"Coldheart Canyon (preview edition)" - читать интересную книгу автора (Barker Clive - Coldheart Canyon)

The usher said, sure, why not, and led Todd down a passageway that ran
behind the screen. Todd looked up at his reversed image on the screen. All he could
remember about the scene that was playing was how damn uncomfortable his costume had
been.
"Here you go," the usher said, unlocking the doors at the end of the
corridor, and letting Todd out into an area lit only by the ambient light from the
Boulevard.
"Thanks," Todd said, giving him a twenty-buck bill. "I'll be back out front
by the time the credits roll."
The usher thanked him for the twenty-note and left him to himself. Todd took
out a cigarette, but it never got to his lips. A wave of nausea overtook him, so
powerful and so sudden that it was all he could do not to puke down his own tuxedo.
Up came the scotches he'd had in the limo as he drove on down to the premiere, and
the pepperoni pizza, with three cheeses and extra anchovies, he'd had to add
ballast. With the first heave over (something told him there were more to come) he
had the presence of mind to look around, and confirm that this nasty little scene
was not being spied on, or worse, photographed. Luckily, he was alone. All he had
for company back here was the detritus of premieres past; piles of standees and
gaudy scenery pieces designed to advertise movies gone by: Mel Gibson against an
eruption of lurid flame; Godzilla's eye; the bottom half of a girl in a very short
dress. He got to his feet and stumbled away from the stench of his vomit, making his
way through this graveyard of old glories, heading for the darkest place he could
find in which to hide his giddy head. Behind him, through the still-open door, he
could hear the sound of gunfire, and the muted sound of his own voice:
"Come on out, you sonofabitch," he was yelling to somebody. By now, if the
movie had been working, the audience would have been yelling and screaming, wild
with blood-lust. But despite the over-amped soundtrack, nobody was yelling, because
nobody gave a damn. The movie was dying on its feet.
Another wave of nausea rose up in him. He reached out to catch hold of
something so that he didn't fall down and his outstretched hand knocked over a
cardboard cut-out of Tom Cruise, which toppled backwards and hit a cardboard
Titanic, which in turn crashed against a cardboard Mighty Joe Young, and so on and
so forth, like a row of candy-colored dominoes, stars falling against ships falling
against monsters, all toppling back into a darkness so deep they were an
indistinguishable heap.
Luckily, the noise of his vomiting was covered by the din of his own movie.
He puked again, twice, until his stomach had nothing left to give up. Then he turned
his back on the vomit and the toppled idols, and stepped away to find a lungful of
dean air to inhale. The worst was over. He lit his cigarette, which helped settle
his stomach, and rather than returning inside, where the picture was two minutes
from finishing, he walked along side of the building until he found a patch of
street-light where he could assess himself. He was lucky. His suit was unspattered.
There was a spot of vomit on his shoes, but he cleaned it off with his handkerchief
(which he tossed away) and then sprayed his tongue and throat with wintergreen
breath-cleanser. His hair was cropped short (that was the way it was in the movie,
and he'd kept the style for public appearances), so he had no fear that it was out
of place. He probably looked a little pale, but what the hell? Pale was in.
There was a gate close to the front of the building, guarded by a security
officer. She recognized Todd immediately, and unlocked the gate.
"Getting out before it gets too crazy?" she said to him. He smiled and