Читать книгу Day of Atonement - Faye Kellerman, Faye Kellerman - Страница 5

He wrote down the name Hank Stewart. Stared at it for a while and decided it was a good start.

A start.

But not there yet.

He wrote Dr. Hank Stewart. Then: Hank Stewart, M.D.

But hell, doctors were nothing special. Matter of fact, they were assholes, all puffed up and full of themselves.

So he wrote Hank Stewart, ESQ.

Crossed that off the list. Lawyers were bigger assholes than doctors.

How about Hank Stewart, Nuclear Physicist.

Or Hank Stewart, Nobel Prize Winner.

Give ’em a smile as they took his picture.

Hell with that. That kinda fame was too short-lived. A picture in a newspaper for about a day. Big effing deal.

Hank Stewart, CIA.

Stewart—Superspy.

Good ring to it.

Ah, that was stupid. Kid stuff.

Still, kid stuff was better than peddling fish.

I’ll take one pound of snapper, please.

Yeah, lady. Right up your ass.

The old people always buying fish ’cause they didn’t got no teeth to chew meat. They came up to the counter, moving their mouths over their dentures, whistling the word “snapper,” their hands and head shakin’, looking like they wasn’t glued together very tight.

That was the worst part. Working behind the counter.

Now the gutting part was okay. Especially once you got the feel for it, didn’t let the suckers slip out of your hands.

Fish were slimy little bastards, all the gook would get over your clothes and you never could get the smell out. Thing to do was just work in smelly clothes for a while, then chuck ’em in the garbage.

Or stuff ’em in the mailbox of that jerk who was giving you a real hard time.

Now if he was a real asshole, you’d stuff some fishheads in with the smelly clothes.

Good old fish. Flopping in the pail, looking up at you with glazed-over eyes sayin’ “Put me out of my misery, man.”

At first he used to do it just like the old man did. Cut the gills. But then he found a better way. He’d step on their heads.

Stomp!

All the brain squishing out.

That part was okay, too. But the best part was the swim bladder. Bounce it with the tip of the knife. Careful, careful. It was delicate.

Bouncy, bouncy, bouncy.

Then if you were quick enough, you’d jam the tip all of a sudden and it’d pop.

But that was kid stuff, too. Old stuff. He’d moved on to better stuff than popping swim bladders. And things were going real good until he got caught.

Hell with that shit. No sense moaning about the past. Better to make something of the future.

After all, he was young.

He wrote Hank Stewart, Real Estate Developer.

Like that guy who owned all those casinos in Atlantic City. Man, he could have his pick of chicks ’cause he had bread.

Hank Stewart, millionaire.

Hank Stewart, billionaire.

Hank Stewart, trillionaire.

Ah, that was stupid, too. Money wasn’t everything. It didn’t show what you got in your pants.

Hank Stewart, stud.

Ah-hah!

Hank Stewart, rock star. Hair down to his ass, wearing nothing but a pair of tight jeans, sweat streaming down his hard, lean body. Girls coming after him, screaming their little heads off, waiting for him to give it to them.

Hank Stewart, King of Rock and Roll.

He paused a moment, then wrote: Hank Stewart, King.

King Stewart.

Emperor Stewart.

Lord Stewart.

God Stewart.

Or just plain God would do.