"Brad Ferguson - Last Rights" - читать интересную книгу автора (Ferguson Brad)

LAST RIGHTS

Brad Ferguson
IT WAS ONE OF THOSE GRAY-ON-GRAY March mornings that go so
well with decaying downtown Manhattan. I had nothing much to do but
look out the window to where the demo crews were nibbling away at the
World Trade Center, inch by ugly inch. Then my phone buzzed.
The ansatape whirred, lying to whoever it was that I was busy. I pressed
the bug button and listened to the incoming message.
“Dave?” came a voice I didn’t recognize. “This is Frank Bridges. Might
have a job for you, if you’re not too busy. Call me before noon. You should
have the number. Bye.” Bridges clicked off.
But who was Bridges? I couldn’t remember him to save my life.
“Computer.”
“I’m listening.” Insolent bitch. I wished again for one of those sweet,
new IBApples with the sexy voice and the white slave manner ... but at six
thousand newbucks, one of those is too rich for my blood. (I was still
paying off my law school loan and my initiation charge for the
Metropolitan Law Library. Oh, never mind.)
“Search: phone file: Bridges, Frank. Add: Bridges, Francis.”
“Okay.” There was a short pause, and then: “Found. One entry.”
“Read it.”
“Bridges, Francis Xavier. Assistant vice president, Aetnadential
Insurance. Address, Two Broadway. Shall I dial?”
“Hold,” I said. “Date of entry?”
“Last December 16.”
That explained it. I must have met Bridges at a Christmas party and
filed his business card right away. That meant I probably didn’t owe him
any money or favors.
I looked at my watch; it was just nine thirty-two. I had plenty of time to
call Bridges back without appearing overanxious. “Flag reference:
Bridges, Francis. That’s all.”
“You’re welcome,” the computer said.
I leaned back in my creaky chair and put my feet up on the desk. If
Bridges had work for me, I wanted to talk to him; the office rent was due.
And I noticed I could use a new pair of shoes; the uppers were cracking.
I killed the rest of the morning doing the Times puzzle and did not call
Bridges back until just before eleven-thirty. “Computer.”
“I’m listening.”
“Retrieve reference: Bridges, Francis. Dial.”
It did, and Bridges came on the phone. “Frank, this is Dave Aaron,
returning your call. How are you?”
“I’m just fine, Dave. Busy morning?” Bridges seemed in a good humor. I
wished I remembered what he looked like; I had a vision circuit when I
worked for the city, but not any more.
“As usual,” I replied. “And you?”
“Busy enough. Actually, not to rush you, but that’s what I called about.
Tom Meaghan over at Smith and Stern says you’ve done some revival work
for him.”
Yes, I had. I knew Tom pretty well; I’d done half a dozen cases for him,