"Ian McDonald - Fat Tuesday" - читать интересную книгу автора (McDonald Ian)

Oh yes, Annunciato. Most definitely, Annunciato.

The roar of engines is like a steel-capped boot in the stomach. The
lowriders come revving along the alleyways, Lobos hungry, eager, riding on
doors and roofs, beating out their hunting song on hot-shopped Toyota
steel. Sparks scream back from their scratch plates.

Reconcile your soul with the saints of the boulevard.

And the big hoload for Diet-Coke on the side of the National Lottery
Office says: ANNUNCIATO.

The name, tastefully iconised in spray-can platinums and razor blues,
tumbles away through holospace. The spotlights of the Lobos pin and pluck
you naked as one of the chickens Madre Amparo takes to the shrine of St
Anthony. The back streets off St DominicтАЩs Preview are loud with the
whisper click of switchblades.

TRUST ME. I WILL PROTECT YOU.

Lasers sear the night. Brave, bold howling Lobos fall back swearing
screaming clutching burns gashes scars. A new ingredient in the city
perfume of sweat, shit, smoke and semen: scorched flesh. Glass guitar in
hand, Annunciato is safe behind a wall of flickering laserlight.

A miracle.

STAY HERE. SOMEONE WILL COME TO HELP YOU, says the
hoload.

тАШWhat who why how?тАЩ says dazed and confused Annunciato.

The big BVM videowall on the Credit and Loan fills with starry starry
night. A pair of strawberry luscious lips rezz up on the startrek sky. Fruit
comes tumbling out of the mind of the Coca-Cola CompanyтАЩs
videographics computer; bananas, pineapples, oranges, guava, mango,
piled up like Mr SocksтАЩ stall in Birimbao Plaza. A womanтАЩs face fills in
behind the lips, beneath the tutti-frutti hat. Blessed Virgin Mary was never
like this.

LA MIRANDA, says the videowall as, with a wink and a smile, the
woman fades into the Alto California night. Los Lobos howl and smash the
big chrome wrenches that are their ritual weapons against the oily concrete.
But the lasers hold them.

A light. And a voice. A womanтАЩs voice. Flashlight beams, a vision,
riding down on an extending fire escape out of the Sacred Heart of Jesus
on the U-Bend-We-Mend. Silver lam├й from the peak of her baseball cap to
the tips of her boots, a jingle-jangle of ripped-off hood ornaments around