"Christopher Moore - The Lust Lizard of Melancholy Cove" - читать интересную книгу автора (Moore Christopher)

Catfish grinned. "The Delta," he said.
He launched into a twelve-bar Blues, playing the bass line with his
thumb, squealing the high notes with the slide, rocking back and forth on the
bar stool, the light of the neon Coors sign behind the bar playing colors in
the reflection of sunglasses and his bald head.
The daytime regulars looked up from their drinks, stopped lying for a
second, and Slick McCall missed a straight-in eight-ball shot on the quarter
table, which he almost never did.
And Catfish sang, starting high and haunting, going low and gritty.

"They's a mean ol' woman run a bar out on the Coast.
I'm telling you, they's a mean ol' woman run a bar out on the Coast.
But when she gets you under the covers,
That ol' woman turn your buttered bread to toast."

And then he stopped.
"You're hired," Mavis said. She pulled the jug of white cheap-shit out of
the well and sloshed some into Catfish's glass. "On the house."
Just then the door opened and a blast of sunlight cut through the dinge
and smoke and residual Blues and Vance McNally, the EMT, walked in and set his
radio on the bar.
"Guess what?" he said to everyone and no one in particular. "That pilgrim
woman hung herself."
A low mumble passed through the regulars. Catfish put his guitar in its
case and picked up his wine. "Sho' 'nuff a sad day startin early in this
little town. Sho' 'nuff."
"Sho' 'nuff," said Mavis with a cackle like a stainless-steel hyena.


Valerie Riordan

Depression has a mortality rate of fifteen percent. Fifteen percent of
all patients with major depression will take their own lives. Statistics. Hard
numbers in a very squishy science. Fifteen percent. Dead.
Val Riordan had been repeating the figures to herself since Theophilus
Crowe had called, but it wasn't helping her feel any better about what Bess
Leander had done. Val had never lost a patient before. And Bess Leander hadn't
really been depressed, had she? Bess didn't fit into the fifteen percent.
Val went to the office in the back of her house and pulled Bess Leander's
file, then went back to the living room to wait for Constable Crowe. At least
it was the local guy, not the county sheriffs. And she could always fall back
on patient confidentiality. Truth was, she had no idea why Bess Leander might
have hung herself. She had only seen Bess once, and then for only half an
hour. Val had made the diagnosis, written the script, and collected a check
for the full hour session. Bess had called in twice, talked for a few minutes,
and Val had sent her a bill for the time rounded to the next quarter hour.
Time was money. Val Riordan liked nice things.
The doorbell rang, Westminster chimes. Val crossed the living room to the
marble foyer. A thin tall figure was refracted through the door's beveled
glass panels: Theophilus Crowe. Val had never met him, but she knew of him.