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

screaming and whistling and applauding, and I start thinking that
maybe it's Liverpool all over again.
I go backstage to congratulate him, and when I get there he's
busy giving hickeys to a couple of girls who snuck past the
security forces, which isn't as bad as sharing a snort with them,
I suppose, and then he turns to me.
"We will expect our money before we leave," he says.
"Out of the question, snookie," I say. "We won't have a count
until the morning."
He frowns. "All right," he says at last. "I will send an
associate of mine to your office to collect our share."
"Whatever you say, Vlad bubby," I tell him.
"His name is Renfield," says Vlad. "Don't let his appearance
startle you."
As if appearances could startle me after twenty years of
booking rock acts.
"Fine," I say. "I'll expect him at, say, ten o'clock?"
"That is acceptable," says Vlad. "Oh, one more thing."
"Yes?" I say.
"That scarab ring you wear on the small finger of your left
hand..."
I hold it up. "Yeah, it's a beaut, isn't it?"
"I strongly advise you to takle it off and hide it in your
desk before Mr. Renfield makes his appearance."
"A klepto, huh?" I say.
"Something like that," answers Vlad.
"Well, thanks for the tip, sweetheart," I say.
Then a Western Union girl enters the room and unloads a
bushel of telegrams on Vlad.
"What is this?" he asks.
"It means you're a hit, baby," I said.
"Oh?"
"Open 'em up and read 'em," I encourage him.
He opens the first of them, scans it, and drops it like it's
a hot potato. Then he backs into a corner, hissing like he's a
tire losing air.
"What's the problem?" I say, picking up the telegram and
reading it: I LOVE YOU AND WANT TO HAVE YOUR BABY. LOVE AND XXX,
KATHY.
"Crosses!" he whispers.
"Crosses?" I repeat, trying to figure out what's bugging him.
"At the bottom," he says, pointing to the telegram with a
trembling finger.
"Those are X's," I say. "They stand for kisses."
"You're sure?" he asks, still huddled in the corner. "They
look like crosses to me."
"No," I say, pulling out a pen and scribbling on the
telegram. "A cross looks like _this_."
He shrieks and curls into a fetal ball, and I decide that
maybe he snorts a little nose candy after all, or that he just