Dead Skip

Начало книги

The 1969 Plymouth turned into Seventh Avenue from Fulton, away from Golden Gate Park. It was a quiet residential neighborhood in San Francisco’s Richmond District — white turning black, with a sprinkling of Chinese. The Plymouth went slowly; its brights picked out a couple of FOR SALE signs on narrow two- and three-story buildings. It was just midnight.

In midblock, the lone man behind the wheel saw a 1972 Mercury Montego hardtop parked directly across from the closed Safeway supermarket. He whistled thinly through his teeth. “Yeah, man,” he said softly, “squatting right on the address.”

He parked around the corner. From his clipboard he selected a sheet of paper with several pink report carbons stapled to the back of it, folded it into thirds, and slid it into his inside jacket pocket. From beneath the dash he unhinged a magnetic flashlight; from the glove box he took a hot wire, a ring of filed-down keys, and two oddly bent steel hooks.

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