Аннотация
Jack Ewing
Serves You Right
After six years on the job, you still sweat out the first call. It often sets the tone for the day.
What's behind Door Number One?
Re-check the name and address. Yep, this is the place: a faded bungalow, identical to a dozen others along this block off La Cienega, within earshot of the Santa Monica Freeway. An overgrown banana tree in the front yard. Paint flakes away around Venetian-blinded windows. The screen door is warped, with enough holes in the mesh to admit an army of insects.
Knock with your right hand, keep the left behind your back.
After a moment, the door opens. A tiny gray-haired lady in a faded print dress and orthopedic shoes pushes the screen at you.
"Yes?" She smiles, blinking into bright sunlight.
Keep an eye out for a weapon on her, remembering the hag a couple years back that stuck you with a hatpin. "Leora Swenson?"
"Why, yes, I am." Her smile widens, reveals too-white teeth and t...
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