"Newman, Kim - The McCarthy Witch Hunt" - читать интересную книгу автора (Newman Kim)

the pastor's position on the latest community issues. Finlay knew the sort
of thing: such-and-such a woman was caught in adultery, this-or-that
goodfellow was commended for witnessing his neighbour's sins.
'There,' Brother Dwight said, 'that's the house.'
Finlay checked the address. 1164, Morning Glory Circle. Places around here
all looked the same. The streets all looked the same. He'd heard around
the Bureau of terrible, unforgivable mistakes.
They parked the convertible across the street and Dwight let the top down.
There was no sense baking. It wasn't as if they were trying to hide. The
Archbishop liked the brethren to have imposing automobiles, long black
Oldsmobiles and Fords with engines that purred like big cats.
Mrs Stevens would be inside now, looking after the baby, doing the
ironing, using a vacuum cleaner, cooking food for later.
You couldn't even hear the city.
'Sorcerous hag,' Dwight said under his breath. He hated witchcraft on a
personal level. A stone-ignorant Baptist, he knew what the Bible said
about not suffering a witch to live and it was good enough for him. When
they burned the Rosenbergs, he wanted front-row seats with a good view of
the stakes. There were a lot like him in the Bureau.
Finlay fanned himself with a file. His eye ground, but he didn't want to
take it out. That upset people. Children ran away in tears after a look at
his empty socket.
'I don't see why we're watching the house,' Dwight said, 'we know the
coven meets at that fancy Manhattan place.'
'We're not watching the house.'
Dwight grunted. 'What are we doing then?'
'We're making sure everyone else in the neighbourhood watches the house
...'
An automobile drove slowly by. A young wife just back from the market,
groceries piled next to a child in the back.
'Quick, take some notes,' Finlay told Dwight.
'What?'
'Get your book out and jot something down. I don't care what. Just make
sure people see you looking at the Stevens house and writing. And take off
your jacket. So they can see the gun.'
'Huh?'
Dwight didn't understand how it worked but went along with it. A
ten-year-old boy walked by, whistling some Johnny Mercer tune, a rolled-up
comic book in his jeans pocket. Dwight pantomimed the whole thing, tongue
half-stuck-out in concentration, elaborately sneaky side-looks at the
house, incomprehensible scribble - in code, a good touch - digging into
his pad.
'Very good.'
Finlay took out a Christian Herald-Crusader. McCarthy was getting
headlines, chairing the Permanent Sub-Committee on Investigations of the
Senate Committee on Government Operations, delving into the religious
histories of State Department employees, checking oaths of piety against
proven affiliations. Today, he accused the State Department of employing
123 practising witches. Last week, it had been 141; next week, who knows?
209? 67? 180? It was a clever stunt. If he kept to the same number the