"Peter F. Hamilton - The White Stuff" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hamilton Peter F)

have, he envied her youth. He envied her street-sassy. He envied, very badly, the twentysomething black
guy lurking possessively a few paces back, and who would undoubtedly be screwing her.
Lovely big emerald eyes glittered at him. "Hi there, captain, wanna have your wheels gleamed?"

"Huh?"

"Gleamed." A blink of flawless white teeth. She proffered a little square of metal. Sunlight skipped across
its metallic purple paint, dazzling.

"Let me see that." Taking the metal square from her he tried to stroke its coloured surface, to understand
the texture, but his fingers slipped about as if it were coated in warm ice.

"What is that?" he asked.

"Micro-friction layer, captain. We'll wipe your bodywork down, and spray it on." She shook a grey
aerosol can in his face; no brand name. "Dirt and water can't get a grip, so your shine's permanent, and
rust don't get a look in, see?"

He couldn't take his eyes off her. "How long does it last?"

"Always. It's micro-friction, right? Can't rub it off."

He ran through the dubious logic, his eyes wandering down to her legs again. "How much?"

"Twenty five."

It even seemed reasonable. "Count me in. Cheque or card?"

"Aww, come on!"

"If you want cash I'll have to find a hole in the wall."
"Fine. Have your pint and slot your card. We'll have your wheels sorted for when you get back." She
stuck two fingers in her mouth and whistled. "Got a live one!"
Her proto-gangsta boyfriend stepped over to the car, attempting a customer-friendly smile. On that face,
it was never going to work. His head had been shaved in a chessboard pattern, with each square of hair
sprouting a single stubby dreadlock. The clothes were ultra-trendy; heavy biker boots crushed the
tarmac.

Uneasy prejudices started cattle-prodding Nigel's defence mechanisms awake. Sure the guy was
well-dressed, but the hostility was as blatant as Nigel's own disapproval.

They looked at each other, silently negotiating a demilitarized truce for the duration of the gleaming. The
black guy clicked his fingers, and a posse of kids solidified around the Nimbus. Seven of them, ranging
from sixteen years down to about ten: black kids with locks, white kids with bent-nail tattoos, Asian kids,
all loaded with buckets and sponges and can- do. The young redhead was already sauntering off after
her next victim.

Nigel paused on the pub's doorstep, the slow-turning cogs in his brain winching a frown onto his face. It
had been a very slick operation, way beyond any usual street-rat earner. He turned to look back. The
little shits were gleefully spraying his car white, great sweeps of fuck-the-rich graffiti sizzling eagerly out of