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

leave a cold residue that makes her want more than anything to duck into the backroom for a shower.
Stop it, she tells herself. Disgust is not professional.
"What would you like me to wear?" she asks.
He stands and faces the glass case. Her sequined gown has a rip and is being repaired, but
otherwise everything is there.
"The white leather coveralls," he says after a while. "Nothing un-derneath. And don't zip it up all the
way. Leave a little cleavage. Not too much, just a shadow. Ladylike, not slutty."
His face turns ruddy and she knows he would like her to disrobe in front of him. Not my job, she
thinks. Not my job.
"If you'll excuse me." She opens the display case and holds the cov-eralls against her, giving him a moment to
reconsider his choice.
"That will be fine," he says.
Zita smiles a professional smile, then steps into the backroom to change.

She takes the big man's arm and leads him through the hallway to the rear staircase. They walk
down to the first floor. "Were there protes-tors out today?" she asks, gesturing over her shoulder
toward the front.
"I didn't see any when I pulled into the lot," he says. "I hope there isn't trouble. I don't want
trouble. Or publicity."
"Listen," she says, "if they weren't out front, they certainly won't be out back. There's no point in
protesting unless someone sees you. These guys don't care about morality -- they only want it to look
like they do."
"Okay," he says, not sounding convinced.
They open the fire door and step onto the parking lot. The sun hides behind thin clouds, yet the
day is muggy and bright. If the sun were out it would be blinding, one of those days when you can't even
look at the ground without squinting. Zita sees the perps inside what she guesses must be his car. Black Beemer --
sunroof -- leather interior. They walk closer.
The big man realizes that the seats have been slashed. He groans.
"They can be replaced," she says.
He answers, "Yeah, but still."
"Forget it," she says. "Just think of it as the cost of doing business."
"Easy for you to say," says the big man.
"Easy?" she says, and stops walking. "Easy?" Just what does he think this is? He's even more of a
jerk than she imagined.
He must realize his faux pas, for he looks at his feet and says, "Sorry. Come on. Let's get this over
with." The big man calls out to the perps in the car, "Here she is." He speaks quickly; he is very anxious
to put this all behind him. "You boys remember our deal, now."
The one who must be the leader opens the front door and steps out. He holds a pistol, aims it
toward Zita. He's short and his hair is black and nicely cut. He reminds her of a philosophy student:
jeans, a plaid flannel shirt, clean shoes. His partner is skinny, with sunken eyes like a twenty-four-hour
bruise. The partner is dressed more slovenly -- maybe he's majoring in political science -- in a dirty
T-shirt and torn pants.
She notices that the big man has silently dropped back behind her. Good, she thinks. Better he
stay out of her way.
"Give him his stuff," she tells the thugs. "You can have the money and you can have me. He just
wants what belongs to him."
A parking-lot attendant, wearing earphones, approaches.
Because she doesn't recognize him, she guesses that he's new here. Zita reaches into her pocket to
flash her license.
 He stops, rubs his neck as if trying to remember what he has been told about such things at the