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- Ричард Морган
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There
was
a
slight
cough
from
the
entrance
to
the
bar
.
I
looked
up
and
saw
a
suited
,
crimson
-
haired
figure
on
the
stairs
.
"
Am
I
interrupting
something
?
"
The
mohican
enquired
.
The
voice
was
slow
and
relaxed
.
Not
one
of
the
heavies
from
Fell
Street
.
I
picked
up
my
drink
from
the
bar
.
"
Not
at
all
,
officer
.
Come
on
down
and
join
the
party
.
What
’
ll
you
have
?
"
"
Overproof
rum
,
"
said
the
cop
,
drifting
over
to
us
.
"
If
they
’
ve
got
it
.
Small
glass
.
"
I
raised
a
finger
at
the
clock
face
.
The
bartender
produced
a
square
-
cut
glass
from
somewhere
and
filled
it
with
a
deep
red
liquid
.
The
mohican
ambled
past
Curtis
,
sparing
him
a
curious
glance
on
the
way
,
and
apprehended
the
drink
with
a
long
arm
.
"
Appreciated
.
"
He
sipped
at
the
drink
and
inclined
his
head
.
"
Not
bad
.
I
’
d
like
a
word
with
you
,
Kovacs
.
In
private
.
"
We
both
glanced
at
Curtis
.
The
chauffeur
glared
back
at
me
with
hate
-
filled
eyes
,
but
the
new
arrival
had
defused
the
confrontation
.
The
cop
jerked
his
head
in
the
direction
of
the
exit
.
Curtis
went
,
still
clutching
his
wounded
face
.
The
cop
watched
him
out
of
sight
before
he
turned
back
to
me
.
"
You
do
that
?
"
he
asked
casually
.
I
nodded
.
"
Provoked
.
Things
got
a
bit
out
of
hand
.
He
thought
he
was
protecting
someone
.
"
"
Well
,
I
’
m
glad
he
ain
’
t
protecting
me
.
"
