"Lawrence Treat - M As in Mugged" - читать интересную книгу автора (Treat Lawrence)

It was bounded on one side by the brick wall of a ware-house, and on the
other by a high wooden fence. The fence was broken in several places, and you
could step through to an empty lot where, judging by the rubble and the charred
beams, there had recently been a fire. Farther on there was a broad gap in the fence.
A couple of jalopies were parked in the lot, together with a brand new Thunderbird
and a green Chevy. The Chevy had out-of-state plates, 649T87. Decker walked over
to the car and opened the door.

The key was in the ignition. A metal bar had been fitted across the rear to hold
a rack of dresses, and a couple of hangers and the remains of a bouquet of wild
flowers were strewn across the back seat. He noticed daisies and butter-cups, a few
weeds, and to his surprise some shiny green leaves that he recognized as poison ivy.
If Brenda had picked those, she certainly was a city girl. And a damn lucky one, too,
not to be all blistered up today and having one hell of a honeymoon.

Decker locked the car, put the key in his pocket, and started to retrace his
steps, to report what heтАЩd found. As he emerged from the lot, he noticed a girl at the
other end of the alley. She was wearing a bright, yellow dressтАФone of the models
Taylor had shown him in WaverlyтАЩs style sheets.

Decker switched directions and followed the girl.

She had dark hair and she walked with a light, springy step, and she was
young. She had no idea anyone was behind her, so she was easy to follow. She
swung left at the end of the alley, floated along for a couple of blocks, then entered a
tavern. The neon sign read GinoтАЩs.

The Lieutenant, marching along in no particular hurry, reached the tavern
door, opened it, and went inside. The girl wasnтАЩt there.
 A quick look told him all he needed to know. There was a curtained doorway
at the rear. The girl had gone either to a back room or upstairs, or else had slipped
out through a side exit.

The bartender was squat, partly bald, and had tired, wor-ried eyes. A
broken-down rummy, sitting on a stool at the far end, was draped over the bar. He
lifted his head to see who had come in, then let it drop back. The juke box, going full
blast, was playing rock-and-roll, and seven boys in their late teens were bunched
around a rear table.

At Lieutenant DeckerтАЩs appearance they seemed to react to some unspoken
signal; they swung around and stood clear of the table.

Decker had seen enough. All he had to do was say, тАЬSorry, I guess this is the
wrong place.тАЭ Then he could have turned around and left, as any sensible cop would
do when he walked in on a gang of young punks who were obviously spoiling for a
fight. He has nothing to gain and everything to lose. But Decker was 60 today, and
he was out to prove somethingтАФat least, to himself.

He sat down at the bar. тАЬMake it a beer,тАЭ he said.