"Doherty, Jim - Death And Taxes" - читать интересную книгу автора (Doherty Jim)

stripping off my uniform, showering, and changing into civvies another
forty-five, so it was roughly 1730 (well, I was off-duty, now; it was 5:30 PM)
when I walked into the InnТs lounge/restaurant.
The Inn had few guests staying that night, it being the middle of the week in
winter, not exactly peak tourist time. Coogan and two of his IRS subordinates
were seated around a table in the lounge watching a basketball game on the
lounge TV. A thin, ascetic-looking priest, presumably off-duty like me, but
still wearing his uniform of a well-fitting black business suit and
turned-around-collar, was sitting by himself at the bar, tapping a ring that
looked too big for his left ring finger against a glass of wine from which he
took an occasional sip, his eyes on the same game. A young couple, casually
dressed, sat by themselves at one of the smaller tables, ignoring both their
drinks and the TV, eyes only for each other. Two men were seated at a third
table, engaged in quiet conversation. One of them was a familiar acquaintance.
I walked over to their table. УShep,Ф I said. One of the men looked up. УDan
Sullivan,Ф I went on. УKatie AnneТs husband.Ф
Shep Michaels and I had met on one or two previous occasions. His wife and
mine worked together. A computer consultant, his photographic hobby had turned
into a part-time paying business when heТd begun to sell wilderness photos,
taken during weekend camping trips, to such prestigious publications as the
Chicago Tribune Magazine and Wisconsin Monthly. Now, I guess he could
legitimately describe himself as a free-lance photo-journalist.
He smiled, shook hands, asked me how I was, and invited me to join him and his
friend, whom he introduced as Peter Carpenter.
УThe psychiatrist?Ф I asked.
УThe same,Ф he answered. УDo you listen?Ф
УNot too much. I donТt get up to Milwaukee that often, and your show hasnТt
made it to Chicago, yet. IТve read a few of your articles, though.Ф
УAh,Ф he said, nodding. Though still a comparatively young man, not yet 50,
Dr. Carpenter had pretty much retired from clinical practice, becoming a local
radio personality who hosted a call-in medical advice show on a talk station
in Beer City. Sort of a Midwest Dr. Dean Edell. He supplemented his broadcast
income by writing self-help pieces.
He was, it turned out, working on a book about the therapeutic benefits of
spending time in the wilderness, and was meeting Shep to discuss the
possibility of illustrating it with his photos.
We went into the dining room, spent a bit more than an hour sharing a good
meal and pleasant conversation, at the end of which I begged off joining them
as they scouted locations for night-time shots.
УIТve got to make an early start tomorrow,Ф I explained.
Since I hadnТt ordered dessert after finishing dinner, I felt relatively
guilt-free buying a couple of chocolate bars and a can of Coke from the
vending machines in the lobby. These I took to my room and set on the
nightstand next to my bed. The InnТs cable system had a few channels Katie and
I don t get at home, so I fed my sweet tooth to an uncut, uninterrupted
broadcast of a dandy 1948 film noir called T-Men, in which Dennis OТKeefe and
Alfred Ryder, as undercover Secret Service agents, get the goods on a
murderous counterfeiting gang. When that ended, I relaxed through a few more
chapters of Siragusa. Sustained by both visual and literary accounts of what
federal policing was supposed to be like (as opposed to the reality IТd