"Hugh Lessig - Death On Page Three" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lessig Hugh)

DEATH ON PAGE THREE
By Hugh Lessig

Published on the Web by Frisco Foil Inc.
http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Shadowlands/8002/


PROLOGUE

I saw her once when she was alive, strutting through the newsroom on the way to Photo. Someone muttered "Page Three Girl walking," so I knew who she was, or at least what she represented. Soon every reader of The Frisco Foil would know her name, her measurements, her hobbies and where she liked to "do it."

Women all over San Francisco applied to be Page Three girls. They wore bathing suits and they got fifty bucks. We picked one every Thursday, shot her on Friday and ran her on Saturday. Week in, week out, this glorious treadmill of sex helped our readers face the day.

Every Wednesday, the circulation manager pranced into the newsroom with a list of canceled subscriptions. He warned us that Page Three Girls "would ruin our figures one of these days." His name was Fudgeball Roberts, and he used to be an Anglican priest. God blessed him with the gift of humor, but Roberts had yet to realize it, so he was funny without meaning to be.

On this particular Wednesday, Roberts came in with both chins spilling over his bowtie. He looked like someone trying to hold his breath.

"You cover cops?" He asked me.

I gave him a look that said I might.

"I got a story for you," he said quietly. "But you need to move on it right away, before the cops get there."

I kept my smile while reaching for a notebook "You're not in the habit of giving us tips, preacher, so why should I trust you?"I asked. "In fact, this should be the time for your weekly lecture about how our Page Three Girls are corrupting everyone's morals and cooking the books."

Roberts cleared his throat.

"I am here about the Page Three Girl," he said. "The most recent one."

His watery eyes nearly rolled up white, and he looked past me at something else. I had seen the look a hundred times.

"Take it easy, preacher," I whispered. "Just tell me where."

"Hotel Gastone. Parking lot. Stuffed in the back of a Ford. One of my delivery guys saw it. She got cut real bad. "

My mind raced back to the girl who had strutted through the newsroom. I tried to put a face on her: Jet black hair that bounced when she walked, dark complexion, too much lipstick, silver jewelry, high-boned face with honest eyes. She knew she was pretty. She might have tried too hard.

I got my hat and my favorite pen. "Get photo!" I snapped to one of the copy boys. "There's a body at the Hotel Gastone. I'm on my way!"

The copy boy disappeared. Roberts put a hand on my shoulder. It was a freshly washed hand. I imagined him going to the toilet after hearing the news and splashing water in his face, maybe throwing up once or twice. That's why circulation managers should stay out of the newsroom.

"The thing is, them Page Three Girls never hurt our circulation," he said.

"They always did wonders for mine."

He couldn't smile. I lifted his hand off my shoulder. "Don't worry, padre," I said. "I'll sell you a few more papers."

***