Читать книгу Frankenstein Special Edition: Prodigal Son and City of Night - Dean Koontz - Страница 31

ILLEGALLY PARKED IN Jackson Square, the hood of the plainwrap sedan served as their dinner table.

Carson and Michael ate corn-battered shrimp, shrimp étouffée with rice, and corn maque choux from take-out containers.

Strolling along the sidewalk were young couples hand-in-hand. Musicians in black suits and porkpie hats hurried past, carrying instrument cases, shouldering between slower-moving older Cajun men in chambray shirts and Justin Wilson hats. Groups of young women showed more skin than common sense, and drag queens enjoyed the goggling of tourists.

Somewhere good jazz was playing. Through the night air wove a tapestry of talk and laughter.

Carson said, “What pisses me off about guys like Harker and Frye—”

“This’ll be an epic list,” Michael said.

“—is how I let them irritate me.”

“They’re cheesed off because no one makes detective as young as we did.”

“That was three years ago for me. They better adjust soon.”

“They’ll retire, get shot. One way or another, we’ll eventually have our chance to be the old cranks.”

After savoring a forkful of corn maque choux, Carson said, “It’s all about my father.”

“Harker and Frye don’t care about what your father did or didn’t do,” Michael assured her.

“You’re wrong. Everyone expects that sooner or later it’ll turn out I carry the dirty-cop gene, just like they think he did.”

Michael shook his head, “I don’t for a minute think you carry the dirty-cop gene.”

“I don’t give a shit what you think, Michael, I know what you think. It’s what everyone else thinks that makes this job so much harder for me than it ought to be.”

“Yeah, well,” he said, pretending offense, “I don’t give a shit that you don’t give a shit what I think.”

Chagrined, Carson laughed softly. “I’m sorry, man. You’re one of a handful of people I do care what they think of me.”

“You wounded me,” he said. “But I’ll heal.”

“I’ve worked hard to get where I am.” She sighed. “Except where I am is eating another meal on my feet, in the street.”

“The food’s great,” he said, “and I’m glittering company.”

“Considering the pay, why do we work so hard?”

“We’re genuine American heroes.”

“Yeah, right.”

Michael’s cell phone rang. Licking Creole tartar sauce off his lips, he answered the call: “Detective Maddison.” When he hung up moments later, he said, “We’re invited to the morgue. No music, no dancing. But it might be fun.”