"Lessig, Hugh - Purple Politics" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lessig Hugh)

"Look, I met Monica last night. I'm a reporter with The Frisco Foil."

Her eyebrows raise. "Are you in town for the Gay Rights Conference?"

"Do I look like I should be? Look miss, Monica Birdsong is dead. Someone cut her throat last night. My face was the final thing God allowed her to see. I'm going to write a story about her murder. The Post had three paragraphs next to the grocery ads. I think it's worth more. I want to talk to someone about her. The boss, maybe."

That stops her, but only for a moment. She pages through a looseleaf binder and purses her lips. "Ms. Birdsong started here two weeks ago. Worked for a pharmaceutical firm before that, if I recall her resume. You say she's been killed?"

This woman clearly thinks I am off my nut. I'm about to start waving the First Amendment when someone comes up behind me and rests a hand on my shoulder. It is a bony, nervous hand. A rent-a-cop, maybe.

I turn to see a skinny fellow wearing the latest in Trailer Trash Chic -- powder blue suit, white bucks, white belt, silk shirt, no tie. He needed a caterpillar mustache to go with his overbite.

He looks a little sick.

"You need to talk to me," he says. "I knew Monica Birdsong. We were ... partners."

The guy is maybe 50, maybe 30. It's that kind of face. I look at the receptionist. I get the impression that this guy doesn't work for EDK Consultants, that he just walked in here, or that he hangs out here. The man smiles, but rivulets of sweat are running down his face. His eyes are shiny with fever.

I pull out the purple flower.

"Look mister, I have nothing to hide here - from you or this lady. Monica Birdsong got killed last night, like I said. She gave me this flower. You either know something about it or you don't."

The man takes one look at the flower. Before I can react, he pries it from my fingers and starts to run out the door.

The receptionist turns away from me, shaking her head, and pretends to file something.

Oh hell. I run after the guy.

* * *

I am hurrying out the door with my brain on rewind, trying to frame questions.

You meet a girl in a bar. She gets killed. She gives you a purple flower before she dies. Congress is considering declaring war on the flower. Somehow, this was enough to get her throat slit. You meet a sick-looking guy who acts like the purple flower is the Hope Diamond. The man stops at the curb after one block. He can't get across traffic. I come up and grab him in a friendly headlock. We walk away like two senators discussing a matter of grave legislative importance. I force a smile in case anyone is watching.

"Look, mister," I say. "I don't know your name, but..."

"My name is Web. Web Slaughter. Legislative lee-a-zon for National Association of Real Estate Developers."

"Uh-huh."

"Ouch! Quit it with the headlock, mister."

Web swallows hard. The color has drained from his face, and now I know where I've seen that look before. It's familiar to any reporter who has covered the cop beat on a weekend, who has spent time just outside the lockup, or who has covered a perp walk right after the arrest.

Web Slaughter is strung out. Heroin. Crack. Something.

All of a sudden, one piece of the puzzle falls into place.

His reaction to the flower. Something the receptionist said. Ah yes. Monica. Worked for a pharmaceutical firm before she came here.