"Thomas Marcinko - The Nixon Wrangler's Tale" - читать интересную книгу автора (Marcinko Thomas)

court of Ч"
"Tell it to Internal Affairs."
"The Chief'll know. I'm his favorite. He Ч"
Marjorie smiled. "We have surveillance on him too."
"Also faked."
She shook her head. She smiled, and left the rest for me to imagine. The
wind howled past the flyer.
"You fight dirty," I said.
Her smile dawned like the sun over Mercury. "I've always been a fighter, a
scrapper."

She released the holos anyway, to disgrace the Chief. I was an example
that he did not act alone. Up till then I'd felt sorrier for the Chief
than I did for myself. He'd been like a father to me.
Before they threw me off the force, I asked them to unbutton me. They said
no, the little knife-twisters.
It didn't matter, because I'd been kissed. The richard's free will was now
mine too.
Now I get plenty of sun. I get my hands dirty. I inhale the sweet smell of
loam, humus, the perfume of greens and flowers. When the ghost-lights
float past on tropical breezes, I feel no guilt or shame over their
transit. For the first time they strike me as pretty, the blue ones
especially.
I plant. I cultivate. My father would have been proud. Besides his
presumed criminal tendencies, I also inherited his talent.
My flowers have little faces. My tomatoes look like heads with bulging
cheeks and bulbous noses. My small but dedicated following buys them
special-delivery for the pungent and satisfying splat they make against
holoboards and cinema screens and all the elvises and madonnas and cobains
on stage. Sometimes my fans eat my tomatoes, and ingest the viruses that
swarm beneath my firm skins, my sweet pulps.
Nor do I ply my trade alone. I've seen some pretty strange cabbages and
bananas and mangoes, and roses and carnations and birds-of-paradise. They
wear that too-sweet smile nobody wants to trust. I've noted dogs and cats
and rabbits with oddly shifty eyes, furtively sloping shoulders, smiles
with insincerity in every fold of their maws. So the world grows level and
fair. Last time I passed through Costa Rica, I stopped by the Twisted
Lemon, for old time's sake Ч a pilgrimage of sorts. The capuchin monkeys
had taken over the upstairs rooms, and they gestured, and raised their
little arms to make twin V-signs, and smiled, as if they wanted to make
something so very, so perfectly, so lucidly clear.