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

shirtsleeve, but it didn't seem to help.
"The name's Smalley," he almost whispered, "as in Roger. Satisfied?"
"What is he to you?" Bolan asked.
Copa looked incredulous at first, and then a canny little smile crept
its way across his pale, damp face.
"You really don't know, do you?" Benny said, shaking his head. "I'll be
goddamned and go to hell."
Bolan waited silently, ticking off the numbers in his head and staring
at one round eye along the slide of his Beretta autoloader. Copa felt the
vibrations of imminent death, and started talking again.
"Roger Smalley, man... he's only the deputy P.C. for all of St. Paul,
that's all."
"So what was this Smalley character after? Why did he send you to the
airport? No one knew I was coming in."
Now it was Copa's turn to be genuinely in the dark. "We weren't after
you, man. All I know about you is what's going down now... And that's
enough, thanks."
Bolan jammed the Brigadier's muzzle against the man's sweating nose.
"Keep talking facts, little man. Who were you after? And why?"
"The customer said something about a bad detective," replied Copa,
fast. "He said this dick had kidnapped a girl from the hospital. I guessed
we had some sort of vigilante on our hands, a guy getting away with all
kinds of shit and embarrassing the Commissioner. But it was just a contract,
don't you see? No big deal."
Looking into Benny Copa's frightened eyes, he had no doubt the little
guy was leveling with him.
He lowered the Beretta a notch, maybe half a notch.
"Okay, Benny," he said at last. "Live."
Bolan backed away from the littered desk and toward the door opposite.
He could see relief tempered with caution flood into Benny Copa's face and
form. The little mobster was desperately wanting - hell, needing - to
believe that he was off the hook, but he couldn't quite accept it so
suddenly. As the final realization hit him, he started to regain a touch of
his natural bravado.
"Jesus, fella," he said, "you really had me going there."
After a quick glance around at the bodies on the floor, he added, "You
also left me a helluva mess to clean up."
"Your problem, Benny," Bolan told him curtly. "You could have gone with
them."
Copa snorted, grinning from ear to ear.
"Right, hell, buttons are everywhere... dime a dozen."
The little hood seemed struck by a sudden inspiration.
"Hey, wait," he called. "Maybe we can make another deal."
Bolan paused in the doorway.
"You've got nothing else I want, guy," he told the little cannibal.
"Well, Jesus, hear me out, huh? I'll double what you're getting now.
Name your price. I could use a man of your... abilities."
Bolan said nothing. He was amazed at the guy's gall in trying to buy
him and his gun.
"Listen, really," the mobster prodded, "I know natural talent when I