"Kristine Kathryn Rusch - Death on D Street" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rusch Kristine Kathryn)

and more than one man had fallen through the street to the emptiness below. One of my campaign
pledges had been to shore up the South Town area, but no one was really pushing me to fulfill that
promise.

Lights were on in all the houses, and laughter filtered down from one of the porches. The men here
weren't drunk—or at least weren't obviously so. A lot of them stood outside, smoking and talking as they
waited in line. It must have been payday for one of the mines. I'd gotten so caught up in my daughter's
teething drama I hadn't been paying attention.

I walked to the very last house. The street trailed off into nothing here, just scraggly grass and dust. Light
poured out of this house as well, but the door was shut tight. As I approached, I saw a man knock and
get sent away.

I didn't bother to knock. I tried the knob but it didn't turn. I glanced over my shoulder. Travis hadn't
followed me. Apparently his only task had been to fetch me. That completed, he was able to go back to
one of the saloons and see if he could finish the task of getting drunk.

So I rapped on the big picture window, closed despite the coolness of the evening, and shouted, “It's the
mayor!”

The door opened just a crack.

“Doc sent for me,” I said.

The door opened the rest of the way. I didn't recognize the girl behind it. She was blonde and buxom,
wearing a cheap satin wrap that tied at her waist and left nothing to the imagination. I didn't recognize her,
but that wasn't a surprise. Girls came and went at these places so fast that sometimes I was surprised
anyone knew who they were.

Her face was ashen and she didn't even bother to greet me. She just stepped aside, waited until I
crossed the threshold, then pulled the door closed.

Six girls were in the parlor. A few were wearing dresses. The rest had on stained wraps just like the girl
who had opened the door. Lucinda Beale, who'd opened this house six years before, sat on the edge of
a chaise lounge.

She waved a hand toward a door. “In there.”

The room smelled of sweat and perfume. One of the girls sat on the ornate staircase leading to the
second floor. She held her face in her hands, her legs slightly spread, revealing everything.

I walked through the women. They all moved away from me, something I'd never experienced in a
whorehouse before.

The door led to the back parlor. It was usually reserved for the girls and “family,” anyone involved with
the house. I'd been there half a dozen times before, mostly for a drink after getting rid of unruly
customers. I hadn't been inside since I married Ginny.
I swung the door open and stepped inside the room. It was hot and had the copper odor of blood.

“Watch where you step.” Doc Clifton leaned against the wall, arms crossed. His open medical bag sat