Corsican Death (15 page)

A bullet tore through the table, sending splinters down on Bolt and the magician. The magician had let go of his hat now, and he was crying, eyes filled with tears, his teeth digging into the colored handkerchiefs. If he ever got out of this, he was quitting.

No more show business. Save me, God, and I’ll quit, I swear it. No more cheating on my wife. I’ll quit and never touch another woman again as long as I live. I swear it, God. The magician looked up at the ceiling as though signing off, making sure God was still there and looking down.

Bolt looked down at his own hands. Blood. He looked to his left. Remy was nowhere to be seen. The blood was from Remy’s man, dead now, his warm body under Bolt’s chest. His blood now, my blood soon if I don’t get the fuck out of here.

Bolt crawled over broken glass, spilled liquor, and food, bumping into overturned chairs, tables, and frightened people down on the floor. Stay alive. Got to stay alive.

The shooting was louder now, more gunshots as Remy’s men fired back. Men yelled, and the shots kept roaring throughout the small club.

Shit, thought the tense narc. Welcome to Paris.

“A
ND NOBODY SAW A
thing, right?”

Remy Patek shook his head no, not even bothering to look up at Jean-Paul Lamazère, whom he hated. Remy, sitting alone at a bloodstained table in the Blue Cat, kept his eyes on the back of his own hand, continuing to stare down at his fingernails.

“Three men dead, six shot up pretty bad, a woman’s got two bullets in her back, and two other women are bleeding from bullet wounds, and you didn’t see a thing.” Jean-Paul’s voice was slow, bored, and knowing. It had happened before—shootings among Corsican dope dealers, and nobody sees a thing, except God, who won’t testify either.

Remy shook his head. Jean-Paul was an honest cop, and he could either go fuck himself or fuck one of his dogs. Why even bother to talk to him? Let the lawyers do the talking; that’s what they were paid for.

Jean-Paul turned to John Bolt, who stood between two uniformed French gendarmes. “And you, Monsieur Belli, I suppose you were the innocent tourist anxious to see Paris nightlife. How is
your
eyesight?” Jean-Paul spoke slowly in English, eyes moving up and down, taking in Bolt.

Let’s make it look good, thought the narc. “It’s dark in here. Light’s bad. Hard to see. Hell, I thought it was part of the floor show.” He grinned. Play with that, you big bastard.

“Part of the floor show,” repeated Jean-Paul, tapping the palm of his left hand with Bolt’s phony passport, which he held in a huge right hand as though it were a postage stamp. “Where were you sitting when the shooting started?”

“At a table.”

Jean-Paul nodded. You play a good game, Johnny.

“Where was this table?”

“Over there somewhere.”

“You saw nothing.”

“The floor, I saw the floor. I went down as fast as I could.”

“You don’t like Parisian floor shows?”

Bolt grinned. “Not when they get noisy, no.”

“I see.” Jean-Paul pocketed the passport. “This is not a nightclub for tourists, Mr. Belli. Your American consulate could have told you that. Only certain people come here, as you can see for yourself.”

“Helps if they’re bulletproof,” said Bolt, looking around the club. It had been a quickie hit. Quick and deadly. Four hoods, led by a big blond guy, a Viking type with pink-tinted glasses, had come into the club, stood on the stairs leading down to the dance floor, and started blowing away people, using handguns and shotguns to do it. Obviously someone wanted to kill Remy Patek, and they were direct about trying to get it done.

They had missed, but before they left Remy had something to remember them by. Two of the dead men were his, and so were three of the wounded. Then the blond Viking type had split in a hurry, him and his helpers, and before Bolt could even get up off the floor, in walks Jean-Paul, two more plainclothes cops, and six uniformed cops. Apparently someone had at least talked into a telephone—anonymously, tipping cops to the slaughter.

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.