. Alcohol and boating were a bad mix. Everyone knew that.

A knock on the door to the flat sent me jumping out of my skin. Had I locked the side door? But yeah, I had. So that brisk tattoo could only be Guy -- and he was feeling uncomfortable enough to knock rather than use his key, which was probably not a good sign.

But it was a relief that he was back. Right?

I opened the door and halted.

Jake stood on the landing.

For the life of me I couldn’t think of anything to say.

“Can I come in?” he asked.

“Uh…sure.”

I backed up and he walked inside the flat.

“You kept your key,” I observed brilliantly. Either that or we were experiencing some kind of space-time shift. What year was this?

He stared down as though wondering how that key had got on his ring. Then he raised his light gaze to mine and said tersely, “You should have changed the locks.”

I folded my arms, leaned against the entryway wall. “Yeah, I guess I should have.”

He didn’t say anything and even a moment of silence was more than I could take right then.

“But if you can’t trust a cop, who can you trust?” My heart was thudding hard -- too hard probably -- but I didn’t feel angry as much as excited. Like someone had reset a breaker and dormant systems were suddenly coming back to life, lights blinking on, transmitters pulsing, receivers crackling in anticipation. I added, “Anyway, I was pretty sure I didn’t have to worry about you walking in on me unannounced -- and here you are, trumpets blaring.”

It was like we had both newly completed one of those Berlitz foreign language courses. Every comment was followed by a pause for translation. It shouldn’t have been that hard because we’d been talking to each other fine for about a week now.

“I…didn’t want to drag you downstairs to answer the door,” he said. “You looked like hell the other night.”

And suddenly it was easy again.

“Still the same silver-tongued devil I remember so well,” I said. “What happens next, we relive our greatest moments and you throw me across the room?”

The flush in his face died away. He said quietly, “If you think I’m not ashamed of that, you really don't know me.”

“That’s a safe assumption.” I turned and headed for the kitchen. “You want a beer?” I sure as hell did.

He didn’t answer. I glanced back and he was just standing there staring down the hallway as though he expected to see me lying on the floor, as though he could hear the echo of smashing glass and our furious voices.

I kept walking toward the kitchen. I didn’t want to relive one minute of that memory. Or any of them, if I was wise.

“I…” I couldn’t catch the rest of it. His voice was unexpectedly husky.

I cut across in falsetto, “Love means never having to say you’re sorry.”

Something in his silence made me wish I’d shut up.

“Nice to know all the defense mechanisms still work,” he said mildly at last.

“Better late than never.”

Another loaded silence.

I stopped and faced him. “Shit. Sorry.”

I didn’t want to hear it. What was the point? What could he tell me that I didn’t actually know?

But I waited. He didn’t say anything. And then just as my self-control gave out and I was about to speak, he said flatly, “You’re going to find this funny. I had no idea how much I would miss you.”

I swallowed hard. “Funny. Yeah.”

“I wanted to do the right thing. I wanted to have a real marriage. I knew things would have to change between us. I just…didn’t expect to lose everything. I didn’t intend to lose your friendship. Maybe that seems pretty dense.”

On a scale of one to ten with ten being solid bone from the eyes up? Yep, a ten.

I said, “You know what I think? I think you needed -- wanted -- to make a complete break.” I was able to say it without emotion maybe because I’d said it to him so many times in my imagination. “You hated yourself for being queer. I think you probably hate me too. Or did -- when I was part of what you hated about yourself.”

He was shaking his head. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. You were the only part of it that ever made it seem…okay. Sane.”

It. It?

“Which tells you how crazy we both were. And even if you had wanted to stay friends -- which you didn’t, whatever you tell yourself now -- how the hell long do you think we would have lasted as platonic pals? How the hell long did it take you to dig out the whips and chains? Or did you ever put ’em away? Maybe I don’t understand your idea of real marriage.”