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

"We always return to the scene of the crime," I said. "Every business has a down year or two. So you had a few murders at your place and profits fell off. That's American capitalism. You've shown yourself to be a keen practioner of it. And besides, we Americans love someone who makes a comeback. From what I can see, the place is going great guns now. How about answering a few questions?"
Chow Fat considered my words. Woo stood perfectly still behind me.
"Very well, Mr. Smith. Ask your questions."
I tossed him a few softballs. What made you come to America, how did you get a start in business, do you remember your first customer, blah, blah, blah. I skipped over the murders and got him talking about this year. He told me about his new lunch menu, about how he serves as a major employer for the Chinese in San Francisco, about how he pays them a better wage than most white men, and puts Chinese in management positions. I had him primed.
"If I may, let's stay with that point for a moment," I said. "It is often said that good leaders surround themselves with good people. Who are some of the people you surround yourself with?"
He rattled off the names of several Chinese men. I pretended to take notes.
"It is also said that a good leader surrounds himself with all types of people. Your leadership role in the Chinese community is unquestioned, of course, but is there room for white men in your operation?"
Chow Fat hesitated. "I have surrounded myself with men from all races."
Now. Move in. "I note you've done extensive business with City Hall. Catering the annual employee banquet, for instance. I also note that you were a heavy contributor to the campaign of Mayor Bupkis, mostly in the form of in-kind services, such as meals. Are you and the mayor friends?"
Chow Fat folded his hands. His eyes shifted to my right. "I am a casual friend of the mayor, yes."
"I see. Do you know the mayor's son by any chance?"
A big smile now. "Why Mr. Smith. I can't imagine what you might do with that piece of information."
"Just a simple question."
"Not so simple, I think. Tell me, Woo, did you put him on to me? You are sympathetic with these Foilers, and you have the same troublesome look that I found so annoying in your grandfather."
Grating noises. The squeak of a pulley belt. The crack of knuckles as Woo clenched his fists. Then his voice cackled.
"You will find no connection to your murder here, Mr. Smith. My employees have destroyed all my personnel records. An unfortunate mistake, but if the police come to question me, I will have no documention to show them. And you won't be here, either."
Side panels opened in the wall.
Men spilled out.
Big, faceless men with fists as big as Smith-Coronas.
At least that's how it seemed as my world faded into sticky blackness.

Chapter Six

I woke up tasting blood, up to my neck in garbage, and with something sticking in my chest.
"Rough interview," I mumbled to no one in particular.
I thrashed around for firm footing but couldn't find any. A pair of hands steadied my shoulders. I couldn't see.
"Easy, Mr. Smith. They have beaten us."
"Woo. You're here. Fill me in."
"Chow Fat's men. Jumped us. Woke up a couple of minutes ago."
Dried blood crusted my eyes. I pried them open and looked into the starry night. "Where are we?"
"In a dumpster behind Chow Fat's place."
"Unless this is heaven, that means he didn't kill us."
I moved around to make sure everything worked I looked at my watch. It was eight o'clock. We had been out for nearly two hours. My feet found the bottom of the dumpster. One of Chow Fat's thugs had taken my fountain pen and stuck it my chest. It wasn't very deep, and it had bled until it clotted. I pulled out the pen and stuck it in a dead cod.
"You Asians. So subtle. We need to climb out of here, Woo. You get out first, OK?"
I boosted him up to the lip of the dumpster. Woo found a handhold. As he hoisted himself up, I saw what they had done to his back. Straight cuts with some kind of straight razor. Not deep enough to kill him. Only enough to bleed and maybe get infected.
"Jesus, Woo."
My partner said nothing. As he climbed out over the side, he caught his leg on the dumpster and fell into the street. A big clump of garbage went with him. I had to laugh as he stood up. Dozens of pieces of notebook paper stuck on his shirt and pants.
"You look like the bird of paradise," I said.
"Very funny, Mr. Smith. But you look worse."
Pieces of paper stuck to my shirt and my back. One was pasted on the nape of my neck. I pulled it off and looked at it. It had columns of Chinese writing, followed by numbers.
"Woo! Good God! This is it!"
"This is what?"
"Chow Fat's records! They're here! We're hip-deep in them! If one of these pieces of paper has the name of George Bupkis on it, that could be our connection. We need something that has the names of people. Payroll records. A ledger. Anything. Except I don't know this language from Swahili."
Woo grinned. "It looks like you need an interpreter after all."
To this day, I don't know how Woo found it, or why Chow Fat's thugs didn't come back to check on us. The dumpster faced a back alley, so it wasn't like a lot of people strolled by to look at us. It took nearly two hours of rummaging through eggshells, coffee grounds, chicken bones and discarded green tentacles.
"This is really squid, isn't it?" I asked at one point.
Woo took the tentacle from my hand and threw it aside. "Just give the pieces of paper to me," he said.
So that's what I did. Finally, Woo let out a yell.
"Got something!"
It was a small, spiral-bound notebook in Chinese symbols. The outside read "Record of Deliveries," according to Woo. Inside, it listed four columns of information: