"Best, Mark - Ceiling" - читать интересную книгу автора (Best Mark)

CEILING
by Mark Best

The incessant hum of the alarm clock pulled me out of a beautiful
unconsciousness and dropped me smack dab into the most perfect hangover of my
life. Every sound, from the aforementioned timepiece to the perpetual drip in
my bathroom sink to the diesel whine of the buses beginning their morning
route, were amplified twelve times, echoing in the cavern where my brain
should have been.
I wondered, as I dragged myself out of bed, how people do this to themselves
all the time. Despite our reputation, not all reporters are two-fisted
drinkers. The best crime reporter I know is a Mormon who never drinks, and the
second best, me, has only been drunk twelve times. Take away college binges
and the number drops to four, now five.
The worst part of the whole thing was that I came away empty handed. I had
gone to a Russian social club to investigate a protection racket against
immigrants from the former Soviet Republic. My source, Konstantine Borzov, the
self-proclaimed Godfather of PittsburghТs Russian community, had promised
names, access, and evidence. What I got was glass after glass of illegally
imported vodka, a lot of conversation about John Wayne movies, and tall tales
about resistance fighting in Czechoslovakia. And more vodka.
I managed to shower without drowning and shave without slashing my jugular. I
wasnТt strong enough to try breakfast, but I managed to down half a cup of
Tasters Choice with my aspirin. I donТt remember driving into work, but I was
there and there were no new dents on my Mazda, so I assume it was an
uneventful trip. I even managed to be on time, and was staring at my blank
monitor when 8:30 flashed on the old newsroom clock. I had just clicked open
the file on my Russian story when my phone rang. HoffmanТs secretary told me
the boss wanted to see me immediately.
HoffmanТs office was one story down; a glass walled cubicle in the middle of
the floor. The glass was smoked, and opaque from the outside. Inside, the
whole newsroom was visible, and one never knew when the bossТs eyes were on
you. That was why several of us old-timers (and I always laugh at being
considered an old-timer at thirty-four) maintained offices in the old newsroom
upstairs. Longevity brings the reward of limited independence.
HoffmanТs secretary seemed unusually curt when she told me to go right in. We
had never been friends, but politeness was the norm. Today I felt like IТd run
over her cat.
УGood morning to you, too, Erica, Ф I said. УWe seem especially chipper
today.Ф
УYou may go right in, Mister Masterson,Ф she growled, emphasizing the Mister,
Уand after that you can drop dead on the Parkway.Ф There wasnТt much more for
me there so I went in.
A lot of men find it difficult to work for a woman. A lot of newspapermen find
it impossible. When Caroline Hoffman was named managing editor of the Beacon,
several of my less egalitarian colleagues moved onto other papers. Those who
stayed had some stinging criticism of their new boss, but mostly she was
greeted with grudging respect. As an UPI reporter covering the Middle East in
the early nineties, she had proven she had at least as much courage as her
male counterparts. Now she was proving it from the other side of the copy