Corsican Death by Marc Olden Page A

court too prepared and walking out with smiles on their fat faces. I think Lonzu was here to talk with somebody big, and we have got to put that somebody out of business in a hurry.”
    Leaning over Craven’s desk, Bolt pounded it, his face red with anger, knowing that he had to come on strong and quick before Craven had time to think about whether or not this was the “correct” thing to do. Fuck the “correct” thing. Bolt wanted Alain in a hurry, before big brother had a chance to stash him away, before Remy Patek got to him and started slicing off his cubes with a dull knife for killing his brother.
    Craven’s smile was cold, and even before he spoke, Bolt knew the bastard was going to give him only part of what he wanted. “All right, Bolt. You seem determined to take a vacation, so here’s how you’ll go about it: you’ve got five days, no more. Five days is how long it’ll take the La Rochelle to reach France. You’ll fly over immediately and get started. I assume you plan to use your French police friends, am I correct?” He stopped talking, pressing his palms together as though in prayer, placing his folded hands under his chin. Ready to pounce, thought Bolt.
    “Yeah. I’ll work with Lamazère and Dinard. But five days! The boat won’t—”
    “That’s all the time you’ll have. Find out where you think he’ll be!” Craven’s voice was sharp, snapping through the room like steel breaking in half. Now he was playing boss, moving confidently over ground he knew well. Instinctively Craven knew when to back off and when to move in. Now he was moving in, taking charge, and letting Bolt know it.
    “Five days. Find out the hole you think he’ll be crawling into. After five days, you break cover, introduce yourself to the proper authorities, and work through channels.” He paused, letting seconds of silence hang in the air, then added, “You break cover in five days. Out in the open, understand?” Craven was sure of himself, his voice reeked of it.
    There’s a line you don’t cross, thought Bolt, no matter had bad you like to have your way. When you work for somebody else, sooner or later they give you a knee in the balls just to remind you who’s the chief and who’s the Indian. O.K., O.K., you black-suited, black-hearted bastard. Five days.
    He smiled. “Five days.” He didn’t mean the smile, and he and Craven both knew it.
    “Fine. We understand each other. What’s your cover, anything you’ve used before?”
    “Yeah. Buyer for a black mob. Not many blacks speak French, do they, Weaver?” Bolt looked at the big, paunchy black agent, who gave him a smile so small it was almost invisible, shrugging his shoulders as if to say, “Who the fuck knows or cares?”
    “That’s how I’m working it. Buyer for a black mob, advance man, because I speak French and my employers don’t. I’m in France looking for stuff in a hurry. I know about Alain Lonzu through my black contacts here, and the blacks speak highly of him, so that’s why I’m in France, to meet him or some of his people and make a buy.”
    Craven, eyes on the desk, hands still folded and under his chin, nodded in approval. “How are you getting in?”
    “Lamazère and Dinard. They can get me started. There are people, cafés, places where the Corsicans meet. They’re big on cafés and nightclubs, and Lamazère and Dinard know who the couriers, drivers, front men, girlfriends are. I figure to move in quick, grab Alain or find out his hiding place, and be gone before they know I’m there.”
    “You’ll need money. If you carry big money over there, you don’t get asked many questions.”
    Bolt nodded. Good point. “Fifty.” Meaning fifty thousand dollars. “I don’t want to carry it with me, in case customs gives me a good toss and spreads the word. Have the American embassy deposit it in a French bank for me. I’ll withdraw it when I get there. Be best if somebody just walks into the bank unofficial like, with some