.
Чтение книги онлайн.
Читать онлайн книгу - страница 6
They hadn’t seen each other in a few months, since Jude’s somewhat rootless and meandering life path had led him to relocate from England to the US to be with his new girlfriend, Rae Lee. Ben knew all about rootless and meandering from past personal experience, and while he accepted that it was fairly normal for a young guy in his early twenties to take a few years before finding his feet in life, he worried that Jude had too much of his father’s restless ways about him.
It was Ben’s greatest wish that Jude could instead have taken more after the saintly, patient and selflessly loving man who raised him as his own son all those years when the kid’s real dad was off merrily raising hell in some or other war-ravaged corner of the globe.
Every time Ben reflected on that complicated history, he felt the same pangs of heartache. Years after the event, the deaths of Jude’s mother and stepfather, Michaela and Simeon Arundel, were a wound that would always remain raw. The subject was never discussed between them, but Ben knew the young man felt the pain just as keenly as he did.
Rae was a couple of years older than Jude, the only daughter of a wealthy Taiwanese-American family, and occupied a nice apartment in Chicago’s Far North Side overlooking Sheridan Park, where Ben had stayed with them for only one day before feeling it was time to move on. The brevity of his visit might have seemed unusual to more family-orientated folks, but Ben’s and Jude’s was not a normal father–son relationship and Ben was anxious not to overstay his welcome.
Ben got on cordially with Rae and liked her well enough, but wasn’t completely sure that she was right for Jude. Jeff Dekker, never one to mince words, regarded her as a busybody and a do-gooder – and there was some truth in that. She was a freelance investigative journalist with multiple axes to grind over anything she considered worth protesting about, and seemed to be pulling Jude deeper into her world of political activism despite the fact that he’d never hitherto expressed the slightest interest in politics or causes of any kind. They’d met during one of her trips to Africa to expose the human rights abuses of the coltan mining industry. A trip that had achieved nothing except very nearly lead her to a gruesome end, and Jude with her.
Having had to come to the rescue on that memorable occasion, Ben worried that the next idealistic crusade might turn out to be one from which nobody, not even a crew of ex-Special Forces and regular army veterans ready to do whatever it took, could save them.
Still, if Jude was happy, which he seemed to be, Ben could wish for no more; and even if Jude weren’t happy it was none of Ben’s business to interfere in his grown-up son’s personal affairs. He had said his goodbyes and left with mixed emotions, sorry that he wouldn’t see Jude again for a while, yet quietly relieved to get away. Now here he sat, waiting for another plane – but he wasn’t planning on heading home to France just yet.
At last, Ben’s flight was called, and a couple of hours later they were touching down at Louis Armstrong International Airport in New Orleans. Which struck Ben as tying in very well with his other reason for being in the States.
As a dedicated jazz enthusiast, albeit one who was incapable of producing a single note on any instrument yet invented, Ben had for many years been a fan of the venerable tenor saxophonist Woody McCoy. Now pushing eighty-seven, McCoy was one of the last of the greats. He’d never achieved the stardom he deserved in his own right, but had played with some of the most iconic names in the business: Bird, Monk, ’Trane, Miles, and Art Blakey’s Jazz Messengers, to list but a few.
Now at long last, after a career spanning six decades, the man, the legend, was hanging up his spurs. But doing it in fine style, taking his Woody McCoy Quintet on a farewell tour all up and down the country. A few weeks earlier, Ben had seen the announcement that Woody was due to perform his last-ever gig in his home town of Villeneuve, deep in the rural heart of South Louisiana, in mid-September.
When the opportunity had arisen to free up the date in his work schedule, and with Jeff’s insistent ‘Go on, mate, you know you want to’ in his ear, Ben had decided that this last-ever chance to hear Woody McCoy play live was not to be missed. He almost never allowed himself such indulgences. But he’d allow himself this one, as a special treat.
Now that he’d cut his stay in Chicago a little shorter than planned, it meant he had a couple of days to explore Woody McCoy’s birthplace, sample the local culture, relax and take it easy.
Ben stepped off the plane in New Orleans and found himself in a different world. Welcome to Planet Louisiana. Though over the years he’d visited more places than he could easily count, his past travels around the US had been limited. He’d been to New York City, toured the coastline of Martha’s Vineyard, spent some time in the rugged hills of Montana, and had a brief sojourn in the wide open spaces of Oklahoma. But he’d never ventured this far south, and had only a vague idea of what to expect.
The first thing that hit him was the humidity. It was so thick and cloying that for a moment he thought he must have fallen down a wormhole in the space-time continuum and found himself back in the tropical furnace of Brunei redoing his SAS jungle training.
He cleared security, strolled through the hellish heat over to the nearest car rental place with his new green canvas haversack on his shoulder and was happy to find that the near-blanket blacklist that bugged him in many other countries didn’t seem to apply here. For some reason, the likes of Europcar, Hertz and Avis objected to his custom on the grounds that their vehicles never came back in one piece, occasionally in several, and other times not at all. But the pleasant young lady at Enterprise breezed through the paperwork and handed him the keys to a gleaming new Chevy Tahoe SUV with a smile like warm honey and a ‘Y’all have a good day, now’ that was Ben’s first introduction to a real-life Southern accent.
The airport lay eleven miles west of downtown New Orleans, amid one of the flattest and most panoramic landscapes Ben had seen outside of the Sahara. He opened all the windows, lit a long-awaited Gauloise with his trusty Zippo lighter, which the airport security guys had scrutinised as though it were an M67 fragmentation grenade, and headed north-west for the South Central Plains with the wind blasting around him and a four-hour drive ahead. He intended to enjoy every minute of his freedom.
Ben Hope was an unusually skilled and capable man who claimed little credit for his many gifts. One he lacked, however, in common with most people, was the gift of prophecy. If by some strange intuition he’d been able to foretell what lay in store for him at the end of the long, hot road, he would have pulled a U-turn right across the highway and jumped straight onto the next plane bound for France.
Instead, he just kept on going.
But that’s what happens when you have a talent for trouble.
For the next few hours, Ben drove beneath a sky burned pale by the sun. Trying to dial up a jazz station on the radio, he found only country music of the croony, schmaltzy variety with pedal steel guitars that sounded like cats yowling. It was either that, or the radio evangelists fulminating against the state of the modern world, or silence.
He chose silence, and eased back in his seat, steering the big comfortable Tahoe with two fingers as he worked his way through a pack of Gauloises and drank in his surroundings. The highway carved relentlessly onwards through the flat landscape, passing cane СКАЧАТЬ