Читать книгу Drago #3 - Art Spinella - Страница 4

Sal and I slumped into a booth at the La Fiesta Mexican restaurant in Old Town Bandon, waved for a couple of Dos Equis and some salsa and chips. Both arrived in mere seconds.

“Topic of the night,” I said.

The big man swigged the first draught from his frosted glass.

“Best science fiction writer of all times. I vote for Jules Verne.”

“E. E. Doc Smith,” my response.

This was a habit we’d somehow gotten into years before. Nothing helps time pass quicker over a good heavy meal of burritos, refried beans and rice than a lively discussion.

“Who the heck is E. E. Doc Smith?”

“Only the greatest science fiction writer of all time, that’s who.”

The chips were extra crunchy tonight, the salsa hard on the spicy side.

Perfect.

“How about the economic reality of a weak dollar.”

I made a snoring sound that got the attention of the couple at the table behind us. Okay, so the disrespectful nose-noise bordered on a bellow. Sorry.

My turn. “Dogs make better pets than cats.”

“False. Cats are more independent.”

“Snotty.”

“Loving.”

“Demanding.”

“Easier than horses to keep.”

More Dos Equis, more chips and salsa.

Sal sighed long and hard. “The moon landing was faked.”

“We agreed on that one already. It was. Besides, we talked about this just a few months ago.”

My turn again.

“What’s the most physically demanding sport?”

“Hockey.”

“Soccer.”

“Football.”

“Baseball.” That made both of us laugh, but it had the potential to be an interesting discussion.

“Sports it is. You first,” I said.