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

Name. Date. Destination. Amount delivered
The amount was measured in bags. Under "names," one said George Bupkis. Under "address," it listed Harriett Hill's residence in the Warehouse District. Another said Victory Begezzio, same address.
"It doesn't say he's running heroin," Woo pointed out. "At least not in so many words."
"No, but it makes the connection. Fact: Harriett Hill had heroin in her root cellar. Fact: George Bupkis and Victory Begezzio were there. Fact: Chow Fat keeps a record of delivery of some substance that is contained in bags. Fact: George Bupkis and Victory Begezzio were delivering said substance to Harriett Hill's house. A district attorney would go to bat on this. We got him, Woo."
"So what do we do next?"
I stood in the dumpster, thinking until my brain got sore. "If we go back in to Chow Fat's and say we have the book, he might not believe us. But if we show him the book, he'll swipe it back and his goons will just come down on us again. Maybe for good."
We thought in silence for a while longer. Then Woo snapped his fingers.
"I have an idea, Mr. Smith. Don't go anywhere." He ran down the alley. "What is it, Woo?"
"You know what I'm thinking, Mr. Smith. You know."
And then I did know.
Of course. It was so simple.
I stood among dead fish and nameless green tentacles laughing my guts out as my favorite bartender disappeared into the night.

Chapter Seven

Three hours later, I walked into Chow Fat's through the front door with a new gray suit and a fresh notebook.
It was 11 p.m., still a Tuesday, but Chinatown didn't know a Tuesday from a good Saturday night. The hookahs belched clouds. Every table had a knot of smiling, dreamy-eyed people and at lease one pitcher of beer. Funny thing about the Chinese. They made a decent mug of beer.
I elbowed my way to the front of the bar. I waited for the bartender to pass and threw a 10-dollar bill straight at his puss. He grabbed it and gave me a look that said I had his attention.
"I need to see Chow Fat now. I don't care that he had me beaten up. I don't care that he had me thrown in a pile of garbage. Someone stuck a pen in my chest, but it wasn't my good pen, so I forgive that, too. Now I've got a fresh notebook and some real questions, and that C-note says that your boss can't handle my curves. And don't act like you don't understand me. Your look gives it away. Now go find him."
The bartender backed away with a thin smile. Ten minutes later, I was again standing in Chow Fat's office looking nervously at walls that could move. Suddenly, Chow Fat drifted out of a shadowy corner to face me.
"Mr. Smith. You are most persistent."
"Yeah well. Don't you have any windows in this place? I'd like to take some notes."
He actually smiled. Then he turned around and pulled up a shade. The starry night appeared behind me.
"That's perfect," I said. "Now, do you have a few minutes?"
"The question is, Mr. Smith, do you?"
The grating noise. Sounds of a pulley. My scabs began to pull. I grabbed the back of a chair. What the hell.
I took the black book and tossed it on the desk.
"Care to explain that?"
Chow Fat picked up the book and examined it. "Ah yes, As I suspected. I recently discovered that my employees did less than a thorough job of destroying my records. No matter. You have stupidly brought back the one document that mattered. You Americans. So confident. You do not realize that my people were civilized when your Native Americans were chasing down buffalo with sharp sticks."
My eyes narrowed to slits. "Careful, Chow. A good Apache might kick your ass."
"What do you know of me? Of my people?"
"Now give me credit for a little knowledge here, Chow. I know, for instance, that the Chinese invented gunpowder, macaroni, and you did a few things with silk, if I recall."
"So condescending." The panels in the wall opened.
"And let me see. You folks invented printing, didn't you? I mean, Guttenburg gets the credit, but that's another thing you've got over on us."
"Make your point, Mr. Smith. You are about to die."
"My point," I said, "is right outside the window."
Chow Fat turned and looked into the San Francisco night, where it was snowing. Thin delicate slices of white drifted on the air, floated down toward the ground. Hundreds of hundreds of slices. Making no sound. Chow Fat watched for a moment, then he turned to me.
"What is the meaning of this?" He asked.
"Those pieces of paper falling before you eyes are copies of this book," I drawled. "You can destroy this original, but me and Woo have churned out 5,000 copies of this book, thanks to a little hand-crank printing press we've been keeping around for just such an emergency. We're going to paper the city with them. Woo is on the roof of your place right now, dumping them off. The police will have them tomorrow. It's over, Chow. And thanks for inventing the printing press. You guys are all right."
Chow Fat's lipless mouth twisted into an impossible frown. He walked toward me and raised his hand. Something told me to sit still.
"If you kill me," I whispered, "it'll only be a bigger story."
His raised hand clenched into a fist. It hung in the air for a moment. Then he turned and ran toward the wall. I saw shadowy shapes standing by the secret panels. Chow Fat disappeared. His henchmen followed. The wall closed behind him.
Outside, it was still snowing.

Epilog

My only regret was not making deadline.
I got Woo off the roof and we sped back to the newsroom. A bunch of homeless people from the Warehouse District had camped out on the sidewalk with burn barrels and signs. They were demanding the release of Harriett Hill. They saw me trying to get in a side door and wanted an update.
I stopped to talk. Woo slipped away with two bundles of copies for the police station. I ended up doing interviews. Some homeless guy handed me a hot sandwich and a cup of coffee. The sandwich had a parsley garnish. You just can't figure this business sometimes.
By sunrise, the story was on the street. Literally.