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- Уильям Гибсон
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'
I
got
the
music
you
wanted
.
’
Glancing
at
the
cooler
.
'
I
’
m
very
glad
to
hear
that
.
We
have
a
cash
flow
problem
.
Can
you
front
?
’
'
Oh
,
man
,
I
really
need
the
money
bad
.
.
.
’
Snake
Man
hung
up
.
'
You
shit
,
’
Case
said
to
the
humming
receiver
.
He
stared
at
the
cheap
little
pistol
.
'
Iffy
,
’
he
said
,
'
it
’
s
all
looking
very
iffy
tonight
.
’
Case
walked
into
the
Chat
an
hour
before
dawn
,
both
hands
in
the
pockets
of
his
jacket
:
one
held
the
rented
pistol
,
the
other
the
aluminum
flask
.
Ratz
was
at
a
rear
table
,
drinking
Apollonaris
water
from
a
beer
pitcher
,
his
hundred
and
twenty
kilos
of
doughy
flesh
tilted
against
the
wall
on
a
creaking
chair
.
A
Brazilian
kid
called
Kurt
was
on
the
bar
,
tending
a
thin
crowd
of
mostly
silent
drunks
.
Ratz
’
s
plastic
arm
buzzed
as
he
raised
the
pitcher
and
drank
.
His
shaven
head
was
filmed
with
sweat
.
'
You
look
bad
,
friend
artiste
,
’
he
said
,
flashing
the
wet
ruin
of
his
teeth
.
'
I
’
m
doing
just
fine
,
’
said
Case
,
and
grinned
like
a
skull
.
'
Super
fine
.
’
He
sagged
into
the
chair
opposite
Ratz
,
hands
still
in
his
pockets
.
