Читать книгу The City Man - Howard Akler - Страница 14

Eli does not move. Stands behind the crowd, his view of the accident blocked by the backs of tiptoed gawkers. Up and down they go, anything for a better look. He holds still one minute more, brief hesitation turning into a tilt of the head. He gets a glimpse of the Bathurst Street hill. He puts his right foot forward. Enters the crowd and steadily elbows his way up front. Face to face with a matchstick-chewing constable.

Star man, says Eli.

The constable thumbs him through.

More cops on the other side of the crowd, a good dozen of them scattered around the intersection. Stern postures that sway with the rubberneckers. On the east side of Davenport, Eli eyeballs the smashed vehicles. Guston’s Bread truck dented down the middle where the police car hit, the auto’s sleek lines crenellated on impact. Both drivers’ doors are open and unhinged. Below, two men in white kneel beside the injured officer and lean in until their grimace-shaped spines have no further give. Shattered glass glistens all over the road and in everyone’s nostrils is the smell of fresh bread.

Eli looks around. Spots a man with a bloody nose and Guston’s stitched into his shirt, staring up at the steady gathering of cumulus. Eli walks up to him.

Morenz, from the Star. How’s the beak?

Lotta blood, but the docs said I’ll be okay.

What happened?

Shit if I know, brother. They just came roaring down the hill and smacked into me. Right fucking into me. Boom.

Boom.

Yup. Course they got the worst of it.

Was the siren on?

Yeah yeah, they were in a real hurry, you know? But they came down the hill so fast I didn’t have no time. No time at all.

Wet flakes start to fall. The bread man reaches into his breast pocket for a cigarette. Small splats of blood across the Guston’s logo, crimson serif of the letter S a slightly darker shade.

The bread man exhales a long line of smoke. Shit, brother, this is going to cost my boss a lot of dough.

Eli smiles.

What? What’d I say?