"Lessig, Hugh - Picasso Smith - The Big Knockout" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lessig Hugh)

Benny Ambrozzi, Superintendent.


Chapter Two

The next day, contrary to Benny's wishes, I put something in the paper.

The story said George MacAndrew's last word in the ring was "Bennies." Just for giggles, I raised the drug angle and played it out, talking to some sports types about boxers who use drugs. I found an old boxer who copped a drug plea, and he went on the record about how many boxers use uppers. Chief Barnes gnashed his teeth and said he had no comment. That helped kill the pain in my jaw.

We dragged the story six columns across the top of A-1. Benny Ambrozzi's name didn't make the paper. I figured maybe he would see the story on his way to the crossword puzzle and come talk to me.

The afternoon edition rolled off the press at 10:30 a.m. The copy boy threw one on my desk. I rolled up my cuffs so they wouldn't turn black from the fresh ink and began to turn the pages. Then my intercom buzzed and the voice from hell emoted.

"Smith. Jesus H. Christ."

I closed my eyes and and swallowed. "Yes, Mr. Forbes."

"Stop congratulating yourself and get in here."

Foil editor Walter "Spit" Forbes. Large head, hawk nose. Looks like a big man when sitting behind his desk. In fact, he is small and quick and he walks like someone leaning against the wind. I entered his office and closed the door. He held the newspaper in front of his face. His tiny feet were propped up on the desk. His voice came from behind the newspaper like Frank Morgan in the Wizard of Oz.

"Smith, your jaw looks like hell. Who socked you?"

I told him about my encounter with Benny Ambrozzi. There was a grunt and the whack-twing of tobacco juice hitting a spittoon.

"You write a story about a dead boxer whose last word was Bennies. You get slugged by a man named Benny, who was the boxer's landlord." The paper rustled angrily. "Why am I not reading the name Benny Ambrozzi in this afternoon's Frisco Foil? I knew there was something wrong with this story."

"I figured Ambrozzi might read the story and talk to me. Then I'll shake him down."

"You figured? It's insider baseball, Smith. You force people to read between the lines. Maybe they'll get a prize. Do we give out prizes, Smith? Does this look like a Cracker Jack factory to you?"

"You're mixing metaphors, boss," I said. "Baseball and Cracker Jack."

"Baseball and Cracker Jack are pretty goddamn close, which is more than I can say for you. This story was a clean miss, Smith."

He ranted for a while. I watched with some interest as drops of tobacco juice arched over the newspaper and landed on his desk. It made me think of George MacAndrew's blood on my typewriter. I counted to thirty and walked out. By then, Forbes was talking to the wall about Ted Williams.

At 3 p.m., Benny Ambrozzi called and said he wanted to talk in person. I asked if he planned to hit me again. He made a self-effacing noise and said, "That was just a love tap, Mr. Smith. Why don't you come over here? George MacAndrew's not the story in all this. I'm fed up. Any guy can make a mistake."

I jumped in my coupe and drove to the apartment building. The fifth floor consisted of a single hallway with Benny Ambrozzi's door at the end. The door had a pane of milky white glass. Someone had punched a hole in it near the knob. When I pushed on the door, it gave like a broken bone. I walked in and my shoes crunched over glass pebbles.

"Benny?"

I found him in the kitchen.

His head was on the kitchen table and his arms dangled at his sides. Small, round dimples covered the back of his head, the kind that come from a ballpeen hammer. His head was turned away from me. Blood leaked from his mouth. He hadn't been dead long.

In the living room, a cat rested comfortably on the couch. Next to the couch was a bowl of cat food, and in the cat food was Benny Ambrozzi's severed tongue.

The cat got up and rubbed against my ankles. Then it went into the kitchen and stepped gingerly around the broken glass like a woman on high heels.