Corsican Death
Page 16
That name hadn’t been on Girons’s small piece of paper.
Silence.
Alain’s shoulders shook as he wept. The scarred man was here. The nightmare had come true. “Harger. Clayton Harger.”
Bolt and Kramer looked at each other. Bulls eye.
“The load,” said Bolt, “the load for Dumas in New York. You know where it is?”
Alain nodded, his head down on his chest
“Where?”
“Toronto.”
Bolt nodded. “Come on, get up off the floor. You got the rest of your stinking life to sit.” In the joint, in the fucking joint. Forever, I hope.
Outside, Bolt looked up at the sky, drawing his coat collar tighter around him. He turned to Kramer. “Red tape’s going to take a few hours to clear Alain for travel, but he’s got no pull in London; we’ll get him out.” They watched three cars drive away, cars with agents, British cops, and Alain Lonzu.
“When we going back?” asked Kramer.
“First plane.”
“Why?”
“To lean on Étienne real quick before he gets the word that his world has fallen down on his head. He gets a choice: give us the four million dollars and get deported, or we’ll throw his ass in the joint for a part in Vanders’ murder.”
“Can we do that?”
“He ain’t gonna know, now, is he?”
Kramer grinned. “He ain’t. What about Toronto?”
“We’ll wire D-3 in Washington, and by the time we land, they should have their hands on a lot of shit, believe me.”
“Wish I could have been at the airport to see the look on the Corsicans’ face when they got met by the British fuzz. The Count sends his people over to protect Alain, and they get met by the welcome wagon, which just happens to be carrying shotguns.”
Bolt nodded, shivering at the night cold. “They’ll be turned loose. Nothing on them.”
“The Count’s got something on you, though. Like he knows your name and he’ll know soon enough that you were the dude who busted his brother, copped his four million dollars, and tipped the people where to grab his stash. You know them fucking Corsicans, man, they don’t ever forget.”
“Neither do I,” said Bolt, feeling very tired and very sad. “I remember, too.” His voice was almost too low to hear. “I remember twelve dogs that I had breakfast with yesterday. Twelve dogs named after some very pretty women.”
Bolt stared into the darkness, eyes wide and glazed, seeing nothing in the fog closing in on him, but seeing a tiny puppy lick the fingers of a very righteous dude.
He turned to Kramer. “If the Count wants me, I won’t be hard to find. But I’ll be goddamn hard to fight. Let’s walk.”
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
copyright © 1975 by Marc Olden
978-1-4532-6075-3
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