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

away, and she turned and went around the bar. She looked down at Sal's body, and
when she spoke again, she voiced a totally different thought. "You know, Tachyon
invited me to go on that world tour of his. I think I'll take him up on it. No
telling what information I'll pick up rubbing elbows with all those politicians.
And if there's going to be street warfare between the Mafia and Kien's Shadow
Fists,"--she looked into Brennan's eyes for the first time-"I would be safer
elsewhere."
They looked at each other for a long moment, and then Brennan nodded.
"I'd better be going, then."
"Your whiskey?"
Brennan let out a long sigh. "No." He looked at the body at his feet. "Drink



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brings memories, and I don't need any tonight." He looked back at her. "I'm
going to be ... indisposed ... for the next few weeks. I probably won't see you
before you leave. Good-bye, Chrysalis."
She watched him go, a crystalline tear glistening on her invisible cheek, but he
never looked back, he never saw.


II
The Twisted Dragon was located somewhere within the nebulous boundary of an
interlocking Jokertown and Chinatown. One of Brennan's street sources had told
him that the bar was the hangout of Danny Mao, a man who had a moderately high
position in the Shadow Fist Society and was said to be in charge of recruitment.
Brennan watched the entrance for a while. The swirling snowflakes that missed
the brim of his black cowboy hat caught on his thick, drooping mustache and in
his long sideburns. A fair number of Werewolves-they were wearing Richard Nixon
masks this month-were going into and out of the place. He'd also seen a few
Egrets, though for the most part the Chinatown gang was too picky to hang out in
a joint frequented by jokers.
He smiled, smoothing the tips of his mustache in a gesture that had already
become habitual. Time to see if his plan was a stroke of genius, as he sometimes
thought, or a quick way to a hard death, as he more frequently thought.
It was warm inside the Dragon, more, Brennan guessed, from the press of bodies
than the bar's heating system, and it took a moment for him to spot Mao, who
was, as Brennan's source had told him he'd be, sitting in a booth in the back of
the room. Brennan threaded his way between crowded tables and the shuffling
barmaids, staggering drunks, and swaggering punks who crossed his path as he
headed toward the booth.
A girl, young and blond and looking vaguely stoned, sat next to Mao. Three men
crowded the bench across the table from him. One was a Werewolf in a Nixon mask,
one was a young Oriental, and the one in the middle was a thin, pale,
nervous-looking man. Before Brennan could say anything a street punk stepped in
Brennan's path, blocking his way.
He was a lean six four or five, so he towered over Brennan despite the cowboy