"Уильям Гибсон. Virtual light (англ.)" - читать интересную книгу автора

Sublett was too law-abiding to commit any vandalism, and anyway the ink in the marker
might've killed him.

Sublett had had allergies. He went into shock from various kinds of
cleaners and solvents, so you couldn't get him to come into the car wash at all, ever. The
allergies made him light sensitive, too, so he had to wear these mirrored contacts. What
with the black IntenSecure uniform and his dry blond hair, the contacts made him look like
some kind of Kian-assed Nazi robot. Which could get kind of complicated in the wrong store
on Sunset, say three in the morning and all you really wanted was some mineral water and a
Coke. But Rydell was always glad to have him on shift, because he was as determinedly
nonviolent a rentacop as you were likely to find. And he probably wasn't even crazy. Both
of which were definite pluses for Rydell. As Hernandez was fond of pointing out, SoCal had
stricter regulations for who could or couldn't be a hairdresser.

Like Rydell, a lot of IntenSecure's response people were former
police officers of some kind, some were even ex-LAPD, and if the company's rules about not
carrying personal weapons on duty were any indication, his co-workers were expected to
turn up packing all manner of hardware. There were metal detectors on the staff-room doors
and Hernandez usually had a drawer full of push-daggers, nunchuks, stunguns, knucks,
boot-knives, and whatever else the detectors had picked up. Like Friday morning at a South
Miami high school. Hernandez gave it all back after the shift, but when they went calling,
they were supposed to make do with their Glocks and the chunkers.

The Glocks were standard police issue, at least twenty years old,
that IntenSecure bought by the truckload from PDs that could afford to upgrade to caseless
ammunition. If you did it by the book, you kept the Glocks in their plastic holsters, and
kept the holsters Velcroed to the wagon's central console. When you answered a call, you
pulled a holstered pistol off the console and stuck it on the patch provided on your
uniform. That was the only time you were supposed to be out of the wagon with a gun on,
when you were actually responding.

The chunkers weren't even guns, not legally anyway, but a ten-second
burst at close range would chew somebody's face off. They were Israeli riot-control
devices, air-powered, that fired one-inch cubes of recycled rubber. They looked like the
result of a forced union between a bulipup assault rifle and an industrial staple gun,
except they were made out of this bright yellow plastic. When you pulled the trigger,
those chunks came out in a solid stream. If you got really good with one, you could shoot
around corners; just kind of bounce them off a convenient surface. Up close, they'd
eventually cut a sheet of plywood in half, if you kept on shooting, and they left major
bruises out to about thirty yards. The theory was, you didn't always encounter that many
armed intruders, and a chunker was a lot less likely to injure the client or the client's
property. If you did encounter an armed intruder, you had the Glock. Although the intruder
was probably running caseless through a floating breech-not part of the theory. Nor was it
part of the theory that seriously tooled-up intruders tended to be tightened on dancer,
and were thereby both inhumanly fast and clinically psychotic.

There had been a lot of dancer in Knoxville, and some of it had
gotten Rydell suspended. He'd crawled into an apartment where a machinist named Kenneth
Turvey was holding his girlfriend, two little kids, and demanding to speak to the
president.