"George R. R. Martin - WC 6 - Ace in the hole" - читать интересную книгу автора (Martin George R R)

between Spector and the door. Spector opened the slip of paper and held it up to
the light to read. He took a sharp breath. "Shit. Never ask for anything small.
And Atlanta, too. What a mess that'll be. Why not wait until he's back in town
and get a refund on George Kerby's plane ticket?"
"I want it taken care of in the next week. Tomorrow wouldn't be too soon. We got
a deal?"
"Yeah, okay," Spector said, bending the envelope over and tucking it into his
shirt. "You must hate this guy something fierce."
The door opened. Spector got a glimpse of the man before he pulled it closed
again. Four feet tall and built like a linebacker-a dwarf. Not many of those
around. And only one who had it in for the guy he'd been hired to nail.
"I heard you were dead, Gimli." No answer. But he couldn't expect any from
someone who was supposedly stuffed and mounted in the Famous Bowery Wild Card


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Dime Museum. Still, Spector knew better than anyone that just because a person
was supposed to be a stiff didn't necessarily make it SO.
It was Rat's Alley, where the dead men lost their bones. Where Jokers Wild was,
was Rat's Alley.
It was probably a good alley for rats.
The last of the customers stumbled out through the door, set like a scream into
a blank brick imbecile face of wall. The doorway was normal height, but most of
them kept heads ducked low into collars wilted with the sweat of fear,
anticipation, and sweet release, kept them that way as they picked their way
through mother-of-pearl puddles, the faded glory of plastic food wrappers, stale
city smell of tired proteins and complex hydrocarbons aging without grace.
An insignificant figure loitered next to the doorway, James Dean with a
hunchback, his black Ked propped against the wall behind him, his white one down
in the muck, nodding and humming low in his throat to make sure the night's
clientele kept heading in the right direction. It was no sweat. The ones still
inside were leaving to put the rubbery, giggling menace of Moon Goon behind
them, and once outside the right direction was away from him.
On the other side of the door a bulky figure, bagged in black cloak and
pantaloons, nodded and murmured floorwalker endearments through a seamless
clown's mask: "Thankyou. Please come again. Thank you. Always a pleasure." At
most they nodded back.
Last out were a handful of Beautiful Youths, late teens who still managed to
look fresh and scrubbed beneath their flattops and floppy nouveaux dos, the
jokers Wild wait staff.
James Dean manque watched them walk. His pupils dilated when his eyes fixed the
boys, jocks as clean limbed and muscled as fledgling Howard heroes. He wasn't
aware. They were probably queers anyway. There were queers everywhere; you never
could tell. Mackie's scrotum and fingertips itched at the thought; there were
things he liked to do to queers. Not that he got much chance. The Gatekeeper and
the Man were always on him to be careful where he used his powers. And whom on.
When the last were gone from Rat's Alley, the man with the clown face shut the
door. Its outside was enameled a chipped green. He took hold of the frame with