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

her neck, the Six Mystic Stars of Subaru.

Angel of mercy, and, incredible of incredibles, white.

Annunciato thought they had all died out in their rotting haciendas and
Tudor mansionettes years ago.

тАШYou come now, right now,тАЩ she says. Her Angele├▒o is appalling.
тАШRight now, you come. La Miranda, she cannot go on drawing this much
power from the grid for long time. Catholic engineers come, shut her down.
So you come, come now.тАЩ He reaches toward the pure white hand and is
drawn up into heaven. Over rooftops, she leads him, through forests of
aerials and satellite dishes, past cooling towers and rotary clotheslines and
coiling serpentine airco ducts, across rooftop marijuana gardens and coca
plantations, leaping through the yawning dark over deep dark alleys while
the never-ending stream of taillights winds and wends beneath them and
the Lobos, released from luminous imprisonment, go loping along the
shining sidewalks, howling at the grapefruit moon. And the glass guitar drips
a trail of minims and crochets like the silver slime of a night snail on the side
of the basilica of Santa Barbara.

тАШDown. Now.тАЩ

The big jacked-up mauve and yellow 4X4 is circling, growling in the
parking lot of Se├▒or Barato All-Nite super-mart like a bull in the ring, pawing
at the piss-stained concrete with its monster balloon tyres. The Lobos, war
drums a-swinging, arrive in a wave of uniform pink and green as Annunciato
and the angel drop from the swinging end of the fire escape and hit the
ground.

тАШIn, in.тАЩ The driver is an old old black man - more incredible even than
the silver lam├й angel - already gunning the accelerator, tyres smoking on
the concrete. тАШIn!тАЩ Doors slam.

тАШCaution, caution, your seatbelt is not properly engaged, please
engage your seatbelt,тАЩ says a made-in-Yokohama chip-generated
conscience. Lowriders slam to a halt beneath Se├▒or BaratoтАЩs flashing sign.
Grinning and gabbling like a loco, the old black man throws the beast into
four-wheel drive and up they go on those big monster wheels right over the
tops of the lowriders and out into the neon and smog of the boulevard.

****

┬┐Porque?

Because on this Black Sunday night Annunciato killed a Blood Wolf
with a glass guitar.

The sambadrome had been jumping. Word is up, compadres.
Tonight tonight tonight is the big Play-Off. Tonight the last two guitarristos