The Specialists
Скачать
Начало книги
Albert Platt looked better with clothes on. He had his suits made by an East Side tailor, his shoes by a London bootmaker, and his ties by a countess. With his clothes on and his hair combed and his jowls shaved and cologne, he looked like a successful hoodlum. Naked, he looked like a gorilla.
He was naked now. He sat on the edge of a high-backed Victorian wing chair in the living room of his suite at the Desert Palms. Glossy black hairs curled on his abdomen and chest. Sweat beaded on his forehead and under his arms.
In his right hand he held a .38-caliber revolver with a two-inch barrel. The gun was heavy, and Platt eased the load by resting his elbow on the arm of the chair. The muzzle of the gun just touched the center of the girl’s forehead.
The girl was also naked, which was all she had in common with Platt. She was half his age and half his weight, a long-bodied redhead, trim of breasts and bottom and thighs. She knelt at Platt’s feet like a supplicant at the rail.