"Joel Rosenberg - Hidden Ways 1" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rosenberg Joel C)

But that was winter. This was spring, and the blue sky above was filled with big, puffy clouds, and driving as fast as he could was
safe, it was reasonable; the only trouble with it was—

A siren blared, then gave a triple hoot; in the rearview mirror, Torrie could see the red light flashing on top of the car behind them.
Well, somehow or other he had missed it. No sense in playing games now.

"Now we're gonna get it," Ian said. "Dammit, Torrie, I told you—"

"Shh." Torrie eased up on the gas and guided the car over toward the side of the road. Not too far; the road was edged by a ditch.
"Do me a favor?"
"Yes?" Maggie leaned back. "You want me to, like, unbutton my shirt a little and talk real breathy?"

"No. For one thing, you're wearing a sweater. Make it a little hard to unbutton your shirt, no?"

"There is that."

"What I was going to ask," Torrie went on, "is for the both of you tell me that you don't have anything on you that would be a ...
problem."

Ian had already opened a Pepsi. "Just one joint," he said, balancing it on his palm. "Figured that—"

"Don't figure. Just shut up and swallow. In case you haven't noticed, this whole country is in the middle of a drug witch-hunt, and I
don't care to be burned at the stake." Torrie rolled down the window. "The law says they can take the car, you know."

"So I hear," Ian said, from around a mouthful. "Cost you all of eighty bucks to replace it, I bet."

"Just do it."

"I'm swallowing, I'm swallowing."

"Hey, Torrie!" The cop's voice was familiar, but it took a moment for Torrie to place it; then he swung the door open and leaped
out of the car.

"Your Mom never tell you not to speed?" The cop crossed his arms over his thick chest, trying to look stern, although the grin on
his face ruined the effect.

The cop was only a few years older than Torrie, and the broad, Nordic face under the shock of sandy hair was only about as
familiar as Torrie's own. Torrie couldn't help smiling.

"Jeff fucking Bjerke," he said, giving the name just the right Norski pronunciation, complete to the raise in pitch at the end of the
last syllable. The Bjerke family had been in North Dakota since the 1870s, and only the oldest of the old still spoke anything more
than a few words of Norski, but, like most in this part of the state, they kept a trace of the old accent, more as a badge of pride
than anything else. "How are you?"

Jeff's face was split in a broad smile. "If I'd known it was you," he said, "I—"

"Would have let it slide?"

"Nah. I'd have shot out a tire and seen how you'd handle a skid." Jeff gave a hitch to his Sam Browne belt. "I mean, I don't really