"Goodwin-SmallChange" - читать интересную книгу автора (Godwin Parker)

principle; next the shlep would want weekends off.

On the eve of his death, Lemming nibbled a day-old pastry and wrote a
foreclosure notice on the White House, adding that he might extend their loan if
the Pentagon were put at his disposal for coin storage, mints to issue a new
Letoming Penny. The tottering government would have no choice but to accept. He
sealed the notice and retired in the warm glow of a cup run over, a life full
and well applied. He always slept in the Collection room these sunset years,
closing his eyes on the sight of the day's haul and opening them to the same
comforting vista. This night, with a last loving caress for a roll of quarters,
Lemming slept the sleep of the just and never woke.

The first hint of his demise came when he sat up next morning and left his body
still supine, cold and stiff. Reaching for money as comfort, his hand simply
passed through it.

"The bread's real. You're not," J.B. announced from the second-hand Morris chair
as he paged through Lemming's contract now due for execution. "Wakey, wakey,
G.L. Number Five has gratefully retired to pasture and pastimes after years of
unfailing service to you. On behalf of the Front Office, I hope there's no
regret."

From pure habit Lemming could wish for one more good Manhattan sweep. Fun City
was always good for a bundle, and he'd planned to make it early to the local
Army/Navy store for a sale on surplus C-rations. "No, I guess not."

"Good boy. A deal is a deal, right?"

"Did I say it wasn't?" Lemming squared his ectoplasmic shoulders with no more
than a sigh for bargains forever lost. "Day for day per agreement."

"Check." J.B.'s homrims swept over the contract. "Forty-three years, three
months, two weeks, and change. Piece of cake, baby. We tried to get you Sundays
off, maybe a coffee break now and then, but Number Five said no: he didn't get.
Always was a kind of a twitch; now he's a pissed off prick." The capped teeth
gleamed in a corporate smile. "And fair is fair."

Lemming felt a February chill of premonition, remembering meatloaf and curses.
"Who's Number Five?"

The contract vanished into J.B.'s coat pocket. "Sweetie, I'm running behind
again, so can we split like now? I gotta sell the American public on a new war
with Iraq for God, Country, Mother, and Oil."

Lemming allowed tacitly that he who squeezed the Charmin could surely wring the
American heart.

"And you have to learn your route, G.L"

Another chill --late February this time. "Route?"