Black Alley

Начало книги

The phone rang. It was a thing that had been sitting there, black and quiet like a holstered gun, unlisted, unknown to anybody, used only for local outgoing calls, and when it was triggered it had the soft, muted sound of a silenced automatic. I picked up the receiver off the cradle and in as growling a voice as I could put on, said, "Yes?"

When I heard his first word I felt a chill work its way across my shoulders. He said; "Hi, Mike." His tone was as pleasant as could be.

I took another deep, easy breath. "Hi, Pat."

He paused a moment. "Somebody shot Marcos Dooley."

Softly, I muttered, "Damn."

Pat Chambers knew what I was thinking and let me take my time. Old buddy Marcos Dooley had brought Pat and me into the intelligent end of the military before the war ended and steered us to where we were today. Only Pat could still wear the uniform, an NYPD blue. I carried a New York State P.I. ticket and a permit to keep a concealed weapon on my person. Marcos Dooley had become a wild-ass bum, and now he was dead.

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