"Leslie What - The Cost Of Doing Business" - читать интересную книгу автора (What Leslie)

NEBULA FOR BEST SHORT STORY




The Cost of Doing Business
LESLIE WHAT




Leslie What has sold some fifty short stories since making her debut in a 1992 issue of Isaac Asimov's
Science Fiction Magazine. She also writes nonfiction and poetry, and did the script for a video shown
on public television. Otherwise, she says, "Used to be nurse, performance artist, maskmaker,
etc.; now housewife/ writer/mother, etc. (Imagine George Sand/Martha Stewart/ Ernie Kovacs, with
attitude.)" Her unusual surname is a pseudo-nym, for which she offers the explanation, "I was
twenty-one. A friend had changed her name to 'K. Somebody.' I wanted something like that,
maybe with fewer syllables."
Her Nebula-winning short story, "The Cost of Doing Busi-ness," is the first of several pieces
exploring retribution and guilt, personal responsibility, the limits of forgiveness, and how people
continue living without any hope for reconciliation.



The big man sits across from Zita, brow furrowed, black eyes fixed upon the desk. He strokes the
mahogany finish while he's talking, touch-ing it rather absently, as if trying to smooth things out. Every
now and again _he glances up to make certain Zita is still paying attention to his story. There are two
thugs outside, waiting for him in the parking lot. Can he hire her to take his place, deal with the thugs, so
he won't have to? There isn't much time to decide, and certainly, from his view, no choice.
Zita scribbles a few notes. She is grateful he doesn't stare at her like a lot of customers, who give
her an I-can't-believe-I'm-really-here look and expect her to find their na├пvet├й charming. When
customers stare at her long legs or dress cut low to expose skin smooth as a white chocolate shell, it isn't
really Zita they are seeing. Her perfection is only skin-deep, skin-deep being all anyone can afford, even
the big man.
She notices his gold Rolex and his suit sewn from fine wool. Like her, the big man wears his riches
on the outside.
"This is the worst thing that's ever happened to me," the big man blathers. "At first I didn't know
what to do, but then I looked up, saw your billboard. That's why I'm here."
Driving to work this morning, he was carjacked. "I'm a lucky man," he says, "really lucky." The
thugs were curious types; they agreed to let him hire a surrogate victim in exchange for an extra couple of
bills and a contract promising immunity. That's the way things are done these days, when people act
reasonably. Fortunately for the big man, the thugs are reasonable men.
Zita listens as he prattles off twenty reasons why he needs to hire her instead of facing things on his
own. She's tempted to correct him, but doesn't. The excuses are all part of the game. She knows why he
wants to hire her, has known from the moment he walked into her of-fice. It has nothing to do with his
suspicious wife, or a job he can't afford to take time off from, or even his heart condition. Sure, the big
man is afraid of pain-who isn't?-but there's more to it than that. The big man has sought Zita's services for
the same reason as everyone who hires a surrogate victim. He'd rather see someone else suffer.
 Something terrible has happened to him; he can't turn back the clock, so he might as well make the
best of it. He won't admit that there's a reason he'll pay a premium to hire her instead of that balding Mr.