"Michael A. Stackpole - Shadowrun - Wolf and Raven" - читать интересную книгу автора (Stackpole Michael A)

what the beer had to cost, then stopped when he started to move the bottle forward. He glanced up at
me, shrugged, then gave me the drink. I could have used a credstick to pay, but in a place this archaic
and seedy, crumpled paper seemed the way to go.

I carried the drink toward the corner nearest the door. The beer tasted like his voice sounded, but cold,
and I set it down quickly. I slid into a booth, then unzipped my leather jacket and settled in to observe
the bar and its patrons. I kept the beer in my left hand while letting my right rest near the butt of my
Beretta Viper 14 2.

My new vantage point allowed me a fuller appreciation of the Weed's decor. The plastic baby doll heads
and high-heeled shoes hanging from the ceiling somehow made sense seen within the larger context. Most
of the light came from sputtering neon signs begging patrons to drink exotic brews the bar no longer
stocked. Silvery tinsel and some flashing lights left behind during some long-ago Christmas mocked the
moribund setting, but somehow brought gaiety to the expression of the plastic, safe-sex doll floating
above a busted pinball machine.

The place oozed atmosphere.

I used my beer bottle to smear a six-legged piece of that atmosphere across the table.
2
Sure, the Beretta Viper 14 is old. So's gravity, but it still works. Nice thing about the Viper is that I have a
bullet, I have a target, I pull the trigger, and the gun does all the math for the hit. And with the Viper, I never
have batteries go dead on me in the middle of a firefight.

About the only normal portion of the bar lay kitty-corner across the room from my position. Three
jack-tables, the cocktail model, sat up against the wall. Only one wirehead was using the Weed's
facilities. The trode halo circled her ebony brow, and the light from the unit's display washed in rainbow
waves over her face, but she didn't notice. Whatever graphics were flashing across the screen were for
outsider consumption onlyтАФ she was jacked in deep and playing her own little games.

I caught the scent of dead flowers all mixed up into a noxious blend that made the Weed smell worse and
was trendy enough to cost 150 nuyen a milliliter. The stink came to me about a second and a half before
I heard the click of Ronnie Killstar's wrist spur. Large as life, or at least as large as he could muster, the
pasty-faced street samurai slid into the booth across from me. The jaundiced light from the bar skittered
across the razored edge of the curved metal blade jutting out from his right wrist, and a red light glowed
in his eyes.

He sneered at me. "You ought to get your eyes done. I can bull's-eye a rat's ass at a thousand meters in
the pitch dark. I saw you come in and I saw you sit down. I can see in here plain as day."

That being the case, I saw no reason to mention he'd just wiped the sleeve of his white jacket through
cockroach paste. I sniffed at the air. "I don't need eyes to find you."

Two large men slipped from in back where Ronnie had been waiting and stood on either side of our
booth. They were both built like those smiling Buddha-type statues you find down the coast in Tokyo
West, 'cept these two wore more clothes, didn't smile, and didn't look like they'd give you good luck if
you rubbed their bellies. Still, if they were hanging around with Ronnie it meant they had to be
losersтАФwhich also explained why they looked so much at home in the Weed.

His intimidation batteries in place and ready to fire, Ronnie reinforced his sneer. "I didn't figure the great