"Callahan 05 - Lady Sally's House 02 - Lady Slings the Booze v1.0" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robinson Spider)

"I burn to know."
"Two hundred a day plus expenses."
He flashed his famous grin for the first time. "Rockford Files. James Garner. At least you follow good trash."
He had me cold. "The best," I agreed. "Just like with him, it's not negotiable." I tried for Gamer's I'm-not-budging expression. "And I also get medical expenses for job-related injuries. After all, we're using smaller dollars these days."
"I seem to remember Rockford almost never gets paid."
I shrugged. "Is it a deal or not?"
To my surprise, he hesitated. "It's not that I'd have the slightest difficulty making it drop off the books," he mused. "Partly I'm curious to see what you'd do if I said no, you gotta work for free on this one. And mostly it goes against my grain to pay an overgrown adolescent who's built like a linebacker two hundred dollars a day to hang out in Lady Sally's House."
I had to work to control my face. Lady Sally McGee's House? Not maybe the most famous, but surely the most legendary whorehouse in the greater New York area? I'd heard of it for years, but always very quiet, and third-hand at least. They said you had to know Somebody, real well, to get invited there. Until today, I hadn't known anybody who knew anybody who knew Somebody. I opened my mouth to say I could manage to pay him two hundred dollars, and absorb my own expenses- "Oh screw it, it's a deal," he said.
"What's the situation?"
He pursed his lips, and shook his head. "I need backup on my judgment. You go see the Lady, and if she decides to fill you in, then nobody can blame me. If she doesn't, you get one day's pay and a hearty handclasp-for something that never happened."
"Can you give me a hint? What sort of beef are we talking? Do I bring a fingerprint kit, or a bazooka? Or a dozen condoms?"
He steepled his fingertips. "I would say you should bring along all of that garbage you dumped on thy carpet outside. And if you know where you could borrow a brain for a while, bring that by all means. But mostly bring your luck, Quigley. And.. ." He sighed.
"...your best judgment, such as it is."
"What does that mean?"
He frowned. "I don't know if I can make you understand. I want you to be absolutely candid with me in this matter...up to a point."
"I'm not following you."
"You are not going to get cute with this, like a TV detective. You will share with me fully any relevant information you learn. But it is possible-" He paused, and twisted his face up so badly that I wanted to offer him some Metamucil, "-that in the course of your investigation you will turn up information I do not have a need to know. And the hell of it is, by and large you're the one who'll have to decide when that is. I can only say: don't screw up."
I didn't have the slightest idea what the hell he was talking about. But he looked so uncomfortable that I got the idea he must have just done something noble. And maybe given me some kind of backhanded compliment at the same time. "I'll do my best," I said simply.
"Exactly what I'm afraid of. Any more questions?"
"Yeah. Why me?"
"Because every once in a while you're so dumb, you're a genius. That Favila case, for example. Most people can only see the obvious if it makes sense. You proved you can see the obvious even when it's stupid. That may turn out to be what's called for here."
I was a little stung. The Favila case had been one of my professional high points to date, had come this close to being a triumph. "I see," I said stiffly. "You need me, so you treat me like shit."
"I only do that for two reasons," he said. "First, of course, because you are shit...and second because you look like that moron on the tube, what's-his-name."
"Hey," I said, stung again, "that's not my fault."
"I know. No one would look like him that could help it. Forget it. You knOw where Sally's is?"
"I don't need to. The cabbie will know."
"True. Use the north entrance-and for God's sake don't use my name at the door if there's anyone else in earshot. Report to me, verbally, here, when you've cracked it. Not before. If there's anything you need, at all, the Lady will provide. And nothing goes in writing."
"Can I go now?"
"Not yet. Look at me, Quigley. I know I've succeeded in hiring you. I think I've even succeeded in engaging your attention. But before I let you leave here, I want to be sure I've succeeded in scaring the living shit out of you. I want you to throw away whatever smart-aleck closing line you've got prepared, and just say these words: say, 'I'm going to be a good boy, sir,' and then get the hell out of here. Will you do that for me, Joe?"
I wanted this job more than I wanted a nymphomaniac secretary with legs up to here, but there are some kinds of shit a man just can't eat. "Screw yourself, sir," I said. Besides, I'd been polishing an exit line since I'd first gotten the call, and it was going to be a beaut.
He smiled faintly. "You think the worst I could do is have you ruined, disgraced, raped and beaten to death. It's much worse than that." The smile broadened into that oddly telegemc grin again. "If your performance in this assignment is not satisfactory, I will put your real first name out on the street."
-and on the other hand, certain other kinds of shit are quite palatable with a little necessity sprinkled on them. I could always save my exit line for the next time a major VIP wanted to hire me. "I'm going to be a good boy, sir."
"I know you are, 'Joe.'" The grin vanished. "I'm counting on it."
I left, and found my own way out.
I collected my hardware from the butler on the way out the main door. He wouldn't give it to me until I put my shoes back on. I stepped out into the cool muggy night, stuck a Lucky in my mouth, and heard imaginary music swell in the background.
On my way past the black-and-white I decided I had to do something, make some kind of move, a scene-closer to redeem my pride and get us to the commercial. I leaned into the passenger's window and stared the fat cop in the eye. "Your mother wears combat boots," I stated, and blew smoke in his face.
He looked me over, thought about where I had just come from and how confident I seemed now. "And shoulder pads," he agreed finally. "Why? You want to meet her?"
"Hee. .. hee. .. hee!" said the skinny one.
I gave up and walktd away. At the foot of the driveway I turned around and looked at the mansion. What do you say when you haven't got a good way to end a scene? Say good night, Gracie.
"Good night, Gracie," I said, and hailed a cab.

MENTIONING the Favila case had been a low blow, I thought as the hack headed over the bridge into Brooklyn. Except for that one little flaw at the end, it had been a classic of sheer mystery-solving. Who could have guessed a man could spend his entire life in New York City, and end up...well, at least partly unsophisticated?
With my luck, you'll remember the case. It started when a janitor found a corpsicle floating, in a rooftop switnming pool next to Central Park one August morning. A stiff, but I mean stiff. Frozen solid, just beginning to defrost around the edges from being in the pool. In August. He was in a funny half-crouch position, with his hands up in front of his face and the fingers spread, as if he'd been examining a crystal ball underwater when he froze. No ID at all, wearing frozen jeans and shards of a frozen tee shirt, nothing else on or with him at all. The janitor swore he'd had to unlock the door to enter the area, the lock hadn't been tampered with, and the only other access to that roof was by helicopter. Fingerprints and dental charts went through all the computers without a match, and he didn't fit any Missing Persons reports. The local cryogenics outfit took some hard questioning, but they were able to prove they had no corpsicles missing. Every meat locker within a ten-block radius got combed, but nothing turned up.
A friend of mine, a gold shield named Murphy, caught the case. It just about drove him nuts. One day I happened to be standing with him on the roof of the building in question. I was there because I'd been following him around for over an hour, trying to borrow money from him. All he wanted to talk about was the Frozen Stiff.
"It just doesn't make any goddam sense, Joe," he said. He turned around in a slow circle, looking at the city laid out around us. "Where is the nearest place to this spot where you could freeze a guy solid as a leg of lamb without anybody noticing?" Without thinking, I pointed straight up.
"Right," he said, snorting. "I'm about ready to believe it was some outer space monster. He was planning to drink the pool for the chlorine and wanted to chill it properly first. Hell, it doesn't even matter where it was done. Wherever they froze the son of a bitch, how did they get him all the way here without being seen and why?"
I started to get very excited. "Murph-"
"Why take all that risk?" Murphy went on, talking more than half to himself. "You got a corpsicle, bust him up with a hammer and leave him in the shower. This is like something out of a fuckin' comic book. You know the weirdest part of all? The Coroner says he was suffocated-without a mark on him, for Christ's-"
"Murph, listen, this is important to both of us," I said. "Can you let me hold a twenty for a couple of days?"
"Things are hot just now," he said absently. "This Knapp Commission crap, I practically been living on my salary for months. I tell you, it's gotta be some kind of radicals. The guy looks like he could be some kind of spic-Central America, maybe, some kind of weird CIA shit-"