"George Aleg Effinger - When Gravity Fails" - читать интересную книгу автора (Effinger George Alec)

When Gravity Fails

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1
Chiriga’s nightclub was right in the middle of the Budayeen, eight blocks from the
eastern gate, eight blocks from the cemetery. It was handy to have the graveyard so close-
at-hand. The Budayeen was a dangerous place and everyone knew it. That’s why there
was a wall around three sides. Travelers were warned away from the Budayeen, but they
came anyway. They’d heard about it all their lives, and they’d be damned if they were
going home without seeing it for themselves. Most of them came in the eastern gate and
started up the Street curiously; they’d begin to get a little edgy after two or three blocks,
and they’d find a place to sit and have a drink or eat a pill or two. After that, they’d hurry
back the way they’d come and count themselves lucky to get back to the hotel. A few
weren’t so lucky, and stayed behind in the cemetery. Like I said, it was a very
conveniently situated cemetery, and it saved a lot of time and trouble all around.

I stepped into Chiri’s place, glad to get out of the hot, sticky night. At the table nearest
the door were two women, middle-aged tourists, with shopping bags filled with
souvenirs and presents for the folks back home. One had a camera and was taking
hologram snapshots of the people in the nightclub. The regulars usually don’t take
kindly to that, but they were ignoring these tourists. A man couldn’t have taken those
pictures without paying for it. Everyone was ignoring the two women except a tall, very
thin man wearing a dark European suit and tie. It was as outrageous a costume as I’d
seen that night. I wondered what his routine was, so I waited at the bar a moment,
eavesdropping.

“My name is Bond,” said the guy. “James Bond.” As if there could be any doubt.

The two women looked frightened. “Oh, my God,” one of them whispered.

My turn. I walked up behind the moddy and grabbed one of his wrists. I slipped my
thumb over his thumbnail and forced it down and into his palm. He cried out in pain.
“Come along, Double-oh-seven, old man.” I murmured in his ear, “let’s peddle it
somewhere else.” I escorted him to the door and gave him a hefty shove out into the
muggy, rain-scented darkness.

The two women looked at me as if I were the Messiah returning with their personal
salvations sealed in separate envelopes. “Thank you,” said the one with the camera. She
was speaking French. “I don’t know what else to say except thanks.”


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When Gravity Fails