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

Item One: Mrs. Hill was no killer. I know killers. I even like some killers. She' doesn't belong to the club.
Item Two: The mayor of San Francisco was Solly Bupkis, a 55-year-old Republican ward heeler with designs on running for state senator, then governor. Wore black derbies and ate salami sandwiches. Hated the Foil. The feeling was mutual. Count on him for nothing.
Item Three: Mayor Bupkis honed an image as a crimefighter. Lived for it. Always showed up at big police cases to make a statement. The ten bucks on sucking gas looked like smart money.
Item Four: The mayor's spoiled brat no-account excuse for a son had a reputation as a crotch scratcher and a pants pisser who couldn't light a dim bulb with his brain power. Running a heroin ring seemed above his ability. And what the hell was he doing in Mrs. Hill's basement?
I didn't know the answer, but I knew someone who might. I grabbed my hat and told the boss not to expect me for a while. I headed out into the late January afternoon. A light fog had swept in by the time I reached the docks. Wet wood smelled like dead fish. The union shacks smelled like something worse. I passed four longshoremen huddled around a burn barrel. One of them tipped his hat and called me by name. That happens sometimes.
When I reached the Dogtown Cafe, I went straight to the back room and opened it with my key. The room had plain hardwood floors and plain plaster walls. In the middle sat four men around a table. I guessed maybe $2,000 was on the table. Three of the men were strangers. The fourth man smiled at me through a haze of blue cigar smoke. He wore a three-piece suit and a diamond tie-tack. He weighed at least 350 pounds and had fingers like bratwurst.
"Why, it's Picasso Smith," the man said.
"Hello, councilman. How's the cards?"
Vitalis McPhoon looked at his poker hand and the wads of cash on the table. "Cards? Cards? I don't see any cards, Smith. You must be mistaken. Only Republicans gamble in this city."
I took a closer look at the table. "My mistake, your honor. It must be this story I'm working on. It's got my judgment all unsettled."
McPhoon shifted the cigar to the side of his mouth. His eyes remained fixed on his hand. "What story might that be, Smith?"
"Oh nothing you'd be interested in. This woman called Harriett Hill shot a couple of men in her home overnight. One was a guy named Victory Begezzio. Sounds like a punk hophead. The other was the mayor's son. The cops put the pinch on Mrs. Hill in our newsroom. Word has it she's already on Death Row."
McPhoon held his cards daintily. His eyes betrayed nothing. A smile crept into the corners of his mouth.
"Mayor Bupkis. My old friend. I'm assuming he's still a Republican."
"I believe so," I answered. "At least if you're still a Democrat."
McPhoon chuckled. His mound of girth shifted inside his suit. "It's a shame about his son. I believe his name was George. Yes, that's it. Poor George. Tell me about his untimely death."
I kept my hands in my pockets. "As Mrs. Hill tells it, George and his friend, Victory, were hoarding baking soda for church ladies. The church was having a bake sale, so they wanted to stock up. They ended up with a lot of baking soda, Mr. McPhoon. Scads of it."
"I suppose they kept it in Mrs. Hill's basement."
I nodded.
"I'm aware of Mrs. Hill," McPhoon said. "She comes to our council meetings. I had no idea she was tied up with church ladies."
"She wasn't. George Bupkis and Victory Begezzio had the church ladies all to themselves. Since George's death is such a tragedy -- which I'm sure you'll agree -- it would be fruitful to interview these church ladies who dealt with him. I'm sure they could give me some insight into the true character of George Bupkis and perhaps shed more light on the story. Do you think that would be the right thing to do?"
McPhoon smiled again. "That would be very nice, Foiler. But I don't truck with church ladies. You should know that." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of business cards. He thumbed through them one by one. Then, with an almost imperceptible flick of his thumb, one of the cards fell to the floor.
"Get that for me, will you, Mr. Smith?"
I bent down and picked it up. It read:
Chow Fat's Tonsorial Parlor and Brew Pub Corner of Mott and Main Chinatown San Francisco. USA
"Keep the card, Foiler. I have another one."
"Thank you, councilman. You have a good day." I tipped my hat to the assemblage and started to walk towards the door.
"Mr. Smith!"
I turned at the sound of McPhoon's booming voice.
"You should be careful these days, what with mayor's sons getting killed and all."
He stared hard at me for a second. Then his eyes returned to the cards.

Chapter Three

Why was it always Chinatown? I went back to the newsroom to get the dope on Chow Fat. If I had any hope of saving Mrs. Hill, I had to paint George Bupkis for what he really was -- a heroin dealer who controlled sad-eyed freaks like Victory Begezzio. But Georgie Bupkis wouldn't be number-one on the food chain.
Our business file had several clips on Chow Fat. His front-end business was legit and somewhat unique. It's not everyone who combines a barbershop and a tavern. We wrote him up a couple of times -- Chinatown Businessman of the Year 1932. Again in '34. A feature on a barbershop/bar being the ultimate place for conversation. Nothing in the past year.
I turned to the crime file and got my eyes opened.
Three people had been murdered at Chow Fat's during the last 14 months: a shooting at the bar, a stabbing in the men's room and a particularly colorful throat cutting in barber chair number three. Our crime columinst, Spit Forbes, dusted Chow Fat a couple of times. Forbes found out that Chow Fat contributed heavily to the campaign of Mayor Bupkis, and that Fat, in turn, had won several big catering contracts. The three murders had all been American businessmen known as big-time donors to the Democratic Party. No wonder Vitalis McPhoon had it in for the guy.
I asked around the newsroom for Forbes. Someone said he was on a three-week bender in Mexico City with a squeeze named Delilah and a glue-sniffing midget named Prudence who kept his appointment book.
I doubted that Delilah really existed. I had met Prudence several times. Either way, I couldn't count on Forbes for help. I went to my desk and tried to figure out my next play. I had gone into Chinatown alone before, but with mixed success. Sometimes I got lucky on a story, but more often than not, I found myself needing an interpreter.
My eyes wandered over the newsroom, towards a window. Then I saw my answer -- or at least the beginnings of one. Across the street from the Frisco Foil was our favorite bar, The Chinaman's Tooth. Owned and operated by Woo, a man whose last name was unknown to me, but whom I considered a close friend.
Woo would always give you a tip. Then again,I had never asked him to rat on one of his own.

Chapter Four

Happy hour was in full swing by the time I made it across the street. A few newsroom drunks were already leaning on the bar rail. They mingled with the gadflies, greaseballs, rummies and two-bit floozies who populated The Tooth from time to time.
Woo stood at his customary place behind the bar. He saw me and started pumping the tap. I had a beer by the time I sat down.
"It is good to see you, Picasso Smith. You have been gone too long." Woo always says the same thing.
I raised my glass, which is what I always do, and took a stiff drink. Then I motioned him over and showed him Chow Fat's business card. "You ever hear of this mug, Woo? He may be tied up in something dirty."
Woo's face fell. He look at the card for a long time. Then he took it and walked back into the kitchen. After a few minutes he came out. Woo's wife and several children followed. He turned around and shooshed them back into kitchen.