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

connected and split for New York; and while his own several books in no way competed with Lennox's
sales figures, he had scripted at least three successful horror films (one from an early Lennox novel), and
he had a devoted following among discriminating readers of the genre. Martin's ambition was to become
an emerging mainstream writer. He had known Lennox as a friend since high school days.
Mike Carson was taller than Martin, shorter than Lennox, and spare of frame, with short black hair
and a brooding face. He wore a long overcoat, loose shirt and baggy trousers, and stopped just short of
punk. He looked like an unbalanced and consumptive artist who was slowly starving in a garret; in fact he
was Irish and scraping out a fair living between moderately frequent assignments and his wife's steady
job. Carson had done the British paperback covers for the last five of Lennox's novels, and, although
Lennox had never said so, Carson knew that Lennox had insisted that his choice of artist be included in
his contracts. Carson had known Lennox since the first time Cody and Cathy had visited LondonтАФwhen
West End pints cost 30p, and Carson had made the mistake of trying to drink him under the table.
"Two bitters, and here's your lager, Jack," said Lennox, sloshing their pints on the pebble-grained
aluminum table. "Christ, I hate these straight-sided glasses. They look like oversized Coca-Cola glasses."
"Cheers."
"Oh, thanks, Cody."
They drank.
"Well," said Lennox, halfway through his bitter at a gulp. "So who else is over here?"
"Haven't seen very many stray American writers," Martin told him. "Still a bit early, I guess.
Geoffrey Marsh is hereтАФstaying over at the Wansbeck. Saw Sanford Vade coming out of an off-license
with two jail-baits and a bottle of Beam's Choice. Oh, and I did run into Kent Allard in the lobby this
morning. He asked if you were coming over."
"He would." Lennox finished his pint. "You said you were staying at the Russell?"
"That's right."
"I'll get these." Carson downed his pint.
"I'm still OK." Martin sipped at his lager.
Lennox belched. "Crazy town where you have to do your drinking between eleven and threeтАФand
then try to find a loo. At least this time next year they'll have twelve-hour opening."
"Why don't you come down to Mexico with me sometime?" Martin suggested. "We could stay a
week for what a day here costs. I know some great places."
"My destiny lies here."
"Bullshit. You can get just as drunk in Mexico for a lot less money."
"Money means nothing to me."
"Bullshit."
"Besides, in Mexico I might run into my father."
Carson crashed down three pints. Martin had started to raise a hand in protest. The aluminum table
tipped. Martin's fresh pint of lager rocked and tilted. Lennox reached across his own pint glass to catch
Martin's. His heavy wristwatch band shattered the top off of the straight-sided glass. Lennox caught
Martin's pint and set it safely upright.
"Reflexes," said Lennox proudly.
"You're bleeding," said Martin.
"No, I'm not."
Carson pointed. "Then where's all this blood coming from?"
Lennox examined his wrist, then pulled out the splinter of glass. "Shit. I've ruined my pint."
It was a minor cut, but it bled stubbornly. Martin gave him a crumpled tissue to use until Carson
returned with several paper serviettes and another pint of bitter.
"Don't drink the other," Carson advised. "It's all full of glass and blood."
"I'll hide the evidence," said Lennox, dabbing at his cut wrist. He carried his broken glass to the
sewer grating between The Swan and The Queen's Larder. As he bent to pour out the blood-tinged
mess, he noticed a playing card balanced against the grating. It was the Queen of Spades.