Читать книгу The Devil's Whelp - Vin Hammond Jackson - Страница 20

Meyer was waiting in the office for him. The fact that he was still standing yet doing nothing in particular seemed to suggest that he had some unfinished business on his mind. Del headed straight for a chair set in front of one of the desks and flumped into it. Meyer glared at him briefly, then went over to close the door that Presswood had deliberately left open. "Do I gather you have something of importance to tell me?" Del asked.

Meyer returned and lounged against the desk. His eyes were on Presswood's, but when the toolpusher locked onto his gaze, Les had to turn away. He pushed off the desk and began strolling around the room. "I think we'd better be honest about this, Del. You always used to be hard to get along with and by the looks of your all-too-obvious battle scars, you haven't changed much - you're still upsetting people."

"Takes two to tango, Les."

Meyer ignored the thrust. "Well, it's not going to happen this time. I'm in charge here. You work for me. Is that understood?"

"Absolutely, Les."

"And if you think you can...." Les couldn't believe his ears. "What did you say?"

Del got up. He was smiling benevolently as he sauntered over to the Company man and placed a hand gently on his shoulder. "You're the boss, Les. This is your baby. I'm just here to help keep the wheels turning. I'll leave all the decision-making to you."

Les had a strange look of uncertainty on his face. "What's your game, Del?"

"Nothing, Les. I'm here to do a job, that's all."

Meyer straightened. He was like a man who'd just solved a perplexing riddle. "Oh, I see. You think I can't handle it, don't you? Leave him alone, you're thinking, let him blunder around, making mistakes, making a fool of himself."

"Now, does that sound like me, Les?"

Meyer moved in close. "It sounds exactly like you, Del! And you can forget it. I've got my finger on this button. Nothing happens on board Olympian without my say-so. You've got a problem - you come to me!"

Del made a circle with his finger and thumb. "Wilco, chief. Any sign of trouble and you'll be the first to know." Meyer was nodding but was still finding it hard to believe. "Oh, by the way, where can I find Jack Pierce," Del asked casually.

A cloud descended over the Company man's complexion. "Pierce - what do you want with him?"

"Hey, don't look so worried. It's personal, Les. Just want to talk about a mutual friend."

"Oh." Meyer relaxed slightly. "That's alright, then. He'll either be at the divers' shack or down by the moon pool. If he's not in either of those places, you'll have to ask around."

"Thanks, I will." Del sauntered towards the door. "I guess I'll see you later, Les."

"Just a minute! Don't you want a run-down on the operation?"

Presswood stopped and shrugged. "What for? You seem to have everything under control. I'm obviously here on a need-to-know basis and as far as you're concerned I don't need to know anything. So, I thought I'd settle in, then go and have a chat with Jack. Where's my room, by the way__?"

The door flew open and a man rushed in. His face was flushed and he was puffing and panting. “__moon pool," he gasped, his arm flapping vaguely at the doorway behind him. "It's Sutcliffe! He's dead!" His brief message delivered, he stood there, breathing heavily, staring at Meyer, waiting for instructions or at the very least, a positive reaction.

Les responded by turning white. The only parts of him that moved were his hands which had begun to clench and unclench in a manner which had become so typical of him as to be almost a trademark. His eyes were wide and glassy Presswood stared at him. "Well? Any suggestions?"

"I - yes, I...." He directed a confused look at the man in the doorway. "Dead, did you say?"

"Jesus!" spluttered the man in exasperation. "Isn't someone going to do something?"

"Les?" urged Presswood quietly.

Meyer shook himself. He had begun blinking furiously. "Who is this Sutcliffe? What does he do?"

"He can't do fuck all now!" growled the messenger. "He used to be a roustabout."

Meyer's head snapped around and his eyes fixed on Presswood. "He's one of yours, Del. This is your problem. You're the toolpusher."

Presswood was aware of two pairs of eyes burning into him. He concentrated on Meyer's. "You said if I had a problem I should come to you. Well, I have and I'm here. How would you like me to handle it?"

Meyer was now shuffling around on the spot, hands and eyelids working overtime. "What are you asking for, carte blanche? This is your responsibility. Just fix it, for Christ's sake!"

"Okay, Les, I will." Presswood turned to the man and nodded. "Take me there. Has someone called the medic?"

"Jerry's there already."

"Good. At least someone's showing some initiative. Come on." He began to follow the man out, then paused in the doorway and turned. Les was now sweating profusely. Del pointed directly at him. "I'll remember this, Les. You can count on it!"