37. Дмитрий Суслов: как захватить рынок CRM систем с помощью freemium-модели. Роман Рыбальченко
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and lit a cigarette before he spoke.
“That he hit a parked truck like a Kraut dive bomber?”
“Are you telling me the truck had no lights?”
“That’s right, Ma’am. It was parked by the side of the road. The driver was sleeping. It happened after midnight.”
“So he’d turned off his goddamned lights, did he?” She was starting to color. “I hope to God that jerk has insurance.”
“I hope your fancy boyfriend has insurance.”
“We were going to get married. I have a ring, see?”
“Yes, Ma’am.” He blew out a breath. The ring was expensive.
“Where is he? I want to be with him.”
“I wouldn’t advise it. Color of his eyes?”
“Greeny-green. Like mine.”
“That’s him, lady. We got the right one. His wife said to call you. She’s in New Mexico.” Phyllis reeled—that was an unnecessary second slap in the face. For a few moments, she said nothing, remembering how just the mention of his cult-addicted wife Anissa rankled Russell, sent him into a tailspin, uncoiling him.
Phyllis relished picturing her own rendition of the scene: Officer to Anissa: “I’m afraid I have painful news for you.”
Anissa to Officer: “Painful? The world has been waiting for justice! He’d been begging Saint Germain to strike him down because of sin—sin, alcohol and vulgar music.” Anissa was a fanatical member of the Chicago-based I AM Movement where she and several hundred others did daily battle against liquor, meat, sex and war.
Phyllis’ heart was heavy as she sensed Russell’s ghost hovering somewhere above the weary group in the early morning precinct, being battered by his impossible wife. Whatever the issue, Anissa was right and Russell was wrong. And now he was dead wrong. Let Anissa and her Saint exult; Phyllis was certain they were in fact gloating themselves silly in their muddy small town a thousand miles from nowhere. They were so far off the beaten track that they were perfectly safe saying whatever they wished: not even the Japanese nor the German planes could reach them while they printed inane books, passed out misleading pamphlets and ranted on and on, disapproving of simply everyone and everything surrounding the war. They lashed out against bombs, bullets, whisky, cigarettes, adultery, dancing, meat and the Andrews Sisters. Who knew what else they would latch onto?
Roosevelt needed to declare them anti-American because it was the war that had spurred Americans’ craving for tobacco and alcohol.
And their fanaticism against dance tunes. Certainly, the I AMers were unpatriotic, undermining the national morale because music was the war’s voice and even promiscuity had its soothing place. Anissa and her sour believers went wholly against the grain. They alone waged their own war within the greater war.
From his anteroom in the sky, Russell must have seen Anissa’s self-congratulating elation since he had died before she’d signed the divorce papers. That was surely the reason Russell had appeared to her so upset and agitated—he was still trying to throttle Anissa. The task now fell to his residual beneficiary; she was equal to the task.
“Where in God’s name did you take him? Please officer, tell me where he is!” Her voice cracked, tears swelled. She snuffed them back up into her sinuses and coughed. It was urgent that she quiet his remains— only she could ease his turbulence.
“Morgue, Ma’am. You gotta fill out some papers, like his wife said. She figures you can identify his clothes.” This third uncomfortable mention of Anissa, his soon-to-be-divorced crackpot wife, was painful. Phyllis tried to erase the woman from her mind but she could not.
His blood-sucking wife, this distant specter, was a pampered millionairess who relentlessly upped the ante by refusing to sign the divorce papers and righteously hurtled names and insults at both Phyllis and Russell which, if you must know, Officer, she wished to state for-the-record, caused Russell more agitation, more anxiety and misery, forcing him to drink, yes…forcing him to drink. You have witnessed the pitiful results, Your Honor. She virtually murdered him. And then there were his children, by one of his wives, the First Mrs. Barclay and another child too, a hazy girl somewhere. Half French.
Step aside, ladies. All you who are slated to muster out when the Third Mrs. Russell Watson Barclay ascends to preeminence—all to be slashed from your privileged “Next of Kin” status. But for this tragic unforeseen event.
Let them all rot in Hell.
In the meanwhile, thank God, the reason the reporter and the wags looked at her accusingly was that Russell had had his lawyers sign over as much of his property as he was able to in Palm Beach County before the divorce; he told her that she was the only woman he’d ever loved. The ink was barely dry.
And it was true. He had never really loved the others. How could anyone?
He sang to her.
Had he ever sung to them?
Only she, the new Mrs. Russell Barclay-elect. She was his consort, she was his inspiration, his consolation, his movie star; he took her everywhere with him, set her up at The Breakers before moving her into his winter home in Lantana. He treated her like a queen because she was his adored redhead Scottish lassie, and he was her rich Yank.
And in West Palm Beach, Florida, she went to the hairdresser, had manicures, and he took her shopping, promising her the moon when his divorce was final and even more than the moon as soon as the war was over.
His house—now all hers—was filled with paintings, books and memories. The sunlight filtered through the French doors which led out onto the lanai overlooking the gardens where the lawn fell away down to Lake Worth. She lounged in a wicker chaise under the gnarled sea grape aware that an occasional submarine was cruising the Inland Passage south to Miami. She felt personally protected by the superior American Navy. And she was grateful not to be in gloomy Scotland because everything was bigger, brighter, better in the States.
In early 1944, Roosevelt was slowly lifting the rationing that had been incredibly austere just a year earlier. Sugar could now be had but decent Scotch was still impossible to find because, she had heard, that cases and cases of the lovely stuff were stockpiled in Cornwall for the invading Allies’ pleasures. Phyllis knew she’d have to wait for the end of the war to see Scotch again. She missed it more than the meat and butter.
But she knew and everyone knew that D-Day was imminent, huge Life magazine photos of the accumulation of men, armaments and ammunition were not just published, they were flaunted: Just take a gander at this, Krauts. We’ll get every last bloody one of you.
She gloated along with the Americans, clinking her highball (a distilled-in-the-USA rum), saying things like ATTA BOY, and A-1 and GEE-WHIZ. She felt blessed to be an American now and no longer just a refugee from her viper’s nest of a home in Aberdeen.
“Okey dokey,” she said and took a sip, shuddering at the dark memories around her Scottish family in Aberdeen.
A short year before, in need of a job and out of cash, she had found herself in Canada where the Canadian National Railway had deposited her: Dawson Creek, Mile One of the Al-Can Highway, the Trans-Canada to Alaska super road. Finding work wasn’t difficult to come by as even the Canadians had sent their prime men to fight for freedom. On the second day, she had been taken on as a receptionist for a small town lawyer named Bailey in Dawson Creek when Russell pushed through the office door on serious business. It had been a muddy spring in 1943, “The Road” (as they called the Al-Can Highway) had been completed to Big Delta, Alaska. By this time, the men had all been moved north, leaving a wake of abandoned road equipment littering the muddy countryside.
The place looked derelict and the pay wasn’t great. Then in he came.
She remembered glancing up when Russell strode over to her desk, breezing past three disheveled workers who were seated along the walls, obviously waiting to see the same man.
“I