"Joe Haldeman - Tool of the Trade" - читать интересную книгу автора (Haldeman Joe)

"I... I do lots of things." Dots of sweat appeared on his forehead
and upper lip. "I deal dope. Heroin and coke, mostly. Got three girls
down in the Zone. Used to do some wet work there. You know."
"I don't know. Tell me about it."
"I-I messed up some people for the, for the local, you know. The
Family. Killed one, piece a cake. Piece a fuckin' cake. Back a the
head, one shot, pow. From across the room, one shot."
"That's good," I whispered. "Do you have a gun with you now?"
"Sure. In this business-"
"Give it to me."
"Hey. I couldn't."
"Walk over here and slip it to me under the bar, where no one can
see." He shook his head hard, then eased off the barstool, sidled over,
and passed me a small bright-blue automatic. I never took my eyes off
him. It works better that way. "Now. Do you have any heroin?"
"Yeah, five bags primo."
"Do you have the means for injecting it?"
"The works, yeah."
"Good. I want you to go into the men's room and inject all of it
into yourself."
"Hey. I couldn't take that much even when I was on it. Kill a fuckin'
horse."
"Nevertheless, you will do it. Inject it into a vein. In the men's
room. Now."
He shook his head but his eyes returned to mine. Then he went
back to where his beer was and looked at it, but didn't get back on the
stool. "Now!" I whispered sharply. He shuffled back toward the men's
room.
An unusual degree of resistance. Probably an approach-retreat
confusion due to being an ex-addict. Like I feel about cigarettes.
I gave him a few minutes, finishing my beer. A man stood up and
headed for the john; I quickly followed him. I got there just in time to
block the entrance as he came backing out. He touched me and spun
around, agitated. "Hey-there's a guy-"
I put a finger to my lips. "Shh, I know. There's a man throwing up
in the toilet. That's what you saw. Disgusting, isn't it?"
He nodded slowly. "Yeah. Guys oughta learn how much they can
handle."
"You are going to leave and never come back to this place."
"Yeah. Right."
"Don't forget your coat. Don't forget to pay." You have to cover
details like that.
"Sure." I watched him retrieve his coat and reach for his wallet and
then turned my attention to the men's room. It was an ugly place, thick
purple paint rolled over walls and partitions, the porcelain appliances
yellowed and cracked. Smell of old piss and too little cheap
disinfectant. I used the urinal from a safe distance.
He was slumped on the toilet with his head between his knees,
knuckles on the grimy floor. The hypodermic was still stuck in his
forearm, its reservoir full of blood, and a thin trickle of blood ran down