"Arkady and Boris Strugatsky. Roadside Picnic (англ.)" - читать интересную книгу автора

Mosul Kitty sat behind the desk, examining a painful sore on his nose
in the mirror. He did not give a damn that he had to pay the taxes tomorrow.
The completely bare desk top held only a jar with mercury salve and a glass
with a clear liquid. Mosul Kitty raised his bloodshot eyes at Noonan and
lumped up, dropping the mirror. Wordlessly, Noonan settled into the armchair
opposite him and silently watched, while he muttered something about the
damn rain and his rheumatism. Then he said:
"Why don't you lock the door, pal."
Mosul, his flat feet slapping the floor, ran Lip to the door, turned
the key, and returned to the desk. His hairy head towered over Noonan, and
he stared loyally into his mouth. Noonan kept watching him through half-shut
eyes. For some reason he remembered that Mosul Kitty's real name was
Raphael. Mosul was famous for his huge bony fists, purplish and bare, that
stuck out from the thick hair that covered his arms like sleeves. He had
called himself Kitty because he was convinced that that was the traditional
name of the great Mongol kings. Raphael. Well, Raphael baby, let's get
started.
"How are things?" he asked gently.
"in perfect order, boss," Raphael-Mosul replied rapidly.
"You smoothed over the problem at headquarters?"
"It cost 150. Everybody is happy."
"It comes out of your pocket. It was your fault, pal. It should have
been taken care of."
Mosul made a pathetic face and spread his hands in a sign of
submission.
"The parquet in the hall should be replaced," Noonan said.
"It will be done."
Noonan said nothing, puckered his lips.
"Swag?" he asked, lowering his voice.
"There's a little," Mosul replied in a low voice, too.
"Let's see it."
Mosul rushed over to the safe, took out a package, and opened it on the
desk in front of Noonan. Noonan felt around with one finger in the pile of
black sprays, picked up a bracelet, examined it from all sides and put it
back.
"This is all?"
"They don't bring any," Mosul said guiltily.
"They don't bring any," Noonan repeated.
He aimed carefully and jabbed his toe with all his strength into
Mosul's shin. Mosul grunted and bent over to grab the injured spot, but
immediately straightened out and stood at attention. Then Noonan jumped up,
grabbed Mosul by his collar and came at him, kicking, rolling his eyes, and
whispering obscenities. Mosul, moaning and groaning, rearing his head like a
frightened horse, backed away from him until he fell onto the couch.
"Working both sides, eh? You son of a bitch." Noonan was hissing right
into his terrified eyes. "Buzzard Burbridge is swimming in swag and you give
me beads wrapped in paper?" He smacked him in the face, trying to hit the
scab on his nose. "I'll ship you off to jail. You'll be living in manure,
eating dry bread. You'll curse the day you were born!" He punched the sore
nose one more time. "Where does Burbridge get the swag? Why do they bring it