Owls Don't Blink

Начало книги

I was awakened at three o’clock in the morning by the sound of a garbage-pail cover being kicked across the sidewalk. A moment later, a woman’s voice, harsh and shrill, shouted, “I am not going with you! Do you understand?”

I rolled over and tried to drop back into the oblivion of slumber. The woman’s voice pursued me, tearing at my eardrums. I couldn’t hear the man with whom she was arguing.

The air was heavy with humidity. The bed was a big four-poster antique, placed in the back of a high-ceilinged bedroom. Huge French windows opened onto a balcony, lined with wrought-iron grillwork. This balcony extended out over the sidewalk. Directly across the narrow street was Jack O’Leary’s Bar.

When I had tried closing the windows, the heavy, muggy air had made the room stifling. When I opened the big windows, sounds from the old French Quarter of New Orleans came pouring in.

The screaming voice ceased abruptly, and I started drifting off once more into slumber.

Читать дальше →