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

cover, for God’s sake. Consumer reports on video games. A dating service for lonely singles. What is it
you call yourself now? The Newspaper of Alternative Lifestyles?”

“We changed that, dropped the ‘alternative’ part. It’s just Lifestyles now. Between the two H’s in the
logo.”

“Jesus,” Sandy said. “Your music editor has green hair!”

“He’s got a real deep understanding of pop music,” Jared said defensively. “And stop shouting at me.
You’re always shouting at me. I’m starting to regret calling you, y’know. Do you want to talk about this
assignment or not?”

“Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn. Why do you think I need your assignment?”

“No one said you did. I’m not out of it, I know you’ve been doing well. How many novels have you
published? Four?”

“Three,” Sandy corrected.

“Hedgehog’s run reviews on every one of them too. You oughtta be grateful. Firing you was the best
thing I could have done for you. You were always a better writer than you were an editor.”

“Oh, thank you, massa, thank you. I’s ever so thankful. I owes it all to you.”

“You could at least be civil,” Jared said. “Look, you don’t need us and we don’t need you, but I thought
it would be nice to work together again, just for old time’s sake. Admit it, it’d be a kick to have your
byline in the old Hog again, wouldn’t it? And we pay better than we used to.”

“I’m not hurting for money.”

“Who said you were? I know all about you. Three novels and a brownstone and a sports car. What is it,
a Porsche or something?”

“A Mazda RX-7,” Sandy said curtly.

“Yeah, and you live with a Realtor, so don’t lecture me about selling out, Sandy old boy.”
“What do you want, Jared?” Sandy said, stung. “I’m getting tired of sparring.”

“We’ve got a story that would be perfect for you. We want to play it up big, too, and I thought maybe
you’d be interested. It’s a murder.”

“What are you doing now, trying to turn the Hog into True Detective? Forget it, Jared, I don’t do crime
shit.”

“Jamie Lynch was the guy that got himself murdered.”

The name of the victim brought Sandy up short, and a wisecrack died in his mouth. “The promoter?”

“None other.”