"Ringo,.John.-.Posleen.05.-.Cally's.War.-.Cochrane,.Julie" - читать интересную книгу автора (Ringo John)

"What, you mean like tonight?" He snorted, taking a long drink of his beer and staring off into nowhere. "All the time, lately." He drained his drink and gestured to the bartender for a refill. "You don't sound like you're from around here, either. Aw, excuse me," he waved her off. "I'm just being nosy."
"Nah, it's all right." She offered her hand. "I'm Marilyn, and you're right, I'm not from here. I'm on vacation, from Toledo." She took a sip of her margarita and looked away. "This trip was supposed to be with my fiancщ, well, ex-fiancщ, uh . . . it just didn't work out, I came anyway, and now I'm wondering if I should have."
"You wanna paint the town red to show you ain't hurt, but then you ain't in the mood for partyin'." He fumbled for the bills to pay for his arriving drink. "Guess there's a lot of that goin' around tonight."
"You too?" She took a bite of the pie, watching him.
"Yeah, I just went through a divorce."
"Bad?"
"It could've been if I'd made it. I could have taken it into court and made sure she got nothin'." He took another drink. "Her good luck. When I walked in and, well, saw what I saw, I was so disgusted all I wanted was out as fast as I could get."
"That's lousy. I don't know what I would have done if there had been another girl. I just finally got tired of us fighting all the time. He was one of those people who could find something wrong with everything."
"Sounds like you had a lucky escape."
"Yeah, well, you too. And I came out here planning to party all week, and, I guess it's stupid, I just . . ." She trailed off and went back to her pie. She had obviously picked someone whose prime interest was getting good and drunk. Not a good pick. I should have known better.
When the bartender cut him off, later, she was a good enough sport to put him in a cab home before driving back to her own apartment to sleep in the hair fumes.
* * *
Chicago, Tuesday, May 14
The receptionist was a hell of a looker. Not much in the tits, but her face just took your breath away. Besides, tits were easy enough to fix. Damn.
John Earl Bill Stuart, Johnny to friends and enemies alike, paced the outer office pretending a polite interest in the snooty art stuff scattered around the place. If any of it was real, it must have cost a mint. Most of it was probably those reproduction things meant for show. And he'd bet it worked with some people. He'd been more impressed with the view. This Terra Trade Holdings had the whole next-to-top floor, at least, of the old Sears Tower. They'd renamed it, but it was stillЧor again, depending on how you looked at itЧthe tallest building on Earth. He didn't know who had the top floor, but it sure wasn't open to the tourists any more and he figured the second to top floor view was closer than almost anybody got these days. Damned aliens, but there you were, and they were really no different from the old corporations, who had really taken it in the teeth when the aliens showed up, now were they? Just different people on top.
Johnny would have liked to have brought his camera and snapped a few pictures for Mary Lynn while he was up here, but that wouldn't have been classy, and he knew you had to be classy at meetings like this. Pictures would have been nice, just to show her he'd really been here, but it couldn't be helped.
"The Tir will see you now," the girl said, just like one of the girls on the evening news. No Yankee accent like you heard a lot here in Chicago. No accent at all. Classy.
The Tir's corner office was a criminal waste. Heavy drapes covered both walls of floor-to-ceiling windows, darkening the room to dim shadows as well as shutting out the view. It was a little like the guy who takes the last piece of chicken in the basket, not because he wants it but so you can't have it. It was pretty much of a piece with his employers' typical way of doing business.
He had never actually seen a Darhel before. Usually he had reported through Worth, but had had an emergency contact number to use when his immediate superior had dropped off the map sometime between Thursday and Monday of last week.
"We received your message." The voice was just beautiful. Hypnotic. Almost like music. He could have listened to it all day long, but Johnny hadn't gotten where he was without learning to recognize a slick talker when he heard one. He blinked in the dim light as his eyes adjusted, making out the cloaked figure behind the very large desk. It looked like a bit of a muzzle, like a coyote, or maybe a fox, protruded from the hood. He caught a small glimpse of sharply pointed teeth that didn't quite fit right with the plate of vegetable looking stuff that sat to one side on the desk. Scattered small bits of green on the desk surface gave the impression that the alien was not a particularly neat eater.
"Yes, Your Tir. And I got your summons. What can I do for you?"
"We have come to the reluctant conclusion that our junior colleague, the human Worth, has met with a misfortune. This leaves us with an opening in a certain position. A position we feel someone with your talents may be able to fill."
"You mean you need someone to coordinate your hits?"
"We need someone to provide services managing awkward problems." The Tir's voice was tense, and now sounded more angry than melodic.
"Awkward problems like annoying people that need to be killed and gotten out of your way?"
"That . . . that of course would be entirely up to you," the alien squeaked. Fuckin' coward.
"Right. I'd need a raise for that. It's riskier than what I've been doing."
"If . . . if you . . . no, if someone were to periodically submit a request for reimbursement for reasonable expenses somehow incurred in something that is in our interests, reimbursement would . . . would be ordered." The alien was breathing deeply and shakily, as if even saying the words bothered him. These damned Elves were all cowards. That was why they had to hire real men to do their dirty work. Johnny wasn't above getting a little of his own back on the aliens by rubbing their noses in it a little.
"So when I have some sumbitch killed for you, you want me to tell you how much I paid the guy, then you pay me plus my cut. Say, fifteen percent on top."
"We . . ." It squeaked to a stop, shaking, and was silent a moment before trying again. "We believe you should . . . should use your best judgment, and are willing to pay you a seven percent overage on all service associated expenses."
"Ten."
"As you say," it gasped, taking a silent moment to get its breathing under control.
"Then you've got a deal. You tell me who's in your way, I send somebody to wax 'em, I get my percentage. Works for me."
"This . . . this conversation never took place," it choked.
"Okay, Your Tir. Johnny Stuart's your man."
"Wait." He choked, taking a few moments to breathe deeply. After several long seconds he looked back up and fixed Johnny in the eye. His voice had resumed its melodious character and was almost caressing as he spoke.
"The trouble with humans, Mr. Stuart, is that they are incredibly poor at maintaining the proper decorum around their betters." He addressed his AID, "AID, display Martin Simpson hologram, download full file to Mr. Stuart's AID." He looked back up and very deliberately made fixed eye contact again. "Mr. Simpson is a perfect example of that lack of decorum, and it is unacceptable. You may demonstrate your understanding of our arrangement by handling the problem. You may go, now."
"Yes sir, Your Tir." He walked out the door, restraining the urge to whistle. Damned alien cowards. But he made a good living out of them. You wanted to make a bundle, you had to work for the men, or whatever, on top.
His AID, which was admittedly a damned nifty gadget, was disguised as a regular PDA, and seemed to think there was something funny about aping the behavior of one of the lesser devices. He had barely gotten out of the building and down the block towards the valet deck when it started alternately beeping and vibrating at him.
"What?" he asked the thing, irritably. Machines shouldn't have a damn sense of humor.
"The Tir instructs you to find out what happened to the human Worth."
"Gotcha. Now cut that out!" After giving his ticket to the attendant, he propped himself against a pole and waited for them to bring his car around. A promotion and a raise. Not a bad day. Not bad at all. He hadn't much liked Worth before. He liked him a lot better now.
"Oh, Leanne," he asked the AID, "by the way, what does 'decorum' mean?"
"Decorum: politeness, the observance of proper protocol or etiquette," it said.
"Okaaay. So what did this Marvin Smith do to piss the Tir off so badly?"
"Martin Simpson. Employee of Terra Trade Holdings. I think the offense was telling a Darhel joke in a staff meeting." The AID's voice was unusually dispassionate.
"Jesus H. Christ! What the hell was the joke?"
"How many Darhel does it take to change a light bulb?" The voice playing from the AID was a young male, pure Chicago, "Twenty-one. One to change the bulb, and twenty to curl up and die in the corner at the cost."
"Okay," he chuckled, "what else did he do?"
"Nothing. Well, he did take home a pen from the office once."