"George R. R. Martin - WC 5 - Down and Dirty" - читать интересную книгу автора (Martin George R R)

Brennan didn't like it. This wasn't the way he liked to do things, but he was
obviously being tested. Equally obviously, he had no choice. He made one more
try for information.
"What are we looking for?"
"Deadhead knows," Whiskers said, and Brennan heard a disquieting titter from the
backseat. "And Dragon knows the general layout. You just deal with anyone who
tries to interfere." He glanced back into the mirror. "Ready?"
Lazy Dragon looked up. "Ready," he said calmly. He folded his knife, put it
away, and stared critically at what he had carved. Brennan, mystified and



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curious, turned around for a better look and saw that it was a small but
credible mouse. Lazy Dragon studied it carefully, nodded as if satisfied, set it
on his lap, settled back comfortably in his seat, and closed his eyes. For a
moment nothing happened, then Dragon slumped as if asleep or unconscious, and
the carving began to twitch.
The tail lashed, the ears perked up, and then, creakily at first but with
increasing fluidity, the thing stretched. It stopped for a moment to preen its
fur, then it leaped from Dragon's lap to the shoulder of the driver's seat.
Brennan stared at it and it stared back. It was a goddamn living mouse. Brennan
glanced back at Lazy Dragon, who seemed to be sleeping, then looked at Whiskers,
who was watching impassively beneath his Nixon mask.
"Nice trick," Brennan drawled.
"It's okay," Whiskers said. "You carry him."
Lazy Dragon, who seemed to be vitalizing and possessing the little figurine he'd
carved, climbed up on Brennan s shoulder, scurried down his chest, and popped
into his vest pocket. He peeked out, holding the pocket-top with his little
clawed paws. This was, Brennan thought, more than passing strange, but he had
the feeling that things would get stranger before the night was over.
"Okay," he said. "Let's do it." Whatever it was.
They entered the morgue through an unlocked service entrance in a side alley and
took the stairway to the basement. Lazy Dragon popped out of his pocket, ran
down his vest and pant-leg, and scurried down the poorly lit corridor in which
they found themselves. Deadhead started after him, but Brennan held him back.
"Let's wait until the mou-until Lazy Dragon gets back." Deadhead's eyes were
shiny and he was even more jittery than usual. His hands shook as he took out
his pill bottle, and he dropped a dozen capsules on the floor as he gulped down
a mouthful. The pills scattered on the concrete floor, making loud skittering
noises. He grinned maniacally and the corner of his mouth kept twitching in a
torturous grimace.
What the hell, Brennan thought, am I doing in a morgue corridor with a madman
and a living mouse carved out of soap?
Lazy Dragon came scampering back before Brennan could think of a satisfactory
answer to this disturbing question, his tiny feet moving as if he were being
chased by the hungriest cat in the world. He stopped at Brennan's feet, dancing
with excitement. Brennan sighed, bent over, and held out his hand. Lazy Dragon