Sixkill

Начало книги

It was spring. The vernal equinox had done whatever it was it did, and the late March air drifting in through the open window in my office was soft even though it wasn’t really warm yet. Spring training was under way in full tiresomeness, and opening day was two weeks off.

I was drinking coffee and studying a new comic strip called Frazz to see if there were any existential implications that I might be missing, when Quirk came in and went to the coffeepot, poured himself a cup, added sugar and condensed milk, and took a seat opposite my desk.

“Care for coffee?” I said.

“Got some,” Quirk said. “Nice of you to ask.”

“You ever read Frazz?” I said.

“What the fuck is Frazz,” Quirk said.

He was as big as I was, which is biggish, and always dressed well. Today he had on a chestnut-colored Harris tweed jacket. His hands were thick, and there was in his eyes a look of implacable resolution that made most people careful with him.

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