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

failed to stay for a few minutes at least.
It was crowded and dark. Something about big-city bars makes them seem
darker inside than out, even at night. The lights that lit the counter
from above and behind appeared to suck the life out of the air. Small
bulbs, animated beer advertisements that crawled endlessly from right to
left or top to bottom, and forlorn cigarettes that danced in the hands
of the still alert like fireffies in the depths of a Louisiana bayou all
contributed to the feeling of frantic unease.
While the Hollowpoint Bar was grimmer than most, it was also livelier
than many. Gallows humor was prevalent among the regular clientele, a
reflection of their work in the profession of law enforcement. Much of
the laughter that filled the air nightly was corroded with bitterness.
The single flat-plate television mounted above the far end of the bar
continued to spew forth Duncan Crais's florid reminiscences of the
Newcomer Arrival. Most of the patrons ignored his voice as well as the
accompanying images. Only a few who actually clung to the far end of the
counter like bats hanging from the roof of their cave occasionally spared
a glance in the direction of those ringing tones.
Somewhere in the center of the floor, country-western clashed with hard
rock, two tonal galaxies colliding without
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mixing. No one objected to the resulting cacophony. Most of them were too
busy objecting to more important matters, like their superiors, or their
mates, or their day's duty assignment.
Conversation was liberally sprinkled with four-letters words and a vile
street terminology never encountered in what passed outside the Hollowpoint
for "polite" society. The two men seated at the middle of the counter did
not belong to polite society. It was their job to protect those who did
belong from individuals only a little less disreputable than themselves.
They were cops. More precisely, detectives. Down, dirty, and very good at
their jobs. Right now they were also a little drunk.
Fedorchuk's ancestors might've been cossack&--or the serfs they persecuted.
He was big and sloppy and his suits never fit quite right. He was also
never late for check-in and never sick, traits which endeared him to his
superiors if not his colleagues. Not that he was especially dedicated or
devoted to his profession. It was just that he had nothing else to do, and
he knew it. So he went to work. He'd been a good street cop and he made an
adequate detective. In the eyes of his superiors, his punctuality more than
compensated for his lack of intuition.
His partner Alterez was quieter, which in comparison to Fedorchuk didn't
mean much. Alterez was one of the boys, a classification he took pride in.
For a former horneboy he'd accomplished a lot, striving to make himself
indistinguishable from the Anglos he worked with. As a result, he'd
acquired many of his paler colleagues' bad traits instead of the good ones.
Not that there were many good ones to pick up at the station house. He and
Fedorchuk were ponderous, unimaginative, foul-mouthed, and efficient. They
suited one another.
Fedorchuk bent over his drink and sipped from the widemouthed glass without
using his hands to steady it as he gazed up at the flickering TV. His brows