Corsican Death

by Marc Olden

  More cops were piling into the club by the minute, their faces blank and unsmiling, as though this kind of thing was expected.

  Jean-Paul turned to Remy Patek. “You want to guess who might have done this? What about Count Lonzu?”

  “What about him?” Remy spoke without looking up at Jean-Paul.

  “One of his men, a chemist named Christian Lombard, was cut up and castrated early this afternoon. Maybe he wants to get even.”

  “Maybe.” I want to get even, thought Remy. And I will. It’s out in the open now. So let us begin killing each other, old man, and we’ll see which of us can bleed the most and still stay alive. We’ll see, old man.

  A woman cried, remembering the gun battle and the terror that had come with it. Minutes ago, just minutes ago, thought John Bolt. Blood’s still damp on my hand. Jesus! He rubbed the back of his hand against the blue suit jacket

  “Let’s go,” said Jean-Paul, walking toward the door and signaling with a wave of his hand for everyone to follow him. “Everybody outside. We go to headquarters and we talk some more down there. Everybody.”

  Jean-Paul stopped, turning to John Bolt. “You too, Mr. Belli. You are invited to our little party. If I leave you out, Johnny, there will be questions. You must come too.”

  Bolt sighed, looking around the Blue Cat and shaking his head. “Whatever you say, Mr. Policeman. But if I get a check for tonight, forget it. Ain’t gonna pay it, no sir, ain’t gonna do it.”

  Suddenly it hit Bolt how close he had come to getting killed, and his hands started to shake. Balling them into fists, and taking deep breaths, he followed Jean-Paul up the small stairs, slowing down when he got to the top, because in front of them someone was being carried out on a stretcher, a sheet covering the body.

  Bolt’s eyes went to the sheet-covered figure, and he felt the same way he always felt when he saw a dead man: I’m glad it’s not me, Jack. I’m just fucking overjoyed it ain’t me.

  “Oh God, why? Why?” Edith Dinard was angry. She stood in front of the dining-room table, a platter of fried liver and bacon in both hands. She was about to serve dinner, and suddenly Roger was tucking his gun into his belt and getting ready to leave.

  “Trouble,” said Roger. “Shooting at the Blue Cat. John Bolt was there. He’s O.K. Jean-Paul arrested him and several others.”

  “Oh, Roger, can’t you wait? Dinner—”

  The short, bald-headed man slipped both arms into his jacket and reached for his hat. “I’ll be back, chérie, as soon as I can. I must go and help. Johnny is alone here, he has no one backing him up, only me and Jean-Paul.”

  Edith placed the platter on the table, taking off the oversized padded cooking gloves. She was angry, angry at Roger, and most of all angry at John Bolt for coming into their lives and taking over. That’s all Roger talked about. John Bolt. How well Bolt dressed, how well he shot a gun, how well he fought, and how he had once saved Roger’s life. She hated hearing about Bolt. She was finally admitting something to herself, something she had kept back for a long time: she hated Bolt.

  She was jealous of the comradeship between the two men.

  “Can’t you not go this once, just this once?”

  Roger turned to her. “Chérie, I am a cop, you know that. This is my life, it is all I have. I—”

  She yelled, her face red, forehead wrinkled with rage. “You have me! You have me! Damn you, you have me!”

  She wept, hot tears sliding down her chubby face. God, she hated Roger now, him and Bolt.

  Roger, not wanting to argue, annoyed at her for making him feel guilty, swallowed hard, telling himself that Edith would never understand what being a cop meant to him. She never would, and that hurt him more than ever right now.

  But he couldn’t give in to her on this. It was his job to go, and he was going; that’s all there is to it.

  Sighing in frustration, knowing no words would help, he touched her shoulder, feeling her flinch and draw back from him. All right, have it your way, Edith.

  He turned, pulling his hat down on his bald head. “I’ll be at the St. Marie station. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  She heard him leave their small house, heard the door close behind him, and seconds later she heard the car start up. Her face was down on her forearm, which rested on the table, and as she cried, her chubby body shook, her shoulders heaved with anger and sadness.

  Bolt stood in front of the St. Marie police station, staring up at the sky, seeing bright white stars against pale blue darkness. Blue. He could learn to hate that color easily. Blue reminded him of the Blue Cat, where he’d almost gotten killed four hours ago.

  He looked at his watch. Almost midnight. Two days gone. Taking a deep breath, he walked toward the corner, hoping to find a cab or maybe a café that was open. A drink. Yeah, that would be nice.

  Over three hours in that place. Christ, didn’t they ever clean Paris police stations? Only thing good about the place were the whores, pretty gals in cells separate from the men. Bolt hadn’t been put in a cell. He had been kept by himself, and at least three men had asked him questions, guys in plainclothes who spoke English but who weren’t overly friendly.

  From time to time Jean-Paul looked in on him, then passed by the open door and gone about other business. Nothing else he could do. Bolt was a suspicious character, right? So all Jean-Paul could do was to pretend idle curiosity and let it go at that.

  Bolt hadn’t seen Remy or any of his boys since the arrest. And now Bolt was out on the street, breathing chilly air at this time of night, and there wasn’t anything he could do about talking to Jean-Paul.

  Get my ass back to my hotel and wait for the Frenchman to call. No sense calling him and having the wrong people eavesdrop. Yeah, back to the hotel and room service, some steak maybe, and wait.

  The headlights hit him dead on—harsh, painful brightness—and he stopped, crouched, his arms going up to protect his face. What the fuck?

  The car roared, motor loud in the small, dark narrow street, and the light grew bigger, harder, and more painful as the car sped toward the narc.

  Oh shit, oh shit. Bolt’s feet were nailed to the pavement in shock and surprise, but he tore them loose, turned, and started running, running as fast as he could, mouth open and brain whirling, wondering if maybe a drunk wasn’t behind the wheel and maybe if somebody wasn’t making a mistake.

  But he knew better. Instinct and years of fighting to stay alive in the deadly, vicious world of illicit narcotics told him no mistake, no mistake. The car was after him. Deliberately speeding after his ass.

  He ran. A cat scampered out of his way, and the narc kicked a wine bottle and heard it roll ahead of him on the cobblestones.

  Then, in front of him …

  Another car.

  Jesus!

  Bolt’s heart pounded, and in seconds he was blinded by the second car’s headlights. He stopped, leaping to his right, feeling the hard surface of a building wall against his back, the palms of his hands pressing flat against the wall.

  Brakes shrieked, shrill and harsh on the dark, empty side street, and car doors opened in a hurry. Footsteps rushed across the cobblestones, and Bolt, his eyes aching from the car lights, crouched and waited. Fucking balls. They’ve got balls. Police station’s just feet away, and somebody tries some shit anyway.

  What the hell is going down—a hit? Is my cover blown, do they know, goddamnit, do they know?

  Fear made his head light, and when hands reached out for him, he opened his eyes wide, seeing gray and black shapes around him. Fuck you! I’m going down swinging!

  He kicked out, feeling his foot bounce off a knee, seeing that one shape stagger off to the side. Hooking a short right punch into a man’s stomach, Bolt felt more hands claw at him, his face, his jacket, and the narc kept fighting.

  A hand was over his nose, pushing him back against the wall. Bolt bit the hand, teeth digging in deep, and the hand pulled back fast. Someone punched the narc in the gut, hard, and the air went
out of him, but he swung back, feeling his right fist smash into a jaw.

  They were in close now, pinning him against the wall, grabbing Bolt’s arms and spreading them wide. Bolt’s eyes were open wide too, and he wanted air, Jesus, he wanted air.

  A shape stepped out from the other shapes and its fist was drawn back high behind its ear, and suddenly the fist came at Bolt’s face, and he frowned, thinking, No, no, no, goddamnit! The fist smashed into his jaw, sending lightning crashing into his brain, and Bolt felt the pain for less than a second, because his head crashed into the wall behind him and he was out, unconscious, head now slumped forward and down on his chest.

  No one said anything.

  Bertrand rubbed the knuckles on his right fist, then adjusted his pink-tinted glasses and watched two men drag John Bolt across the narrow cobblestone street into one of the two cars. One of Bertrand’s men was down on the sidewalk, and two men picked him up, dragging him to the other car.

  Car doors slammed, and motors roared in the night, echoing along the dark street, and in seconds both cars had left the street, turning right, driving past the police station and toward the outskirts of Paris, toward Count Lonzu’s monastery.

  Bolt closed his eyes until the pain went away. When he opened them, Count Lonzu was still staring at him as though trying to read his mind. Gingerly rubbing the back of his head, Bolt let the Count stare. The big man himself, right here in front of me.

  The narc looked around the huge room, staring at tapestries hanging on the walls, at medieval weapons in glass cases, at statues, paintings, and antiques that had all cost a hell of a lot of money. Either crime pays or the Count’s doing goddamn well with his green stamps.

  Bolt leaned back in the high-backed chair, closing his eyes again. His head still hurt, and his stomach ached. That was some shot the Viking had given him. Bolt had gone down like a stone falling to the ground, and he didn’t open his eyes until a few minutes ago. By the looks of this place, he was at the monastery, the Count’s pride and joy.

  You live well, Count. People die so you can live well.

  “Do you speak French?” Count Lonzu’s English was flawless.

  Bolt nodded.

  The Count switched to French. “What kind of deal did you make with Remy Patek?”

  Bolt frowned. The fucker’s curious. “Didn’t have a chance to make a deal. We were talking when we got interrupted.” The narc’s eyes went to the far end of the huge room. The Viking was there, that big blond bastard who had punched Bolt into unconsciousness. Sitting on a chair, another guy with him, both with guns stuffed in their belts. Might as well tell the truth; some of it, anyway.

  “I wanted to talk to you,” said the Count, folding his hands and crossing his legs. A violent-looking man, he thought. The American looks as though killing comes easy to him.

  “Yeah, well, I got your invitation and I’m here.”

  The Count started to smile, then stopped. “Your own fault, Mr. Belli. Bertrand tells me you started to struggle, leaving him no choice.”

  Bolt’s eyes went to Bertrand. Bertrand. I’ll remember you, lover. Give me a chance to repay your hospitality.

  “Yeah, well, Bertrand has a way with words. I just couldn’t say no.”

  The Count nodded. “About your arrangement with Remy. As you may or may not know, Remy and I are now competitors, and as such, I have no wish to see him prosper. I’d like to discuss your employer back in America. Perhaps we can all come to some sort of agreement?”

  “What if I don’t like the idea?” Hard-to-get time, folks.

  “I would prefer that you not deal with Remy.” The Count sighed. Yes, a most violent man, our Mr. Belli. A most interesting scar he has on his forehead.

  Bolt read between the lines. This old bastard would kill him rather than see him do business with Remy. This old bastard had clout with cops, too, because Bolt was smart enough to know he had been set up by somebody inside, somebody who had told the Count to be outside the station when Bolt showed his face.

  “What have you got to offer, uh, what is your name?”

  “Count Lonzu.”

  “Count, huh? O.K., Count, why should I do business with you?”

  “Because your life depends on it.”

  Bolt nodded. So much for being subtle and cool. So much for old-world charm.

  “My people in the States don’t like that kind of pressure.”

  “I have a lot at stake, Mr. Belli. What happened in the Blue Cat tonight could very well have happened to you.”

  That’s when Bolt knew he had not just been lucky. With all of the footing at the Blue Cat tonight, the Count’s men had tried to keep him alive, the goose that would lay golden eggs for them. Thinking about the way Count Lonzu played with people’s lives pissed Bolt off, and for a few seconds he glared at the old man, wishing he could stick his thumbs in his eyes and press down hard for ten minutes.

  “What if I don’t want to do business with either one of you? I don’t like being pushed around.” If you’re a hood, be a hood.

  Count Lonzu nodded. Be patient with this one; he fights back. “Yes, yes, I quite understand. Then let’s put it on a business basis. I have an excellent route for getting heroin into America. Remy does not. I have better chemists than he. My sources in Munich deliver morphine base to me on a day’s notice. Remy has some contacts there, good ones I’ll admit, but mine are better. And the quality of my merchandise is excellent.”

  “How excellent?”

  “Ninety percent pure.”

  Bolt nodded. That was goddamn excellent, all right.

  “Good,” said the Count. “Oh, one more thing. I’m told you met my brother Alain in America?”

  “Yeah. So?”

  “Was he well?”

  “He was busy; we didn’t have time to talk.”

  “I take it your man in America is black, the man you are buying for.”

  Bolt nodded. He had a cold feeling in the pit of his stomach, and looking over at Bertrand didn’t help any. Bertrand was staring at him, a hungry wolf looking at a piece of red meat.

  “Well, I guess I have my brother to thank for bringing us together. I expect him here any day now, three days at the most. I would like you to be my guest until he arrives. You can stay here until then, and when Alain shows up, you and I should have completed our arrangements.”

  Jesus Christ! Bolt’s throat went completely dry, and he felt as though his head was going to fan off and roll away someplace. Wait here until Alain Lonzu showed up, pointed the finger at him, and said, “Kill this bastard because he tried to kill me.”

  Bolt was scared. His eyes went from Bertrand to the Count to a German shepherd dog lying at the Count’s feet. When Alain Lonzu showed up—and the Count seemed damn sure that was going to happen—Bolt’s ass was grass and the Count was the lawn mower. The party would be over. There was no way Bolt would come out of this thing alive when little brother got a look at him. No way.

  The Count’s voice came to him in a fog. “… wire your man, have him meet you here.”

  “Huh?”

  “I said you can wire your employer, have him come over and be my guest here. I’m sure when he sees the quality of my merchandise he’ll congratulate you on a job well done. I anticipate no trouble in convincing him that we are much better to do business with than Remy, who is rather, shall we say, emotional?”

  Wire my employer? Wire Kramer and tell him to come on over and get his ass shot off?

  Bolt frowned. If he was still sitting in this chair three days from now, he was a dead man.

  He forgot about the pain in his head and his gut. My ass and Kramer’s.

  “Give me the wire and I’ll have it sent off tonight.” Count Lonzu smiled. Heroin is heroin. There would be no trouble selling the black when he arrived. No trouble at all. The Count had only the best, and the black would learn that.

  Bolt forced himself to swallow. Smiling took a hell of a lot more effort, but he made it. “Long as you got the stu
ff, my man will buy.”

  CHAPTER 13

  EDITH DINARD HELD THE telephone with two hands, her voice trembling, tears sliding down her face. “John Bolt. American narcotics agent. He’s here in France working undercover. He hasn’t checked in with you, and I don’t think he plans to for a few days. He—”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. He’s using the name Joe Belli.”

  Silence.

  The cop at the other end of the phone frowned, then slammed his hand down on the desk. “Joe Belli? Are you sure? Are you certain, madame?”

  “Yes … yes. I’m certain. Can you pick him up, perhaps deport him or something?” She wiped her dripping nose with the back of her hand, then reached into the corner of her eyes, using her fingers to squeeze out the tears.

  The cop chewed his lip, still frowning, his mind racing. Joe Belli. “Madame, please, please give us your name. How do you know—?”

  Click.

  Edith stared at the phone, her body still shaking. Let them pick up Bolt, deport him. It might save Roger’s life. If Bolt was gone, Roger wouldn’t have to go out on nights when he should be at home. No more danger, no more chances of Roger getting killed in shootings like the one at the Blue Cat. No more chance of that.

  Bolt would be out of the country soon; that’s all there was to it. Then why did she suddenly feel cold all over, as though it were winter? Why was she more afraid now than she had been in a long, long time? Why?

  Her hand reached out to the phone as though to take back her words, and her eyes were filled with tears now, and she couldn’t see.

  Her voice was soft and filled with pain as she said, “Roger, Roger, forgive me, please forgive me. …”

  At the St. Marie police station, the tall cop, whose name was Clément, reached for the phone, then drew his hand back. No. Not here. Not here. He would have to leave headquarters and find another phone to use.