"Karl Edward Wagner - At First Just Ghostly" - читать интересную книгу автора (Wagner Karl Edward)

"How's that been coming along?"
Lennox killed his lager, stretched out with a sigh, and thoughtfully opened the second can. He said:
"Cathy and I used to come here and sit. Place close by on Theobald's Road sells some of the best fish
and chips I've ever had. Used to carry them back, sit and eat here, and then we'd walk back to The Sun
and wash it all down with pints of gut-wrenching ales."
He closed his eyes and took a long pull of lager, remembering. When he opened his eyes he saw
the worn benches stained with pigeon droppings, the dustbins overstuffed with cider bottles, the litter of
empty beer cans and crisps packets. The square smelled of urine and unwashed bodies; the derelicts
slept all about here at night.
"Let it go, Cody."
"Can't. Nothing left to hang onto but memories."
"But you're just killing yourself."
"I'm already dead."
The church steeple tolled ten. Lennox had always suspected that its bells were an array of old iron
pots. A deaf gnome banged on them with a soup ladle. The steeple was a ponderous embarrassment that
clashed with what remained of the simple Queen Anne architecture.
"The Church of St. George the Martyr," Lennox said. "Loads of history here. See that steeple?
Hawksmoor had a hand in it."
"Who's Hawksmoor?"
"The hero of a famous fairyland fantasy trilogy. Did you know, for example, that the church crypts
here are connected by a tunnel beneath Cosmo Place to the cellars of that pub on the cornerтАФThe
Queen's Larder?"
"Didn't know you read guidebooks."
"Don't. Old pensioner Cathy and I used to drink with there told us. Name was Dennis, and he
always drank purple velvetsтАФthat's stout mixed with port. Haven't seen him since then."
"With that to drink, I'm not surprised." Martin tossed his juice carton into a bin. "So why St. George
the Martyr? I always thought old George slew that dragon. Must have been another George
somewhere."
"Or another dragon," said Lennox. "Let's just see if my room is ready by now."

His room was ready. Lennox poured himself a glass of Scotch from the coals-to-Newcastle bottle
in his suitcase, then phoned Mike Carson. Carson said he'd meet them at The Swan soon after eleven,
and he did.
Lennox was at the bar buying the first round. The day was turning warm and bright after last night's
rain, and they had seats at an outside table on Cosmo Place.
"You ever notice," observed Carson, "how Cody always seems to bring good weather when he's
over?"
"No, I hadn't," said Martin. "Just must be luck."
Carson offered a cigarette, and they both lit up. "Cody once said to me," he said, inhaling, "that the
English carry umbrellas because they expect it to rain. Cody says he never does, because he expects the
day to be clear."
"First optimistic thing I've ever heard about that Cody said."
"It's not optimism," Carson explained. "It's bloody arrogance."
Martin turned to peer into the pub. Lennox was still waiting to be served. Martin said: "God knows
it can't be good luck. Not with Cody."
"So, then. How is he?"
"God knows. Not taking it well. I'm worried."
Jack Martin was short for his generation, neatly groomed with a frost of grey starting in his carefully
trimmed beard, and there was a hint of middle-age spread beneath his raw silk sport jacket. He had
known Lennox from when they were both determined young writers in Los Angeles, before Lennox had