Little Caesar

Начало книги

At Norwich Airport I rented a Ford Focus, the only automatic they had.

‘Have you ever hired a car with us before, Mr. Unger?’

She had the watery beauty of many women in these parts, the same lank blonde hair. I wasn’t to be found in the system; she copied my passport and license and slid them back to me across the counter.

‘And the key of course. Won’t get far without that.’

She reminded me of the girl I’d seen once by Bunyan’s Walk, after I’d heard something and left the path — on the mulchy forest floor I saw her, she was riding a motionless old man. He had his pants down around his knees and was looking up at her in glassy fear, at her big white breasts bouncing up and down, her glowing red face. The ferns had rolled their tongues out.

I took the key from her. Gleaming ivory were her nails.

I had left Holland because of the message delivered to me that morning.

‘A telegram,’ the receptionist at the Pulitzer Hotel said. ‘For you.’

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