"Дон Пендлтон. The Violent Streets ("Палач" #41) " - читать интересную книгу автора

"You don't think so?"
La Mancha avoided the question, changing the subject.
"How's business in homicide, Jack?"
Taken by surprise, Fawcett blinked rapidly, putting his thoughts in
working order.
"Huh? Aw, nothing special. Why?"
"I understand you've got yourself a headcase who doesn't like the
ladies."
Just like that, cool as you please. Fawcett stiffened in the driver's
seat, hoping at once that it didn't show. He felt his guts going into a slow
barrel roll.
"First I've heard of it," he answered after a moment, fighting to keep
the tightness and hostility out of his voice.
"Really?"
The goddamned guy next to him was all cool, calm, and collected,
sitting there calling Jack Fawcett a liar without really saying so. The
lieutenant began to see red and fought the feeling down. He swung the
cruiser in to curbside and stood on the brake, forcing an even tone into his
voice as he turned toward La Mancha.
"What the hell is this all about?" he demanded. "What does the
organized crime unit want with a headcase?"
"Who said I work the org crime unit?"
The damned guy was smiling at him!
Fawcett's insides completed their roll. He felt dizzy.
"Well... I just assumed..."
The federal man's smile broadened, without gaining any warmth.
"You know what they say about assumptions, Jack."
"Well, what do you want?"
"I'm with SOG," La Mancha said simply. "Sensitive Operations Group."
Fawcett was nonplussed.
"I, uh, guess I'm not familiar with that unit," he said.
"It's need-to-know, Jack. You don't."
Fawcett felt as if he had been slapped.
"So, okay," he said, forcing a casual tone he didn't feel, "why are we
having this conversation?"
"I was asking you about your problem. The headcase."
"And I'm telling you that there isn't any goddamned headcase. I don't
know where you get your information..."
"That's right," the big guy cut him off, still smiling. "You don't."
Jack Fawcett felt like a tire with the air slowly leaking out of it.
"Listen, La Mancha, somebody's been feeding you a line. There's no way
I wouldn't know about something like that."
"That's what I thought," La Mancha said, nodding.
Fawcett's hands fidgeted on the steering wheel like nervous spiders.
"Okay," he said. "So you asked, and I told you. That's it, right?"
"We'll see."
"Well, what the hell..."
"About those D.O.A.'s, you may need to rethink the syndicate
connection."
Fawcett was on firmer ground now, and he felt some of his old