"Wildcards - 05 - Down And Dirty" - читать интересную книгу автора (Martin George R R)

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
boots that added an inch or two to Brennan's height. He wore stained leather
pants and an oversize leather jacket that was draped with lengths of chain. His
spiked hair added several inches to his apparent height, and the scarlet and
black scars crawling on his face added apparent fierceness to his appearance, as
did the bone-a human finger-bone, Brennan realized-that pierced his nose.
The scars that patterned his cheeks, forehead, and chin were the insigna of the
Cannibal Headhunters, a once-feared street gang that had disintegrated when
Brennan had killed its leader, an ace named Scar. Gang members not slain in the
bloody power struggle after Scar's demise had for the most part gravitated to
other criminal associations, such as the Shadow Fist Society.
"What do you want?" The Headhunter's voice was too reedy to sound menacing, but
he tried.
"To see Danny Mao." Brennan spoke softly, his voice pitched in the slow drawl
that he remembered so well from his childhood. The Headhunter bent lower to hear
Brennan over the cacaphony of music, manic laughter, and half a hundred
conversations that washed over them.
"'Bout what?"
"'Bout what's not your business, boy."
Brennan saw out of the corner of his eye that conversation in the booth had
stopped and that everyone was watching them.
"I say it is." The Headhunter smiled a grin he fondly thought savage, showing
filed front teeth. Brennan laughed aloud. The Headhunter frowned. "What's so
funny, asshole?"
Brennan, still laughing, grabbed the bone in the Headhunter's nose and yanked.