"George R. R. Martin - Armageddon Rag" - читать интересную книгу автора (Martin George R R)

would like Mister Blair to contact him as soon as possible, in connection with an assignment,” said the
pleasant professional voice. Sandy listened to her twice before erasing the tape. “Jared Patterson,” he
said to himself, bemused. The name evoked a hell of a lot of memories.

Sandy knew that he really ought to ignore Patterson’s message. The sonofabitch deserved no more. That
was hopeless, though; he was already too curious. He picked up the phone and dialed, mildly astonished
to discover that he still remembered the number, after seven years. A secretary picked up. “Hedgehog,”
she said. “Mister Patterson’s office.”

“This is Sander Blair,” Sandy said. “Jared phoned me. Tell the poltroon that I’m returning his call.”

“Yes, Mister Blair. Mister Patterson left instructions to put you through at once. Please hold.”

A moment later, Patterson’s familiar mock-hearty voice was ringing in Sandy’s ear. “Sandy! It’s great to
hear ya, really it is. Long time, old man. How’s it hanging?”

“Cut the shit, Jared,” Sandy said sharply. “You’re no happier to hear from me than I was to hear from
you. What the hell you want? And keep it short, I’m a busy man.”

Patterson chuckled. “Is that any way to talk to an old friend? Still no social graces, I see. All right, then,
however you want it. I wantcha to do a story for Hedgehog, how’s that for straight?”

“Go suck a lemon,” Sandy said. “Why the hell should I write for you? You fired me, you asshole.”

“Bitter, bitter,” Jared chided. “That was seven years ago, Sandy. I hardly remember it now.”

“That’s funny. I remember it real well. I’d lost it, you said. I was out of touch with what was happening,
you said. I was too old to edit for the youth audience, you said. I was taking the Hog down the tubes,
you said. Like shit. I was the one who made that paper, and you damn well know it.”

“Never denied it,” Jared Patterson said breezily. “But times changed, and you didn’t. If I’d kept you on,
we’d have gone down with the Freep and the Barb and all the rest. All that counterculture stuff had to
go. I mean, who needed it? All that politics, reviewers who hated the hot new trends in music, the drug
stories…it just didn’t cut it, y’know?” He sighed. “Look, I didn’t call to hash over ancient history. I was
hoping you’d have more perspective by now. Hell, Sandy, firing you hurt me more than it did you.”

“Oh, sure,” Sandy said. “You sold out to a chain and got a nice cushy salaried job as publisher while you
were firing three-quarters of your staff. You must be in such pain.” He snorted. “Jared, you’re still an
asshole. We built that paper together, as a communal sort of thing. It wasn’t yours to sell.”

“Hey, communes were all well and good back when we were young, but you seem to forget that it was
my money kept the whole show afloat.”

“Your money and our talent.”

“God, you haven’t changed a bit, have you?” Jared said. “Well, think what you like, but our circulation is
three times what it was when you were editor, and our ad revenues are out of sight. Hedgehog has class
now. We get nominated for real journalism awards. Have you seen us lately?”

“Sure,” said Sandy. “Great stuff. Restaurant reviews. Profiles of movie stars. Suzanne Somers on the