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

identity, except for the eyes given him by Tachyon, was true. His father had
been fond of saying that the Brennans were Irish, Chinese, Spanish, several
kinds of Indian, and all-American.
"My Asian ancestors helped build the railroads. I was born in New Mexico, but
found it too limiting." That, too, was true.
"So you came to the big city looking for excitement?" Brennan nodded. "Some time
ago."
"And found enough so that you have to use an alias?" He shrugged, said nothing.
Mao took another sip of his drink. "What do you want?"
"Word on the street," Brennan said, his intense excitement buried under his
southwestern drawl, "is that your people are going to war with the Mafia. You've
already hit them once Don Picchietti was assassinated two weeks ago by an
invisible ace who shoved an ice pick in his ear while he was eating dinner at
his own restaurant. That was certainly a Shadow Fist job. The Mafia will
undoubtedly retaliate, and the Shadow Fists will need more soldiers."
Mao nodded. "Why should we hire you?"
"Why not? I can handle myself."
Mao glanced at his erstwhile bodybuard, who had managed to drag himself to a
hunched position on his knees, his forehead resting on the floor. "Fair enough,"
he said thoughtfully. "But do you have the stomach for it I wonder?" He looked
at the three men crowded together on the bench across the table, and Brennan,
too, looked at them closely.
The Werewolf sat on the outside and the Oriental, probably an Immaculate Egret,
was on the inside. The man they sandwiched, though didn't look like a street
tough.
He was small, thin, and palid. His hands looked soft and weak, his eyes were
dark and bright. Many street toughs had a streak of madness in them, but even on
first sight Brennan could see that this man was more than touched by insanity.
"These men," Danny Mao said, "are going on a mission. Care to join them?"
"What kind of mission?" Brennan asked.
"If you have to ask, maybe you're not the type of man we're looking for."
"Maybe," Brennan said, smiling, "I'm just cautious."
"Caution is an admirable trait," Mao said blandly, "but so is faith in and
obedience to your superiors."
Brennan put his hat on. "All right. Where're we headed?" The pale man in the
middle laughed. It was not a pleasant sound. "The morgue," he said gleefully.
Brennan looked at Mao with a lifted eyebrow.
Mao nodded. "The morgue, as Deadhead says."
"Do you have a car?" the Werewolf asked Brennan. His voice was a mushy growl
behind the Nixon mask.
Brennan shook his head.
"I'll have to steal one," the Werewolf said.
"Then we can go to the drive-up window!" the man called Deadhead enthused. The
Asian sitting next to him looked vaguely disgusted but said nothing. "Let's go!"


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Deadhead pushed at the Werewolf, urging him out of the booth.