"Lessig, Hugh - Tough Love" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lessig Hugh)

"You need to come in," she said again. "This guy -- he was a friend of yours?"

"I don't know if he was a friend or not," I answered truthfully. "A couple of weeks ago he gave me one of his tapes to look at. I figured out from the angle that the camera would have been placed somewhere around here. Look, I need to tell you I'm a reporter. I work for The River City Blade. My name's Picasso Smith."

She nodded. "Marsha. I'm a senior at Van Buren. Poli Sci."

We stood in silence for a moment. I looked down the street where the woman had disappeared.

"My aunt," she said. "Don't worry about her. She's not going anywhere."

"How do you know?"

" She has no guts. She can't cope. She is cope-less."

I made the mistake of looking back at the cop. He stood there with his arms folded, radar-locked on me. People make fun of cops all the time -- they're fat, they sit in diners -- but you don't mess with cops around a murder. It's like they have an extra gear in their brain.

I went inside and closed the door. I followed the girl into the living room, where she shoved the tape in the VCR and flopped down on the couch. I took out my notebook.

"I'm glad you're from the newspaper," she said. "You need to see this."

The girl fast-forwarded the tape. It was 5:43 a.m, and the date was today. Once more, Bob skittered back and forth like a duck in a shooting gallery. It was 5:46 a.m. Then someone scooted up and shot him. Bob dropped like a stone and the person disappeared. It was almost comical, like a silent movie where everyone walks in quick-time.

"Oops. I passed it. Here. Let's try that again."

She backed it up and replayed it. The girl sitting on the couch was now on the television screen. You could tell by the kinky black hair and the school clothes. She walked up to the doctor's house and Bob said something to her. The girl said something back. The girl gestured with her hands like she was upset. Bob said something else. He held out a brochure. The girl pulled something out of her pocket and you could hear the gunshot. Bob fell and rolled over on his side.

I looked past the television to the picture window. The cop was standing in the front yard.

The girl laughed sharply, joylessly. She looked like a wax dummy whose features had begun to melt.

"I come back in the house and I'm wacko after shooting this guy, right? I mean, it's not like I shoot people every day. My aunt, she's like -- 'where did you get that gun?' As if that matters now, right? And I'm trying to tell her about this guy. He just got to me. I mean, he's like 'Do you really want to do this?' And I'm like 'no fucking shit I want to do this.' And he's like 'Read this before you go in, for your own safety.' And I'm like 'My safety? My safety? How about your safety, you mindless fuck?'"

"Your aunt. You were saying."

The girl hiccupped a couple of sobs. It was starting to come out. She had been calm and accepting, and now the protection that comes with shock was wearing off. I reached into my pocket and turned on my tape recorder.

"My aunt goes out and takes the video camera, right? Because she's seen the guy set it up every day. I had no fucking idea there was a camera. But then she says she's going to keep the tape and hide it from the cops, but that I have to go to college, I have to make something of myself, I have to dump my worthless boyfriend who got me pregnant. Except he's not even my boyfriend. That's how much she knows about my life. "

I tried to phrase a question, but nothing seemed real. It was like being back in bed again, hearing the helicopters.

"She's saying I have to realize my potential. She says she'll help me cover this up because she loves me. Tough love, she says. That's so Seventies."

In television land, Bob had stopped moving.

The front door creaked open. The cop's hand was on his gun.


HUGH LESSIG, 41, is a newspaper reporter for the Daily Press in Newport News, Va. He lives in the state capital of Richmond, with his wife, Ann Marie. He writes about state government, politics and whichever elected official happens to commit news on a given day. Given his life's calling, he is a particular fan of reporter-detectives such as Frederick Nebel's "Kennedy of the Free Press." More stories are available on his website, Frisco Foil Inc, at http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Shadowlands/8002/.

Copyright (c) 2000 Hugh Lessig