"Walter Jon Williams - The Bob Dylan Solution" - читать интересную книгу автора (Williams Walter John)

"Jan and Dean," Brenner reminds him.

"That was before we had modern PR techniques. Besides"--dropping the graphs on the desktop--"we
insured the hell out of Sorrel before we let him into the studio."

Brenner looks at the graphs. "Looks like a go."

"I've already got Publicity working on the campaign for the posthumous album. Just in case things go
wrong. We can get some studio hacks to fix up those uncompleted tapes. He'll sound more like himself
than ever."

Brenner glances up. "The only problem," she says, "is who gives him the motorcycle?"

Robertson looks at her. "Why not Velda?"

Brenner thinks about it for a moment, then smiles. "Why not?"
3
Velda closes her lips on a Virginia Slims sticking out of the pack, draws the pack away with a clean,
perfect motion of her hand. The cigarette dances in the corner of her mouth as she speaks. "I want to be
executor," she says. Robertson's mouth is watering at the thought of the cigarette, old habits dying hard.

Brenner shakes her head. "Too much."

Velda lights the cigarette. Her twenty-eight-carat diamond engagement ring sparkles in the blue and
amber spots of the corporate lounge. "I want to see where the money goes. You're already insured for
the lost studio time. You won't lose money there."

Robertson looks from one to the other. "Co-executor," he says.

Velda blows twin curls of smoke from her chiseled ex-model nostrils. Her grey eyes gaze clearly into
Robertson's. "Draw up the papers," she says. "I'll find them among Sorrel's effects if it's necessary."
4
Sorrel looks in baffled astonishment at the motorcycle standing in front of his door, a dark, ominous,
retro-figured shape standing between clusters of frangipani. Here in the canyons behind L.A., the smog is
only a memory and the blue sky reflects off the bike like a distant ocean horizon.

"Vincent Black Shadow," Velda says. "I thought you deserved it."

Sorrel gives an amazed grin. He steps out into the hot California sun and straddles the bike. His ropy
arms reach for the handlebars.

"I gotta get some pictures," Sorrel says. "Me in a leather jacket."

Velda shakes her head. "Leather jackets are for wimps. You want denim."

Sorrel considers this. "Yeah."

"And a headband. Definitely a headband." Steering him away from the very idea of a helmet.