"Destroyer 036 - Power Play.pdb" - читать интересную книгу автора (Williams Remo)

An off-camera voice drawled: "Why?"
Theodosia wheeled. Her eyes glared at the off-camera voice.
"I'll tell you why," she said. "Because I love him. Because he is going to make his mark in this world. Because what he's doing out here may be the most important thing done in this country since Kitty Hawk. That's why. That's why I'm going to make sure he lives. Does that answer your question?"
The camera slid back and showed Theodosia standing in front of a big building that looked like a pre-Civil War mansion, talking to a cluster of reporters.
"And that's the way it is here in Furlong County," an announcer's voice said. Then the tape ended and the screen went dark.
"So what?" Remo said.
"That's all there is?" Chiun asked. "A fat man in bed and a fat woman complaining about everything? What kind of story is that?"
"That was on tonight's news," Smith told Remo.
"I don't watch the news," Chiun said.
"Again, so what?" Remo asked.
"I want you to get the job as his bodyguard," Smith said.
"What the hell for?"
"Because when Pruiss moved out to that county in Indiana, he said he was going to make the entire county an experimental showcase for solar energy. He has to be kept alive to make sure that project goes ahead."
"Let the government do it," Remo said. "Why him?"
"Because you know as well as I do that the government can't do it," Smith said. "They'll take ten years passing legislation, ten years writing regulations, ten years bringing polluters to court, and at the end of it, we still won't have a solar energy program and we'll be burning blubber in lamps to try to keep warm."
Remo thought about that for a moment, then nodded.
Chiun said, "Blubber has a funny smell."
"Who tried to kill him?" Remo asked Smith.
"We don't know," Smith said. "Somebody with a knife. God knows he's got enough enemies. But we don't want him killed. Keeping him alive is your job."
Chiun waited until the door was closed behind Smith and said, "That was a stupid show."
"It wasn't a show, Chiun. It's our next job: Keeping Wesley Pruiss alive."
"Who is this Wesley Pruiss?"
"He publishes magazines," Remo said.
"Good."
"Why good?" Remo asked.
"Because now maybe my novels and stories will get published and I can finally overcome this anti-Korean prejudice against great art."
"Your novels and stories won't get published until you write them," Remo said.
"You are not going to discourage me," Chiun said. "All I have to do is put them down on paper. They are all up here." He tapped a forefinger to his temple. "Every beautiful word, every exquisite scene, every brilliant insight. All up here. All I have to do is put them onto paper and that is the easiest part. What is the name of this magazine?"
"Gross," Remo said.
"Yes," Chiun said. "What is the name of this magazine?"
"Its name is Gross," Remo said.
"Hmmmm," said Chiun. "I didn't know you had a magazine named after you."


The Reverend Higbe Muckley could not read or write, but since that had never been a barrier to getting on network television, he had manipulated television very well to become a millionaire several times over. He had always been able to count very well.
The Reverend Mr. Muckley had hit upon the simple trick of selling memberships in his Divine Right church; five dollars to be a deacon, ten dollars to be a minister, fifteen dollars for an auxiliary bishop, one hundred dollars for a full bishopric, along with a life-long free subscription to Muckley's magazine, Divine Right, an almost incomprehensible word-by-word transcription of Muckley's confused ramblings, printed six times a year, more or less, depending on how long it took the copies of the last issue to vanish. Any full-fledged official in the Divine Right church was entitled to men-of-the-cloth discounts in most stores and businesses, and buying a new car at 650 dollars less than the normal going price more than justified the one-time donation to Muckley's church.
Muckley was in his office in the basement of a massage parlor on Ventura Boulevard in West Hollywood when his secretary came into his office. She was not able to read or write very well either, but had achieved professional success in life pretty much by being able to jot down 38-22-36 on application forms. "Wesley Pruiss has been stabbed," she said. "Almost killed."
"Yes," Muckley said noncommitally.
"I thought you should know," she said. "Maybe it would be something for you to do something with."
"Yes," he said again.
His secretary realized he must be thinking of money when he did not try to grab her in his office. After she left, Muckley continued thinking. New memberships were down because he had not been featured on any network news in almost three months. And he smiled, because God always showed the way. He had delivered Wesley Pruiss into Higbe Muckley's hands. He called a "must" prayer meeting for the following day of all his West Coast disciples, or as many could borrow the bus fare to Hollywood.
At Muckley's invitation, all the networks showed up. Reporters liked to cover Higbe Muckley. He was an easy story, and in contrast with his backwoods drawl, they always managed to look smart.
Muckley led his disciples in a prayer that thanked God for goodness, right, money, biodegradable soap and instant mashed potatoes, as long as they were made without any of them godless chemicals. Then he had special thanks for God. "In his charity and mercy and wisdom, God has seen fit to strike down a purveyor of dirt and filth who is trying to carry his disgusting New York City message to the heartland of America," Muckley said. He looked around at the audience.
"Can we let this man do that?"
"No," came back two hundred voices, sounding like five thousand and looking like five hundred in the too-small meeting room Muckley had rented.
"That's right," Muckley said. "Get this down, you gentlemen of the press. Tonight I'm going to Furlong County, Indiana, and I'm going to lead a prayer vigil there for all the faithful to make sure that this Westburg Purse..." he paused as his secretary whispered in his ear, "... to make sure that this Westerly Prunes abandons his sinful life."
Later Muckley was asked what if Wesley Pruiss did not abandon his sinful life.
Muckley was thoughtful for a moment. He had learned through experience that pregnant pauses always looked good during television interviews. "Well," he said finally, "in that case we have to remember what God said."
"What did God say?"
"He said that here on earth, God's work has to be done by men."