"Edward L. Ferman - Best From F&SF, 23rd Edition" - читать интересную книгу автора (Ferman Edward L)

"Not much we can do in a wetsuit."
"The wetsuit comes off about four; then we'll have Saturday night and all of Sunday."
"Best indecent proposition IтАЩve had all week."
Miss Tremaine humphed. It might have been over something in the report, but I don't think it was.
I picked up Janice at her apartment in Westwood early Saturday morning. She was waiting for me
and came striding out to the car all legs and healthy golden flesh. She was wearing white shorts, sneakers,
and that damned Dallas Cowboys jersey. It was authentic. The name and number on it were quite
well-knownтАФeven to non-football fans. She wouldn't tell me how she got it, just smirked and looked
smug. She tossed her suitcase in the back seat and slid up against me. She smelled like sunshine.
We flew over and spent most of the day glubbing around in the Pacific with a bunch of kids fifteen
years younger than I and five years younger than Janice. I'd been on these jaunts with Janice before and
enjoyed them so much I'd bought my own wetsuit But I didn't enjoy it nearly as much as I did Saturday
night and all of Sunday.
I got back to my apartment on Beachwood fairly late Sunday night and barely had time to get
something to eat at the Mexican restaurant around the corner on Melrose. They have marvelous carne
asada. I live right across the street from Paramount, right across from the door people go in to see them
tape The Odd Couple. Every Friday night when I see them lining up out there, I think I might go
someday, bat I never seem to get around to it. (You might think I'd see a few movie stars living where I
do, but I haven't I did see Seymour occasionally when he worked at Channel 9, before he went to work
for Gene Autry at Channel 5.)
I was so pleasantly pooped I completely forgot about Andrew Detweiler. Until Monday morning
when I was sitting at my desk reading the Times.
It was a small story on page three, not very exciting or newsworthy. Last night a man named Maurice
Milian, age 51, had fallen through the plate-glass doors leading onto the terrace of the high-rise where he
lived. He had been discovered about midnight when the people living below him had noticed dried blood
on their terrace. The only thing to connect the deaths of Harry Spinner and Maurice Milian was a lot of
blood flowing around. If Milian had been murdered, there might be a link, however tenuous. But Milian's
death was accidentalтАФa dumb, stupid accident It niggled around in my brain for an hour before I gave in.
There was only one way to get it out of my head.
"Miss Tremaine, I'll be back in an hour or so. K any slinky blondes come in wanting me to find their
kid sisters, tell 'em to wait"
She humphed again and ignored me.
The Almsbury was half a dozen blocks away on Yucca. So I walked. It was a rectangular monolith
about eight stories tall, not real new, not too old, but expensive-looking. The small terraces protruded in
neat, orderly rows. The long, narrow grounds were immaculate with a lot of succulents that looked like
they might have been imported from Mars. There were also the inevitable palm trees and clumps of bird
of paradise. A small, discrete, polished placard dangled in a wrought-iron frame proclaiming, ever so
softly, NO VACANCY.
Two willowy young men gave me appraising glances in the carpeted lobby as they exited into the
sunlight like exotic jungle birds. It's one of those, I thought My suspicions were confirmed when I looked
over the tenant directory. All the names seemed to be male, but none of them was Andrew Detweiler.
Maurice Milian was still listed as 407. I took the elevator to four and rang the bell of 409. The bell
played a few notes of Bach, or maybe Vivaldi or Telemann. All those old Baroques sound alike to me.
The vision of loveliness who opened the door was about forty, almost as sum as Twiggy, but as tall as I.
He wore a flowered silk shirt open to the waist, exposing his bony hairless chest, and tight white pants
that might as well have been made of Saran Wrap. He didn't say anything, just let his eyebrows rise
inquiringly as his eyes flicked down, then up.
"Good morning," I said and showed him my ID. He blanched. His eyes became marbles brimming
with terror. He was about to panic, tensing to slam the door. I smiled my friendly, disarming smile and
went on as if I hadn't noticed. "I'm inquiring about a man named Andrew Detweiler." The terror trickled