"S. Andrew Swann - Zimmerman's Algorithm" - читать интересную книгу автора (Swann S Andrew)

The scene outside his father's brownstone was no better than the one outside the hospital. He didn't
know if the reporters from the hospital had beat them here, or if there had been a press encampment lying
in wait for him to come home.
The driver got out first, to help him out of the car. As soon as the door opened, the questions started
again.
He tried to ignore the questions, and the press of people close to him. The cop next to him said
something, but he couldn't hear him over the din.
Gideon concentrated on climbing up the steps on his crutches, one, two. . .
On the top step he bumped one of the reporters and one of his crutches slipped out from under him. He
tumbled forward and his escort managed to catch him by his broken arm. The impact jerked him up short,
slamming his teeth shut firmly enough to make his jaw acheтАФ
"Goddamn." He choked the curse out through clenched teeth.
He spun around on the reporters. The patrolman started to say something. "Detective MalcolmтАФ" The
uncertainty in his voice showed he suspected what was coming.
Gideon swayed a bit on his remaining crutch. And the patrolman held out a steadying hand. "You
bastards won't be satisfied until you have another dead cop on your hands!"
The reporters didn't seem at all taken aback by the sudden confrontation. One shouted, louder than the
rest, "Do you have a statement about what happened?"
The question was a fist slamming into his stomach, the shamelessness of these people made him gasp,
wordless for a few moments as they shouted questions about his brother.
The patrolman tried to pull him back toward his doorway, away from the confrontation.
"You want a statementтАФ" Gideon sucked in a breath, "Here's your statementтАФ"
"Detective," the patrolman whispered into his ear, "we're not supposed to comment aboutтАФ"
Gideon wasn't listening. "You're a collection of shameless parasites drooling over my dead brother, and
you're going into rating orgasms because it might be someone's fuckup. I don't want anything to do with any
of you. I might be on disability leave, but I'm still a cop, and anyone standing on my property after the next
five seconds is going to be arrested for trespassing, harassment, and anything else I can think of."
The bastards didn't seem to miss a beat. Someone even called out, "What problems do you see in the
coverage of your brother's death?"
Gideon turned around, shaking. The cop handed him his fallen crutch and helped him get his keys out of
the fanny-pack the hospital had given him to carry his possessions.
The cop helped him into the house and they slammed the door on the reporters, whose only reaction to
Gideon's statement was a slight retreat down the steps to the sidewalk.
"Was that a good idea?" the cop asked him.
"I don't really give a shit."
The cop tried to stay and help him out, but Gideon was in no mood for company. After a few minutes,
the patrolman left.
Once he was alone, Gideon hobbled around the first floor, pulling shades, closing drapes, trying to
complete some sense of privacy. The phone rang three times while he was wandering around. After each
time proved to be a reporter, he took the phone off the hook.
He wanted to go upstairs to change, but he didn't feel up to it. He collapsed on a threadbare couch that
had been in the same spot since he was six years old and closed his eyes. In ten minutes he had fallen into
an exhausted sleep.


Franklin Alexander Jones, Davy to his friends, sat in his apartment sipping a beer and watching a
woman named Amber Waves ride some lucky motherfucker to orgasm on his giant 29-inch television
screen. This was the tenth day of him feeling sorry for himself. A hundred grand up in smoke. Christ, what
a life.
Davy kept telling himself that it was a damn good thing that the Doctor had called off his end of the job.