"Hugh Lessig - Black Book, White Deaths" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lessig Hugh)

BLACK BOOK, WHITE DEATHS
By Hugh Lessig

Published on the Web by the Frisco Foil Stories
http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Shadowlands/8002/


Prologue

Harriett Hill ran a soup kitchen in the Warehouse District, and on Tuesday she came to the newsroom with a gun.
It was 2 p.m. and she walked straight to my desk. My fingers hammered the keys of my Underwood as I crashed on deadline. Fifteen crackerjack column inches on the city's goofball investment in a chain of fleabag hotels. And smo-o-o-o-th.
"I'm busy, Mrs. Hill," I mumbled. "I got my fastball working today."
'Mr. Smith. You didn't even look up. How did you know it was me?" Old lady guilt and bright blue eyes. A crinkled smile, 58 years young.
"Your perfume preceded you. Lavender sachet, I believe. Very nice. I also smell gun oil. Please don't tell me you've brought another firearm into the newsroom."
Tappity-tappity-tappity-tappity-tap. Bing. Carriage return.
"What's the matter with me bringing you another gun?"
I stopped writing and looked up. "Look, Mrs. Hill. I appreciate that you run a soup kitchen. I appreciate that you try to fix up run-down houses. And I really appreciate that you're a pain in the hoo-hah to the city Housing Authority. But even though you don't trust cops, you can't bring everything you find to me. I have a locker full of brass knuckles, shivs, zip-guns, magnums and -- aw geez, now look at this."
She placed a double-barreled, sawed-off shotgun on my desk. Ten gauge. Twin hammers. Carved walnut stock. Vintage 1920.
"Mrs. Hill, this would drop a rhino at 30 yards. Maybe even an editor."
"I'm not asking you to use it, Mr. Smith. I'm asking you to write about it."
"Fine. What's the story?"
She placed her wrinkled hand on top of mine. Her fingers trembled. She smiled, trying to be brave. I picked up the gun and smelled fresh powder burn. "I killed two boys with this just now," she whispered. "They're on my steps. White-eyed dead with holes big enough to shine a light through."
"Now wait a minute, Mrs. Hill -- "
"Oh, and by the way, there's 20 pounds of heroin in my root cellar."

Chapter One

I punched in a grab quote from the city codes inspector, yelled "Copy!" and filed my masterpiece. I fed Mrs. Hill a slug of brandy from my bottom drawer and she told it from the beginning.
Three weeks ago, she took in a homeless guy named Victory Begezzio. She did this all the time. Juvies, mostly. Begezzio claimed he was turning his life around. He said he was working for a church. She bought the story and gave him a cot in the cellar.
He started bringing home bags of white powder. She called him on it. He said the church was having a bake sale and the church ladies told him to hoard baking soda. She bought that, too. Some Bible verse told her she should. How do you question that stuff?
Victory brought home a friend. Older guy. Unshaven. Nervous hands and dishonest eyes. Wore the same clothes every day and walked like he owned the world. Her dander got up. She stayed awake and listened for trouble. She found it last night.
"They were having a party," she said. "Just the two of them. They had a phonograph and they were playing Artie Shaw. Then I heard something that sounded like a fight. A lightbulb popped and it scared the dickens out of me. So I took Mr. Hill's shotgun -- may he rest in peace - and went to the cellar.
"Well, the lightbulb had gone out, and it was dark. I heard someone say 'Get her!' and these shadows moved toward me. Stinking, sweaty shadows. That's when I fired. Bada-bing, bada-boom, two triggers pulled just like that. It was very easy. I ran upstairs and got my oil lamp. When I returned, I saw them staring back at me in the light."
I was just about to ask about the other guy when half the San Francisco police department tumbled into the newsroom. A sergeant fired his pistol in the air and demanded quiet. He got a faceful of ceiling plaster. A copy boy shuffled by and handed the sergeant a broom.
"Really, sergeant," Mrs. Hill called. "You don't have to shoot me."
I put the shotgun down in case the cops had other ideas. Mrs. Hill laughed. "I told them I'd be here, Mr. Smith. No sense in being on the lam. I can't shimmy down a drain pipe anymore. But I wanted to give you the scoop. You've always been so nice to me."
A patrolman slapped a pair of wrist bracelets on Mrs. Hill. Another one grabbed the cannon. I got hot. "Hey! She's 58 years old! Maybe three of you can handle her without getting your doughnut asses kicked in?"
A sergeant caught the doughnut remark and sauntered up to my desk. He twirled his nightstick and whistled a nameless tune. Our eyes locked and we understood each other. "Watch your mouth, Foiler. You got no business harboring a killer in your newsroom."
"We've got the likes of you."
He laughed and his eyes shrunk into little pinpricks of rage. White knuckles gripped his nightstick. He tapped it on my desk, softly, dangerously. "We're putting her in solitary. She'll get bread and water and I'll be surprised if they give her a phone call."
"Come on, chief. She had two thugs in her basement. They were riding high on horse and wasting a good Artie Shaw record. One guy was named Victory Begezzio. He probably has a record."
"I'm sure he does," the sergeant snarled. "The problem is the other guy."
"Who's the other guy?"
The sergeant pointed at Mrs. Hill as cops hustled her out of the newsroom. "I got ten bucks that says she'll be sucking gas before Easter."
"How do you figure?"
"She just killed the mayor's son."

Chapter Two

We sent a cop reporter to get the nuts and bolts. My editor told me to make the next big play since me and Mrs. Hill were tight from the City Hall beat. I sat down with a notebook and made a list.