"Carl Hiaasen - Striptease" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hiaasen Carl)

"They could put you in jail. It's called product tampering."
"It's called genius," Shad said, "and for your information, I already got a lawyer can't wait to take the case. And a Palm Beach shrink who swears I'm totally fucking traumatized since I opened a yogurt and found this damn cockroach"
Erin laughed. "Traumatized? You don't even know what that means."
"Grossed out is what it means. And look here" Shad lifted the foil seal with the hemostat. "Perfect! Not even a rip. So the bastards can't say someone broke into the grocery and messed with the carton."
"Clever," Erin said. She checked her hair in the mirror. Most of the dancers wore wigs, but Erin felt that a wig slowed her down, limited her moves. Losing a wig was one of the worst things to happen on stage. That, and getting your period.
"How's my bottom?" she asked Shad. "Is my crack showing?"
"Naw, babe, you're covered."
"Thanks," Erin said. "Catch you later."
"Go on and laugh. I'm gonna be rich."
"Nothing would surprise me." She couldn't help but envy Shad's optimism.
"The way it goes," he said, "them really big companies don't go to trial on stuff like this, on account of the negative publicity. They just pay off the plaintiff is what the lawyer told me. Major bucks."
Erin said, "The customer's name is Killian. Table three. Let me know if he comes in." Then she was gone. He could hear the heels clicking on stage, the applause, the gin-fueled hoots.
Shad peered into the container. The roach leg had resubmerged; the surface of the yogurt looked smooth and undisturbed. A masterful job of sabotage! Shad placed the foil seal in a Ziploc bag and closed it by sliding his thumb and forefinger along the seam: evidence. Gingerly he carried the yogurt container to the dancers' refrigerator. He placed it on the second tray, between a six-pack of Diet Sprite and bowl of cottage cheese. Over the Delicate yogurt label he taped a hand-written warning:
"Do Not Eat or Else."
He reread the note two or three times, decided it wasn't stern enough. He wrote out another and taped it beneath the first: "Property of Shad."
Then he went out to the lounge to see if any asses needed kicking. Sure enough, at table eight a pie-eyed Volvo salesman was trying to suck the toes off a cocktail waitress. Effortlessly Shad heaved him out the back door. He dug a Pepsi out of the cooler and took a stool at the bar.
At midnight, the skinny guy with the square glasses came in and staked out his usual chair at table three. Shad strolled over and sat down beside him.
On stage, Erin was grinding her heart out.
She's wrong about one thing, Shad thought. I notice her eyes, every night I do. And they're definitely green.


CHAPTER 2
Malcolm J. Moldowsky did not hesitate to address United States Congressman Dave Dilbeck as "a card-carrying shithead."
To which Dilbeck, mindful of Moldowsky's influence and stature, responded: "I'm sorry, Malcolm."
Pacing the congressman's office, Moldowsky cast a cold scornful eye on every plaque, every commemorative paperweight, every pitiable tin memento of Dilbeck's long and undistinguished political career.
"I see problems," said Malcolm Moldowsky. He was a fixer's fixer, although it was not the occupation listed on his income-tax forms.
There's no problem, Dilbeck insisted, none at all. "We were gone before the police showed up."
Moldowsky was a short man, distractingly short, but he made up for it by dressing like royalty and slathering himself with expensive cologne. It was easy to be so impressed by Moldy's fabulous wardrobe and exotic aroma that one might overlook his words, which invariably were important.
"Are you listening?" he asked Dave Dilbeck.
"You said there's a problem, I said I don't see any problem."
Moldowsky's upper lip curled, exposing the small and pointy dentition of a lesser primate. He stepped closer to Dilbeck and said, "Do the name Gary Hart ring a bell? Fuckups 101you need a refresher course?"
"That was different," the congressman said.
"Indeed. Mr. Hart did not send anyone to the emergency room."
Dilbeck felt the heat of Moldowsky pressing closersmelled the sharp minty breath and inhaled the imported Italian musk, which was strong enough to gas termites. Dilbeck quickly stood up. He was more at ease speaking to the crown of the man's head, instead of eye to eye. The congressman said, "It won't happen again, that's for sure."
"Really?"
The acid in Moldowsky's remark made the congressman nervous. "I've been doing some soul-searching."
Moldowsky stepped back so Dilbeck could see his face. "David, the problem is not in your soul. It's in your goddamn trousers."
The congressman shook his head solemnly. "Weakness is spiritual, Malcolm. Only the manifestation is physical"
"You are so full of shit"
"Hey, I can conquer this," Dilbeck said. "I can control these animal urges, you just watch."
Moldowsky raised his hands impatiently. "You and your damn urges. It's an election year, Davey. That's number one. Only a card-carrying shithead would show his face at a nudie joint in an election year. Number two, your man pulls a gun, which happens to be a felony."
"Malcolm, don't blame Erb."
"And number three," Moldowsky went on, "during the commission of the act, you are recognized by a patron of this fine establishment. Which raises all sorts of possibilities, none of them good."
"Whoa, whoa, whoa." Dilbeck wedged his hands to signal time-out, like a football coach. "Let's not jump to conclusions."
Malcolm Moldowsky laughed harshly. "That's my job, Congressman." Once again he started to pace. "Why did you hit that man with the bottle? Don't tell meyou got something going with the stripper, right? She's carrying your love child, perhaps?"
Dilbeck said, "I don't even know her name."
"But still you felt this uncontrollable impulse to defend her honor, such as it is. I understand, David. I understand perfectly."
"It's a sickness, that's all. I should never be around naked women."
All the fight had gone out of the congressman. Moldowsky circled the desk and approached him. In a softer voice: "You don't need this shit right now. You got the campaign. You got the sugar vote coming up. You got a committee to run." Moldowsky tried to chuck the congressman on the shoulder but wasn't quite tall enough. He wound up patting him on the elbow. "I'll take care of this," he said.
"Thanks, MmmMalcolm." Dilbeck almost slipped and called him Moldy, which is what everyone called Moldowsky behind his back. Fanatically hygienic, Moldowsky hated the nickname.