Demon Box

Начало книги

I check in at the SM County facilities dressed in my usual leather jacket, striped pants and shoes, silver whistle hanging around my neck. They allow you to wear street business up at camp. The bulls here at County Slam hate the policy. Lt. Gerder looks up from his typewriter sees my outfit and his already stone-cold face freezes even harder.

"All right, Deboree. Give me everything."

"Everything?" Usually they let the Honor Camp prisoners check through, trust them to give up their watches, pocketknives, etc.

"Everything. We don't want you blowing your whistle at midnight."

"Make me out a complete property slip, then."

He gives me an unwavering stare through the mesh as he takes a triplicate form from a waiting stack and rolls it into the typewriter.

"One whistle," I say, pulling the chain over my head. "With a silver crucifix soldered to the side."

He doesn't type.

"One blues harp, E flat."

He continues to look at me over the keys.

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