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

Brennan lingered to glance at Mao, who was watching him carefully.
"Whiskers," Mao said, nodding at the Werewolf, "is in charge. He'll tell you
what you need to know. You're on probation, Cowboy. Be careful."
Brennan nodded and followed the unlikely trio onto the street. The Werewolf
turned and looked at Brennan.
"I'm Whiskers," he said in his indistinct growl. "This is Deadhead, like Danny
said, and this is Lazy Dragon." Brennan nodded at the Oriental, realizing his
initial assessment of the man had been wrong. He wasn't an Egret. He wasn't
wearing Egret colors, and he didn't have the demeanor of a gang member. He was
young, maybe in his early twenties, small, about five six or seven, and slender
enough so that his baggy pants hung loosely on his lean hips. His face was oval,
his nose slightly broad, his hair longish and indifferently combed. He didn't
have the aggressive attitude of the street punk. There was a reserve about him,
an air of almost melancholy thoughtfulness.
Whiskers left them waiting on the corner. Lazy Dragon was silent, but Deadhead
kept up a constant stream of chatter, most of which was nonsensical. Lazy Dragon
paid him no attention, and neither did Brennan after a while, but that seemed to
make no difference to Deadhead. He burbled on and Brennan ignored him as best he
could. Once Deadhead reached into the pocket of his dirty jacket and pulled out
a bottle of pills of different sizes and colors, shook out a handful, and tossed
them into his mouth. He chewed and swallowed noisily and beamed at Brennan.
"Take vitamins?"
Brennan wasn't sure if Deadhead was offering him some or asking if he took
vitamins himself. He nodded noncommittally and turned away.
Whiskers finally showed up with a car. It was a dark, late model Buick. Brennan
hopped into the front seat, leaving the back for Deadhead and Lazy Dragon.
"Good suspension. Smooth drive," Whiskers commented as they pulled away from the
curb. Brennan looked into the rear-view mirror and saw Lazy Dragon nod and reach
into his pocket for a small clasp knife and a block of soft, white material that
looked like soap. He opened the knife and began to whittle.
Deadhead kept up a stream of running chatter that no one listened to. Whiskers
drove smoothly, cursing potholes, spotlights, and other drivers in his muffled
voice, continually glancing in the mirror to follow Lazy Dragon's progress as he
carefully carved the small block of soap with delicate, skillful hands.
Brennan didn't know where the morgue was or what it looked like, but the dark,
forbidding structure that they finally stopped before met all of his
expectations.
"Here it is," Whiskers announced unnecessarily. They watched the building for a
few moments. "Still looks busy." Occasional lights illuminated scattered rooms
throughout the multistoried structure, and as they watched, people occasionally
entered or left by the main entrance.
"Ready yet?" Whiskers growled, glancing into the mirror. "Just about," Lazy
Dragon said without looking up. "Ready for what?" Brennan asked, and Whiskers
turned to him.
"You gotta take Deadhead to the room they use for long-term body storage. It's
in the basement. Deadhead will take it from there. Dragon will go first and
scout. You're muscle in case anything goes wrong."
"And you?"
Whiskers may have grinned under his mask, but Brennan couldn't be sure. "Now
that you're here, I just wait in the car."