"Kim Newman - The Serial Murders" - читать интересную книгу автора (Newman Kim)

"Jockie and Della. Prince Abu. Sir Josiah and Falmingworth. Lady Gulliver. Masterman and Dr. Laurinz. Mr.
Gatling. Pieter Bierack."
She had obviously been waiting for someone to ask.
"You have a few more on your list than I do."
"I've been workin' here long-time, Reechar.' I'm firs' to know who's comin' and who's goin.' When word comes
down from on high, I have to dress the word, send it out decent to the studio floor. You dig?"
"I think so."
"A costume is more than jus' clothes. It's the t'ings in the pockets, the pins under the lapels, the dirt in the
soles of the shoes, weathering and aging тАж"
She led him to the "Ben" rack, raised cellophane from a jacket, showed the fray of the sleeve-cuffs, a loose
button, a stitched-over stab-mark. From the pocket, like a stage magician, she pulled out a stream of items:
a bus ticket, a paper bag of lemon-drops, an item of female underwear, a tied fishing-fly in the form of a water
boatman.
She smiled, showing sharp, very white teeth.
He laughed as she flourished an artificial flower.
"I'm not so interested in Ben Barstow," said Richard.
"Wouldn't surprise me if he be interested in you," said Mama-Lou.
Richard wondered if he was exuding psychic pheromones. Since he and Barbara had happened, people
treated him differently. Mama-Lou was closer to him than decorum would advise. And she was rightтАФDudley
Finn had been giving him glances. And so had June O'Dell.
"Very flattering," he said, "but not the field I wish to explore. Where are the racks for Jockie and Della?"
Mama-Lou made a fist, then opened it suddenly.
"Gone. To the 'cinerator. No room roun' here. New come, so old gotta go. Policy directive."
She looked to the ceiling.
"And all the others. Gone too?"
She made an up-in-smoke gesture.
"I'd have been interested to know how you costumed them?"
"Carefully," she said. "We go to great lengths to procure the тАж suitable items, to give them the proper тАж
treatment."
"You don't make the costumes yourselves? You buy them in."
"Some t'ings we run up here. Got an award for it. Mavis Barstow wears only original Mama-Lou designs. She
insists. Not'ing June O'Dell puts on has been roun' a human body before. Some of the other women's t'ings
we do the same. Had a Carnaby Street designer under contract for this new girl's clothes. He'll be gone, now.
Change of policy. For the ones you'll be interested in, we procure. We copy sometimes, but we make the
copy good. You understand what I'm tellin'?"
"Indeed."
"Good. You put a stop to it?"
She stood back and folded her arms. He didn't try to pretend he didn't know what she meant.
"I'll certainly try."
Mama-Lou nodded, once. "Good. A sacrilege is no good to anyone. If a blessing is put to an evil end, evil
comes to everyone, even the mos' blessed. Maybe the idea comes from my island, but none of the conjuring
comes from me. Dig?"
"Dug."
"I follow Erzulie Freda, loa of love. This be the path of the Saturday Man. Know him?"
"Baron Samedi?"
"Hush-hush, Reechar,'" she said, laying a finger on his lips. "Say not his name, lest he come to your house.
Caution agains' the Saturday Man. And come this way."
With beckoning finger, Mama-Lou lured him deeper into the bunker, past more and more racks. Finally, she
came to two new racks, which held only hangers and cellophane. No clothes yet.
"I said I know firs' when new people come. They get a rack, even before the role is cast. These are the