"Franz, Darren - Where The Wind Blows" - читать интересную книгу автора (Franz Darren)

A round clipped the building's corner, mere inches from Slat's head. A shower of mortar and concrete bits whizzed through the air as Slat double-backed around the corner.

He was on the run.

Sirens. In the distance. Getting closer...

Slat ran down the desolate street. Into an alley. Up a rusted fire escape. To the roof of an old warehouse.

Snitch. He had to get to Snitch McGinn. He was a rat, and rats knew how to hide underground, away from the heat and shooters from Chicago.

Snitch lived in a rented railroad flat on the Lower East Side. Even the real rats had more class.

Slat ran across the tarred rooftops; the skyline glittered and twinkled beyond. He moved swiftly, jumping and sprinting with a surefootedness which was almost uncanny.

Shimmying down a telephone pole on 12th Street, Slat dusted himself off and pounded bricks.

The Calico Motel--its letters flashing on and off in sizzling red neon--was on the corner. Slat remembered Johnny once told him Snitch lived across the street, above the Italian Bakery, where he could "keep his eyes on the dough".

Slat crossed the street.

An alley ran behind the bakery and the adjoining shops. Jogging now, Slat dragged a trash can beneath the fire escape, and used its added height to reach the ladder's first rung.

Once he reached the landing he peered into the open window while the curtains fluttered around him like a shroud.

Nibbling on his lip, Slat called "Snitch?" in a harsh whisper.

No answer.

Pulling his .45 from the waistband of his pants, Slat ducked into Snitch's room. As he fumbled for the light switch his feet slipped and skidded in something wet...

Slat turned on the light, and immediately wished he hadn't.

Snitch was tied to a straight-backed chair next to his bed, naked except for a pair of blood-splattered boxer shorts. His head lolled uselessly to one side, eyes glazed and uncomprehending. His mouth had been cut wider into a leering grin; a bloody handkerchief was jammed between his teeth.

Slat was thinking Snitch must have choked to death on his own blood; how his screams should have awakened the entire block...

...Until he noticed the peculiar object in Snitch's lap.

His severed tongue.

The bastards had worked him over, then they shut him up for good.

The mark of the squealer.

Slat bolted from the room.

He headed down 5th Avenue. There was a ritzy nightclub on 43rd; The Crown Jewel. Slat had gotten pretty friendly with Molly Parker, one of the chorus girls. He thought he could certainly use a friendly face right now...

A car suddenly squealed around the corner behind him. Slat's first instinct was to turn around to see who it was. Had he done that, he would have been killed. Instead, he followed his second instinct, the one which originated from the gut.