"Mike Resnick - A Little Night Music" - читать интересную книгу автора (Resnick Mike)

already gone. I look high and low for him, but all I see if some
black bird that seems to have flown into the building by mistake,
and finally I go back and spend the rest of the night on my couch,
thinking about dinner and wondering if my timing is just a little
bit off.
Well, Pride and Prejudice, the black-and-white girls' band
that ends every concert with a fist fight, gets picked up for
pederasty, and suddenly I've got a hole to fill at the Palace, so
I figure what the hell, 50% is 50%, and I book Vlad and the
Impalers there for Friday night.
I stop by their dressing room about an hour before show time,
and there's skinny old Vlad, surrounded by three chicks in white
nightgowns, and he's giving each of them hickeys on their necks,
and I decide that if this is the kinkiest he gets, he's a lot
better than most of the rockers I deal with.
"How's it going, sweetheart?" I say, and the chicks back away
real fast. "You ready to knock 'em dead?"
"They're no use to me if they're dead," he answers without
cracking a smile.
So I decide he's got a sense of humor after all, though a
kind of dull, deadpan one.
"What can I do for you, Mr. Barron?" he goes on.
"Call me Murray," I correct him. "The PR guy wants to know
where you played most recently."
"Chicago, Kansas City, and Denver."
I give him my most sophisticated chuckle. "You mean there are
_people_ between L.A. and the Big Apple?"
"Not as many as there were," he says, which I figure is his
way of telling me that the band wasn't exactly doing S.R.O.
"Well, not to worry, bubby," I said. "You're gonna do just
fine tonight." Someone knocks on the door, and I open it, and in
comes a delivery boy carrying a long, flat box.
"What is that?" asks Vlad, as I tip the kid and send him on
his way.
"I figured you might need a little energy food before you get
up on stage," I answer, "so I ordered you a pizza."
"Pizza?" he says, with a frown. "I have never had one
before."
"You're kidding, right?" I say.
"I told you once before: I never jest." He stares at the box.
"What is in it?"
"Just the usual," I say.
"What is the usual?" he asks suspiciously.
"Sausage, cheese, mushrooms, olive, onions, anchovies..."
"That was very thoughtful of you, Murray, but we don't--"
I sniff the pizza. "And garlic," I add.
He screams and covers his face with his hands. "Take it
away!" he shouts.
Well, I figure maybe he's allergic to garlic, which is a
goddamned shame, because what's a pizza without a little garlic,