"Jack Womack - Ambient 06 - Going, Going, Gone" - читать интересную книгу автора (Womack Jack)

efforts in the strongbox, then pulled down my humidor to keep
a date with Mary Jane. Dressed her in something tight and
kissed her down to her toes. Got a Pepsi out of the fridge and
lent Cab my ears. Though I donтАЩt teetotal IтАЩm not one for put-
ting on the boozebag. Body trips leave me too full of that old
ennui. The ideal agents as I see it are the ones that take your
head off and let you hold it awhile. I cooped inside, content, till
delirious night came creeping through the streets. Then, after a
quick rinse and shave, I snatched up my wrapper and ankled
downstairs.
Two blocks west on the slum end of Park was my crib away
from crib. Those up on their long-gone New York know the tale
of McGurk's Suicide Hall, famed Bowery hotspot of the gay
nineties, a most favoured lure for the addled and unsavoury,
whilom HQ of the fearsome Coney Boys. If you soaked
McGurk's in cheap black and Chinese red you'd get Max's. All
the ambience of an opium den full of Dada girls, though louder.
El perfecto, in the vernacular. No Packards lined the curb two
deep so I suspected the night's talent didn't attract the riffraff.
When I checked the marquee I saw that I was right, WELCOME
THE VELVET UNDERGROUND AND NICO TO MAX'S
KANSAS CITY. I'd head upstairs to revel after I perambulated
the lower depths to see who was where. Before I could go in I
noted out of the corner of one eye some character in a Rogers
Peet suit, passing out flyers at the corner. He had a small table
set up and a sign hung on the front, MAX YOUR PO IN-
STEAD, Some kind of anti-war gig I figured, and headed inside.
Smoke of all notions hit me like perfume as I stepped out of
the ozone into the pressure chamber. Once my peepers adjusted
for night vision I made out the personnel on board. In the far
distance Warhola's full moon hair beamed through the night.
Candy and Jackie had been bookending him but now they got
up and were making for the stairs. Judging from the pudding
bowls at the far end of the bar I reckoned Mancusian talent
passing through town had dropped by to judge the competition.
Closer still huddled the usual gaggle of Brooklyn tomatoes and
Bronx bagel babies, decked out in their slickest Serendipity
flash. If you didn't choke on hayseeds those farmgirl charms
could warm the coolest heart. In the middle of the action were
my two most usual suspects, and I gladhanded cheer all around.
┬╗What's happening, hepcats?┬л I asked, doffing my homburg,
and calling for the drink that hits the spot.
┬╗Walter,┬л Trish said. ┬╗Where've you been hiding?┬л
┬╗Here there everywhere,┬л I said. We pecked cheek and did
the vertical rub. Trish and I were hard on the sheets not that
long ago but when she showed too much interest in how, ex-
actly, I harvested my cabbage, I took to the fields. Knowledge is
danger, knoweth the man, and I doubted she'd have approved
of my every escapade. Even so we remained tasty pals. She was
wanton that night, a flame-haired vixen, smoky and dazzling,