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

"You're kidding, right?" I say.
"I never kid."
"Vodka and tomato juice."
"I don't drink vodka and I don't drink tomato juice."
Well, I figure we could spend all night playing Guess What The Fruitcake Drinks, so instead I pull out a contract out of my center drawer and ask tell him to Hancock it.
"Vlad Dracule," I read as he scrawls his name. "Dracule. Dracule. That's got a familiar ring to it."
He looked sharply at me. "It does?"
"Yeah," I say.
"I'm sure you are mistaken," he says, and I can see he's suddenly kind of tense.
"Didn't the Pirates have a third baseman named Dracule back in the 60s?" I ask.
"I really couldn't say," he answers. "When and where will we be performing?"
"I'll get back to you on that," I say. "Where can I reach you?"
"I think it is better that _I_ contact _you_," he says.
"Fine," I say. "Give me a call tomorrow morning."
"I am not available in the mornings."
"Okay, then, tomorrow afternoon." I look into those strange dark eyes, and finally I shrug. "All right. Here's my card." I scribble my home number on it. "Call me tomorrow night."
He picks up my card, turns on his heel, and walks out the door. Suddenly I remember that I don't know how big his group is, and I race into the hall to ask him, but when I get there he's 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, but I call the boy back and tell him to take the pizza back and see if he can get me a refund, and once it's out of the room Vlad starts recovering his composure.
Then a guy comes by and announces that they're due on stage in 45 minutes, and I ask if he'd like me to leave so they can get into their costumes.
"Costumes?" he asks blankly.
"Unless you plan to wear what you got on," I say.
"In point of fact, that is precisely what we intend to do," answers Vlad.
"Vlad, bubby, sweetie," I say, "you're not just singers -- you're _entertainers_. You got to give 'em their money's worth... and that means giving 'em something to look at as well as something to listen to."
"No one has ever objected to our clothing before," he says.
"Well, maybe not in Chicago or K.C. -- but this is L.A., baby."
"They didn't object in Saigon, or Beirut, or Chernobyl, or Kampala," he says with a frown.
"Well, you know these little Midwestern cowtowns, bubby," I say with a contemptuous shrug. "You're in the major leagues now."
"We will wear what we are wearing," he says, and something about his expression tells me I should just take my money and not make a Federal case out of it, so I go back to my office and call Denise, the chick who dumped the soup on me, and tell her I forgive her and see if she's busy later that night, but she has a headache, and I can hear the headache moaning and whispering sweet nothings in her ear, so I tell her what I really think of no-talent broads who just want to get close to major theatrical booking agents, and then I walk into the control booth and wait for my new act to appear onstage.