Corsican Death (20 page)

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Authors: Marc Olden

Tags: #Mystery & Detective, #Fiction, #Police Procedural

BOOK: Corsican Death

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A man was inside the lion’s cage, his legs twitching, his head and part of his shoulder in the lion’s mouth! My God!

How did that happen? The cage was locked.
Locked!
How did the man get in there?
How?

Alfredo moved closer to the cage, his eyes squinting in the dim light, fascinated by the lion’s huge head as it worked on the man’s body, powerful jaws crushing the skull while the man’s legs continued to twitch. Oh, God!

Blood was everywhere, and the lion seemed so calm, easing down into a sitting position, leaning its head to the side, and chewing on the man, who had stopped yelling now.

Alfredo froze in place, continuing to stare. Too late to do anything now, too late. God, what a
horrible
way to die!
Horrible!

Shaking his head, the old man tore his gaze away and backed off, his head turning back to the lion despite himself. Got to get to a phone, got to get to a phone.

Two blocks from the zoo, Jean-Paul Lamazère dropped the copy of the key to the lion’s cage down a sewer, along with a pair of gloves. Straightening up, he took a deep breath, enjoying the crisp night air. He wondered what Remy Patek’s friends and business associates would do when they found out he wasn’t coming back from the bathroom, that he wasn’t coming back to the restaurant at all. They hadn’t seen him leave. Nor had anyone seen Jean-Paul. He had made sure of that. The men’s room was at street level, with windows opening onto an alley.

In the darkness, the huge, ugly man smiled. Remy had been enjoying a meal, and now Remy
was
a meal, perhaps even an enjoyable one.

Tomorrow Jean-Paul was going to buy a couple of puppies.

Nodding at Kramer, John Bolt knocked on the door.

Silence.

Then a woman’s voice: “Who is it?”

In French, Bolt said, “Friends from the monastery.”

Silence.

The door opened a crack, and Bolt pushed hard, sending the woman back across the room and down to the floor.

“Hey! What do you think you’re doing?” She sat on the floor, long blond hair, big tits, too much eye makeup. Alain’s type. Consistent bastard.

Lonzu, chest and right arm wrapped in bandages, lay on a couch. Bolt and Kramer, guns leveled at the Corsican, moved closer.

Alain sat up. The man with the scar. Here. Impossible! No, it couldn’t be!

Bolt grinned. “Tell me you’re glad to see me. Go on.” He spoke in English.

Alain sat up, fear and hatred in him for this scarred man. He said nothing, but his eyes said a lot.

“You want to know how we knew you were here?” said Bolt, enjoying this moment. “Yeah, I bet you want to know. You’d be surprised.”

Alain, lips tight against pain, breathed deeply, trying to control his anger. “My brother—”

“Your brother?
Your brother?
He has a dope business to run.” Bolt chuckled, looking at Kramer, who smiled at him. “Your brother
gave
you to us, you know that?”

Alain shouted, “You’re a goddamn liar! He’d never—”

“He would, oh, but he would. He’d trade you for four million dollars any day.”

Alain frowned. Trade? Four million dollars? He was confused.

“He doesn’t believe us,” said Kramer, leaning his head to the side and speaking in mock seriousness. “The man just do not believe.”

It was Bolt’s scheme, and he started it off.

“Tsk, tsk,” said Bolt “Well, let’s make a believer out of him. Does the same Étienne Abbé mean anything to you? Well, now, what if I told you that Étienne’s got the money but he can’t get it out of the country and that we know this and we made a deal with the Count? He gets to take the money out, and we get you, hot lips. How does that sound?”

Alain was scared, angry, and his head was on fire with questions, doubts, accusations. Shit! His brother would never betray him, never. But these agents knew about Étienne, knew about him
and
the money. Who could have told them? Napoleon? He could have told them.

Bolt switched to French, his eyes burning into Alain. Right between the eyes, creep. “You’re going back, and you’re going to stand trial for the murder of an agent. You’re going back, and your brother is going to get his four million dollars.”

Alain, anger giving him strength, stood up. “No he isn’t! No he isn’t!” Tears flooded his face, and he staggered toward John Bolt. “My brother, Étienne—they wouldn’t! They wouldn’t. I won’t let them, I won’t. I know, I know …”

He was incoherent now, screaming, trying to reach Bolt. He did, pain and anger and fear making him desperate. His hands, fingers curled and stiff, came at Bolt, who stiff-armed him in the chest hard, sending him back, back and down to the floor.

The narc looked at the weeping man sitting at his feet and felt no pity. Your brother tried to take my life, and you were the cause of an agent dying. You sell dope, you sell death. You can cry until your eyes turn moldy. Your ass is mine, and I’m here to collect.

Bolt’s voice was soft, calm with the knowledge he’d won. “Who’s your man in the Justice Department?”

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.

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