"Tom Reamy - Under the Hollywood Sign" - читать интересную книгу автора (Reamy Tom)

them and the wrecker hauled off the two cars still merged as one. Part of the mess was dragging on the
street and I could hear the scraping for a long time. The bike cops did a few flashy turns and roared
away. The crowd started to wander off, and Carnehan and I began sweeping the broken glass from the
pavement.

But there was only one thing I could think of: I couldn't remember the color of his eyes.

Nothing much happened the rest of the night. We cruised the Boulevard a few times, but there wasn't
anything going on. A few hustlers still lounged around the Gold Cup and the Egyptian, never giving up
hope. There was no point in hassling them—they'd just say they were waiting for a bus, and we couldn't
prove they weren't. It was a pretty scruffy-looking bunch this late in the morning. The presentable ones
had scored a long time ago. You could probably get most of these with an offer of breakfast.

Carnehan reached behind the seat and pulled an apple from the paper sack he always kept back there.
He took a bite that sounded like a rifle shot and then offered me one. "No, thanks."

"An apple a day keeps the doctor away." He grinned and took another bite.

"You're keeping the entire AMA at bay."

He laughed; partly chewed apple dribbled down his chin. He wiped if off with the back of his hand. I
kept my eyes on the street. "Why don't you eat soft apples? They're quiet."

"I like the hard ones."

We stopped a car with only one taillight and gave the guy a warning ticket.

Then the sun was coming up. It was hitting the tops of the Hollywood Hills and illuminating the
Hollywood sign. It looked decent from this far away. You couldn't tell it was made of rotting timbers and
sagging sheet metal clinging in the wind. From here you couldn't see the obscenities scrawled on it.

We went back to the station, reported, and then into the locker room. The rest of the graveyard shift
were wandering in, showering, and changing out of their uniforms. Cunningham has the locker next to
mine. He had been on the Pansy Patrol and was wearing a shirt unbuttoned to the waist, no underwear,
and pants so tight you could count every hair on his ass.

Wharton, one of the police psychiatrists, was leaning against the lockers talking to him. Doc was on his
favorite theme again. He was telling Cunningham why he, Cunningham, was so successful on the Pansy
Patrol. The fags recognized a kindred spirit; the fags always knew one of their own kind; if Cunningham
would only stop fooling himself, just stop deluding himself that he was straight, just know himself, just
start living a conscious life, he would be a happier, more fulfilled person.

I had been on the Pansy Patrol with Cunningham a few times and had seen him operate. I wasn't
completely sure Doc was wrong. Cunningham was peeling off the tight pants and I watched in
fascination, although I'd seen it before, as the sizable bulge in his crotch stayed with the pants.

Poor Cunningham.
He was standing there naked with a slight smile on his face, putting the pants neatly on a hanger, listening
to Doc's clarinet voice. He looked a lot like the cop on Adam-12, whatever his name is, the kid. The
boys had even called him "Adam-12" for a while until they got tired of it. I couldn't keep from comparing