"Mike Resnick - Lucifer Jones 02 - Exploits" - читать интересную книгу автора (Resnick Mike)

Mr. Mako, diminutive Japanese detective who specializes in judo, disguise,
archaeology and jealousy.
Cuddles, an authentic Chinese dragon.
The Scorpion Lady, a beautiful but deadly smuggler with a truly outstanding pair of
lungs.
Sir Mortimer Edgerton-Smythe, who will stop at nothing to bring Doctor Aristotle Ho
to justice.
Sam Hightower, a semi-abominable Snowman who is hiding out from the mob in the
mountains of Tibet.
Capturing Clyde Calhoun, world-famous hunter who brings ’em back alive. Not
intact, but alive.
Lisara, a 111-year-old virgin who has taken up the High Priestess trade.
Akbar, a learning-disabled elephant.
Lady Edith Quilton, the richest widow lady in Rajasthan Province.
And our narrator,The Right Reverend Honorable Doctor Lucifer Jones , a handsome,
noble and resourceful Christian gentlemen who has certain unresolved disagreements
with eight separate Asian governments over the finer points of the law.

1. The Master Detective
They say that there are a lot of differences between Hong Kong and some of the
African cities I had recently left behind. Different people, different cultures, different
buildings, even different food.
Of course, there are a lot of similarities, too. Same lack of consideration for those who
are bold enough to tinker with the laws of statistical probability. Same steel bars in
the local jail. Same concrete walls and floors. Same uncomfortable cots. Same awful
food.
Truth to tell, I'd had a lot more time to consider the similarities than the differences.
I'd gotten right off the boat from Portuguese East Africa, checked into the Luk Kwok
Hotel (which thoughtfully rented its rooms by the hour, the night, or the week), spent
the next hour in a local restaurant trying to down a bowl of soup with a pair of
chopsticks, and then, realizing that my funds needed replenishing, I got involved in a
friendly little game of chance involving two cubes of ivory with spots painted on
them. It was when a third cube slipped out of my sleeve that I was invited to inspect
the premises of the local jail.
That had been five days ago, and I had spent the intervening time alternately trying
not to mind the smell of dead fish, which is what all of Hong Kong smelled like back
in 1926, and gaining some comfort by reading my well-worn copy of the Good Book,
which I ain't never without.
The girl that brought my grub to me was a charming little thing named Mei Sung. She
was right impressed to be serving a man of the cloth, which I was back in those days,
and I converted the bejabbers out of her three or four times a day, which made my
incarceration in durance vile a mite easier to take.
As time crawled by I got to know my fellow inmates. There was a Turkish dentist
who had gassed a British officer to death in what he assured me was an accident and
would certainly have been construed as such by the courts if he hadn't appropriated
the officer's wallet and wristwatch before reporting the poor fellow's untimely demise.
There was a young Brazilian student who sweated up a storm and kept screaming
things about anarchy and tyrants and such and keeping everyone awake. There were
two Chinamen dressed all in black, who kept glaring at me every time I finished
converting Mei Sung. There was a Frenchman who kept saying he was glad he had