Corsican Death (2 page)

Code name: “Mr. In.” The man inside. He was worth his weight in gold, passing on information about upcoming trials of Corsicans captured in America or extradited to there. Prosecution strategy, the whereabouts of witnesses and informants. Mr. In could deliver, and did, for a lot of money.

Now he wanted more money, much more. He was a greedy man, a frightened man who felt the risks he was taking should be rewarded.

“I want more,” he had said. “Fifty thousand dollars to pay off debts, and from now on, any information from me to you is going to cost you one hundred thousand. Going near those files could send me to prison, and I want to be paid for that risk. Paid plenty.”

That
message had been passed on to Count Lonzu by an employee of the French consulate in Washington, D.C., an employee who was paid to make occasional reports to Count Lonzu.

“Go to Washington,” said the Count. “Speak to Mr. In. Find out if we should continue paying him. Be gentle; none of your rough ways. He’s valuable, extremely valuable. I simply want to make sure that the money he’s requested is going to him and not to someone between him and us. Make sure, Alain.”

Make sure. So Alain had Dumas make his payment in Washington, not New York, because it was the chance to conclude all business in a hurry and in one place. Collect the money and talk with Mr. In.

The talk with Mr. In had gone well. The money would be going to him, via the French consulate contact, and all Mr. In asked was that he continue having only one contact, just one. The French consulate employee. Cuts down risks, he’d said.

That was fine with Alain. No problem there.

The problem came after that.

Remy Patek, one of several top Corsican drug dealers taking orders from Count Lonzu for the moment, had wanted to make sure, too. That’s why he’d sent his thirty-year-old brother, Claude, to America with Alain. To make sure.

Two years ago the Turkish government, bowing to American pressure, ordered its farmers to stop growing opium poppies. Less opium meant less heroin. That meant that the available heroin was worth its weight in diamonds.

Shrewdly, Count Lonzu exploited this, charging higher prices for what he had in stock, paving the way for other Corsicans in France to follow him into increased wealth. His rivals, those who hated or admired him, admitted the Count was smart when it came to selling heroin to the Americans.

Remy Patek was a rival, but like others, he’d bowed to the Count’s pressure to hold back on sales so the price of heroin would go up, way up. Like all famines, a heroin famine was a time of plenty for those with a supply of much-needed merchandise.

Hold back. Stockpile and let the price climb.

Suddenly that had changed. Now Turkey was allowing its farmers to grow opium again, and to hell with the United States. To hell with Uncle Sam.

Soon there would be more heroin on the Marcet. A hell of a lot more. So where did this leave the stockpile of heroin collected by Corsicans and held back at the Count’s direction? Nowhere. Unless, unless …

Sell now. Sell quickly, while the Marcet’s still strong. Sell to the blacks, who have a lot of money and will pay anything to get a supply. Anything at all.

Sell quickly.

That’s why Alain’s trip to America was important. Close the deal with Chester Dumas for the two hundred kilos. And talk with Mr. In.

It should have been easy. But it wasn’t.

It had gone wrong. Federal narcotic agents, acting on a tip, had burst through the door of the Corsicans’ hotel room, capturing them, and Alain would always remember that night. One of the agents—a fierce-looking man with a scar on his forehead—had kicked Alain in the head. He’d never forget that American bastard as long as he lived.

And Claude. Stupid Claude. Jumping from a hotel window on the second floor. Breaking both legs, some ribs, and hurting his spine. Stupid.

Not all of the Corsicans’ luck had been bad. The four million dollars wasn’t in the hotel room. It had been hidden in the French consulate for safekeeping. No narcotics in the room, either. Delivery of the two hundred kilos was days away.

False passports and papers, nothing with correct names. A lucky break. And while agents had accused them of being Alain Lonzu and Claude Patek, brothers of Corsican dope dealers in France, each man had said nothing except “Put us in touch with the French consulate and an attorney.”

Let the agents try to prove who they were.

That had been three days ago. Meanwhile, both Corsicans were in the hospital, no guards in front of their doors, because, as French consulate officials and lawyers had pointed out, neither man had committed a crime in America or had been officially identified as a criminal.

But federal agents were busy as hell trying to learn who the Corsicans really were. That much Mr. In had passed on for free. And that’s why the escape had been planned.

Get out of America. Leave the money where it was, hidden safely away in the French consulate. No one would touch it. No one in his right mind. Because Corsican vengeance never stopped until it was satisfied. No, the money was safe.

Don’t risk running into federal narcotics agents by trying to collect it. Leave it there. Come back for it later.

The two hundred kilos of heroin was a combined load from Count Lonzu, Remy Patek, and four other Corsican dealers. Largest shares belonged to the Count and Remy, and while Remy bowed to the Count out of respect and more fear than he would admit, Remy was still dangerous.

That’s why the Count had allowed Remy to send his brother with Alain. Remy, who trusted no one but his own, wanted to make sure that he was getting an accurate count on the money. As long as the Count continued to deliver, to make rich deals with the Americans, then he ruled the Corsicans.

But Remy Patek watched and waited for his chance, the chance to be France’s number-one dope dealer.

The Count watched Remy, too.

It was a shaky peace, one that would explode if something went wrong with this American deal. That’s why Alain had killed Claude. But he was sure the Count would understand and handle things with Remy.

Sure, Claude was a Corsican, and Corsicans never betray their own, never talk to cops, and keep to themselves. Always.

But pain was something else, and the leap from the hotel room had given Claude Patek more pain than he had ever felt in his life. Jumping out of a window had brought Claude to the point where pain made him cry out in the night, each night he was in the hospital.

Now Alain Lonzu sat on the edge of the bed staring at Claude’s dead body. You screamed in pain, Claude, and you said things. You mentioned
his
name, Mr. In’s and you mentioned the four million dollars. You talked too much, Claude, and no one heard you but me.

Your casts made it impossible for me to take you with me. You would slow me up, and I had no wish to spend the rest of my life in an American prison because you were stupid enough to leap out of a hotel window. I couldn’t take you with me, and I couldn’t leave you behind.

If you had talked to agents, this deal would be no good. I lose the money and lose our friend in the Justice Department, and my brother, the Count, who loves me, would not love me anymore. I would have cost him more than he could afford.

I must not fail my brother, for if I do, if I fail to sell the two hundred kilos to the black, if I lose the money, I think my brother would kill me. Reluctantly, perhaps, but he just might have to do that in order to keep his empire.

He loves me, my brother loves me, but he is a Corsican and a businessman with responsibilities.

No, Claude. I could not leave you behind. Your agony and pain would have meant my death. My brother will explain to your brother. Perhaps Remy will understand, perhaps he won’t. But that is not my worry now.

I had to do it, Claude, don’t you understand?
I had to.

Alain Lonzu stood up, nervously locking his lips, half-expecting Claude Patek to turn over, sit up in bed, and begin answering him. But the dead man lay still.

Sorry, my friend. I am sorry.

But Alain was not sorry.

Snapping his head from the dead man, Alain rose to the door, yanked the chair from under the knob, and sent it clattering to the floor behind him. As he stepped cautiously into the hall, sniffing the hospital smells of medicine, bad food, and vomit, he tensed, animal-quick eyes darting from nearby nurses and a lean black man cleaning the floor, to the door Marced “Exit.”

Pressing his lips tightly together, feeling his heart pound, he rubbed his hands against his thighs and walked quickly toward the door. He didn’t know where the garage was.

But he’d find it. He had to. And quickly.

J
OHN BOLT SPOKE IN
a whisper, lips hardly moving. “Yeah, that’s him, that’s the bastard. Lonzu the lover. Bandage on his forehead, see it? Never thanked me for giving him that, the prick.”

In the cool semidarkness of the hospital garage, a corner of Bolt’s mouth moved upward in a small, cold smile.

Shit, was it three days ago that he had kicked Alain Lonzu in the head? Damn if it wasn’t.

That night Bolt and three other federal narcotics agents had busted through a hotel door, and everything had happened at once. Claude Patek had either blown his cool or thought he was a fucking bird, because before you can say “boo,” that sucker’s gone crashing through a window and broken his ass two stories below.

And Alain Lonzu, the big man’s little brother, the cocksman of all France, dope pusher and lover, what the hell does he do? He goes for a gun in his belt, and Bolt, who wants Lonzu alive, grabs a chair and throws it in his face.

Lonzu falls backward, gun flying from his hand. But damn, that Corsican son-of-a-bitch is a bad-ass, and he starts crawling, and scrambling for the piece, cursing and yelling his fucking head off in French about shooting somebody’s balls off. He reaches the gun, and Bolt remembers the wild look on Lonzu’s face, and what the hell, you want the dude alive, but you don’t want to get blown away bringing him in.

So you kick him in the head. Hard. And you don’t worry about it. You just kick his fucking brains through his ears. Yeah, Bolt remembered that night.

But now it was morning three days later. And the hunt was still on. John Bolt, with two other agents, was hiding in the shadows and darkness of the hospital garage, the three of them spending precious seconds watching Alain Lonzu, forty yards away, talk to three men standing around a dark blue 1973 Ford.

O.K., thought Bolt, no more standing around with our noses pressed against the candy-store window. We move in and grab little brother, before he disappears for good. His friends, too, because anybody hanging around that Corsican bastard ain’t no altarboy.

Bolt’s harsh whisper came from the side of his mouth. His heart jumped, picking up a faster rhythm and holding on to it. Fear? Nerves? A little of both. Believe it, baby.

“Spread out. Vanders, you left. Weaver right, and me straight up the middle. Get ’em in between us. And dig it: we want Lonzu alive and well. Little brother’s got a lot to tell us if we lean on him hard enough. Especially that story we keep running into on the street about a Mr. X the Corsicans are supposed to have in the Justice Department. Some funny things have happened with cases we had locked in, so maybe there’s some truth to this particular tale. Anyway, hot lips Lonzu over there can fill us in. Just like he can tell us about those two hundred keys supposedly heading for New York. But first we get our hands on little brother. On my signal. Nobody do shit till then. O.K., move it. And stay loose.”

Weaver and Vanders nodded once. They were pros and understood. Move in. Stay quiet, keep low, and wait for big John to spring the good news on Lonzu.

In seconds all three agents had slipped deeper into shadows and darkness, crouching and moving low, guns out and held tightly until it seemed the knuckles would burst through the skin. You needed the gun. Because Alain Lonzu was important in the dope world.

And important men in the dope world were
hard
arrests, goddamn hard. They didn’t want to go to a federal prison for life, and to avoid that, some of them would even pull out their mother’s heart and stomp on it. So you kept the gun where it could do you the most good—on the end of your trigger finger.

And you kept your ass low to the ground. That’s how you stayed alive.

John Bolt crawled between parked cars, hearing a car door slam somewhere behind him as someone prepared to go upstairs and begin a normal day working at a normal job. Bolt’s nose twitched and his face muscles tightened as he inhaled gasoline, oil, and the stale odor of a place too long in damp darkness.

He flexed the fingers of his right hand, then tightened them once more around the butt of his Colt .45 APC Commander. My life preserver. Maybe Alain Lonzu will let us grab him a second time. Maybe.

But chances are he won’t. Not this Corsican. Jesus, those people are tough. They stick together against all strangers, and they’re as vicious as a rattlesnake with an inch of tail chopped off. Suspicious, too. But smart. Goddamnit are they smart.

And don’t ever get on their shit list. Those bastards will follow you into hell to have their revenge. They’ll dig up your dead body and piss on it if you die before they can even the score. If it takes forever and a day, they’ll get even.

That’s why the Corsicans had the heroin trade by the balls, exporting more than any mob in the world. In the fucking world. This bunch of hard-nose greedy Frenchmen was bringing America to its knees.

Ain’t that a bitch?

The Corsicans deal dope, and what does it get them? Yachts, blond girlfriends with big tits, and they do all their fucking in sixty-room villas on the Riviera. The dope comes to America, and what do we get? Junkies hiding in hallways, their switchblades hidden inside folded newspapers; store windows wrapped in iron gates; and higher taxes to pay more cops to try to stop all this shit.

That’s why Bolt wanted to get his bands on Alain Lonzu. Now. Not tomorrow, not eventually, but now.

The narc stopped, crouching beside a brown-and-yellow station wagon, leaning against its cool metal fender. In front of him Alain Lonzu was arguing now, voice higher and louder with anger and tension, waving his hands and talking fast. Bolt frowned. What the hell was going on over there?