"Destroyer 035 - Last Call.pdb" - читать интересную книгу автора (Williams Remo)

"If you're going to pick at everything, we're never going to get this movie in the can," Chiun said.
"I don't want anything to do with this movie," Remo sniffed.
He was still sulking when he stopped his car in front of the YMCA in the center of town. It was almost noon and, across the street, the luncheon line for a small restaurant extended to the corner.
"See that mob?" Remo said. "They're all waiting to see Newman and Redford and they've all got movies to sell."
"None as good as mine," Chiun said. "Raymond Burr?"
"Too old. He can't play me," Remo said.
"Well, if you're going to be difficult," Chiun said. He got out of the car and started across the street for the restaurant's front entrance. While the line extended to the corner, Chiun did not have to wait in line. His own table was reserved for him every day in the back of the restaurant. He had resolved this, on the very first day, with
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the restaurant owner by holding the man's head in a kettle of seafood bisque.
Halfway across the street, Chiun stopped, then walked back to the car. His face was illuminated with the joy of one who is about to perform a great and good deed.
"I have it," he said.
"Yeah?" growled Remo.
"Ernest Borgnine."
"Aaaaah," Remo said and drove away.
Through his open window, he heard Chiun calling. "Any fat white actor. Everybody knows they all look alike."
The head of the American Nazidom Party called himself Obersturmbannfiihrer Ernest Sche-isskopf. He was twenty-two years old and still had pimples. He was so skinny, the swastika armband kept sliding down the sleeve of his wash-and-wear brown shirt. He wore his black trousers bloused into the tops of his shiny high boots, but his legs were like sticks, without discernible thigh or calf muscle, and the impression the lower half of his body gave was of two pencils shoved vertically into two loaves of shiny black bread.
There was sweat on his upper lip as he faced the television cameras for his daily news conference. Remo watched, lying on the couch in the small house he had rented near Westport's Compo Beach, looking at the television.
"We understand that you dropped out of high school in the tenth grade?" a television reporter said.
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"As soon as I was old enough to find out that the schools were trying to stuff everybody's head with Jew propaganda," Scheisskopf said.
His voice was as thin and boneless as he was. Two more Nazis in uniforms stood behind him, against a wall, their arms folded, their narrowed hating eyes staring straight ahead.
"And then you tried to join the Ku Klux Klan in Cleveland," another reporter said.
"It seemed like the only organization in America that wasn't ready to give the country to the nigger."
"Why did the Ku Klux Klan reject your membership?" he was asked.
"I don't understand all these questions," Scheisskopf said. "I am here to discuss our march tomorrow. I don't understand why this town is getting so upset about it. This is a very liberal community, at least when the rights of Jews and coloreds and other misfits are concerned. Tomorrow we are marching to celebrate the first urban renewal project in history and the only one that is known to be an unqualified success. I think all those liberals that like projects like urban renewal ought to be on the streets with us."
"What urban renewal project is that?" he was asked.
Lying on the couch, Remo shook his head. Dumb. Dumb.
"In Warsaw, Poland, twenty-five years ago," Scheisskopf said. "Some people call it the Warsaw Ghetto but all it was was an attempt to improve the living conditions of subhumans, just as all modern urban renewal projects try to do."
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The room shuddered as Chiun came in and slammed the front door behind him.
"Do you want to hear what happened?" he demanded of Remo.
"No."
"They did not show up again."
"Who cares? I'm watching the news."
Chiun turned off the television.
"I am trying to talk to you and you are watching creatures in brown shirts."
"Chiun, dammit, that's my assignment for tonight."
"Forget your assignment," Chiun said. "This is important."
"Can I tell Ruby you told me to forget my assignment?"
Chiun turned the television back on.
"Being an artist among the Philistines is the cross I have to bear," he said.
The American Nazidom Party was holed up in a house on narrow, twisting Greens Farms Road. They had been talking for weeks about a massive march of thousands, but so far only six had arrived. They were holed up in the house.
They were outnumbered forty to one by the people milling around outside. Thirty of them were pickets protesting the planned march. The other thirty were volunteer lawyers from the American Civil Liberties Union, who were busy showing the protestors restraining orders they had gotten from the Federal circuit courts, which said that everybody had to behave and let the Nazis march as an exercise of free speech.
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The picketers and lawyers were also outnumbered by the state police and Westport local police, who ringed the house on all four sides to make sure no one got at the Nazis inside.
And all together, they were outnumbered by the press, who milled around in abject confusion, interviewing each other on the deeper philosophical ramifications of this latest display of white American racism. They all agreed it was bad, but typical, because what else could you expect of a country that had once elected Richard Nixon.
At 10 P.M., the television crews left, followed thirty seconds later by the print media. At 10:02, the protestors left, followed at 10:03 by the ACLU lawyers. At 10:04, the police left. Remaining behind were two tired Westport policemen who sat in a prowl car.
At 10:05, the Nazis looked at the window and saw that the coast was clear, so they sent a guard named Freddy outside to stand on the porch with a nightstick and look threatening. The other five stayed inside. Obersturmbannfuhrer Ernest Scheisskopf swept the chess pieces off the board and onto the floor. They had set up the chess board in case anyone should look through the window, and he could report that the intellectual Nazis spent their time at an intellectual game like chess. But none of them could play chess; they couldn't remember how the knights moved. One of them now got out the checker pieces and they set the board up to play checkers. Two of them knew the moves and were giving lessons to the others.
At 10:06, Remo arrived and leaned his head into the Westport police car. The two cops looked
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