"Foster, Alan Dean - Alien Nation" - читать интересную книгу автора (Foster Alan Dean)

"Up ahead. By the comer right, two o'clock."
Tuggle slowed the slugmobile, straining to see whatever it was that had
aroused his partner's attention. Sykes's night vision was better than
his. Rumor at the station had it that Sykes was some kind of nocturnal
throwback, that he actually saw better at night than during the day.
Both aliens wore long coats, and it wasn't that cold outside. Nor were
they slouching along like a couple of drunken perverts. Perverts didn't
work in pairs. Other kinds of vennin did.
The coats were different. One was black vinyl, the other a heavy black
or dark blue that didn't look water repellent. Raincoat, as Tuggle
immediately dubbed him in his mind, flaunted a zip-up dark shirt tight
at the neck and fancy
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shoes. The other alien was partially hidden by his companion's bulk.
The two entered a small minimart that occupied the comer of the block,
Raincoat looking back to check the street before following his buddy
inside.
"Does that look at all suspicious to you?" Sykes murmured thoughtfully.
Tuggle affected an air of mock innocence. "Now whatever would give you
that idea?"
He found an empty slot between parked cars and eased the slugmobile into
the gap. Sykes had his revolver out and was checking the chambers as his
partner cut engine and lights.
Automatically finding the right controls on the radio, Tuggle flipped to
the proper channel without taking his eyes off the street. "This is One
Henry Seven. We've got a possible two-eleven in progress at Porter's
minimart, comer of Court and Alvarado. Requesting backup."
Sykes was starting out the door. "Let's do it, partner."
His friend's hand came down on his shoulder. "Easy, cowboy. One of these
days you're gonna get your head blown off pursuing justice a little too
closely."
Sykes stopped half in, half out the door, grinned back at Tuggle. "I like
to keep close enough to see her backside. That's what they told us at the
Academy. 'Never lose sight of Justice.' "
Tuggle sighed, shook his head, and replaced the radio mike on its hook
as the dispatcher sputtered acknowledgment back at them.
The old buildings looming over Alvarado had been built a long time ago,
before the heyday of the two-car family arrived in Los Angeles. The
detectives were grateful for that. It meant there were few garages, which
meant little in the way of off-street parking, which meant plenty of
cover as they dodged behind the lines of battered Toyotas and Buicks in
their stealthy advance toward the brightly lit convenience store.
Two minutes later they were near enough to see the interior through the
dirty plate glass and burglar bars. Porter's minimart was unimpressive,
the shelves sloppily
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stocked, with none of the neatness familiar from Circle K's or 7-Elevens.
The ceiling lights hung from naked chains, the harsh fluorescents