kind of phony story or other, and just dumps it there. Use the name Joe Belli, under the company name, uh, Liberty Incorporated. Nobody will know the difference.”
Craven nodded. So far he had no objections.
Bolt thought, Maybe I can get out of this meeting with almost everything I want. Almost. Jesus, only five days. That might not be enough time to get in, follow a trail, and grab Alain. Frankly, all I want to do is get little brother to talk. I don’t care if he ends up dead.
“You’ll need help from this end,” said Craven. “Want Kramer?”
Bolt smiled. “Better believe it.” Kramer, a black agent, worked out of New York and was one of Bolt’s favorite people. Kramer. Street-smart and cool, together and tough, a former schoolteacher in a southern all-black school, teaching six subjects for five thousand dollars a year until he decided he could do a lot better, and should, before he got much older.
Yeah, my man K. will do just fine. Gotta tell him he’ll be a big New York dope man and he’s getting a trip to Paris out of it. He’ll dig it.
“Maybe Masetta, too,” said Bolt. Masetta was also out of New York, a short, stocky Italian agent who laughed a lot, lived in Brooklyn with a wife and three kids, and who hated Italian food but loved women with big legs. Two good agents, two good men.
If Bolt had to put his ass on the line—that was the name of the game in undercover work—then he couldn’t think of two better men to back him up. There were more details to be worked out of course, and Bolt had to telephone Paris and speak to Lamazère and Dinard, to let them know he was coming and to keep quiet about it.
But five days! Not enough time. He knew it. Just not enough time. But it would have to do, because Craven wouldn’t budge from some things, and this seemed to be one of them.
“O.K., Bolt,” he said, standing up and taking a deep breath. “I’ve got to go and make arrangements for the money and iron out a few other details which you probably won’t think are too important. You wait here. I’ll be back.”
When Craven left the room, Bolt slumped back in his chair, collapsing with an aching tiredness. Fucking Craven. Five days. Asshole. What the hell did he think Bolt was going over there for, a goddamn vacation?
The other men in the room relaxed, taking out cigarettes, breathing normally, glad most of the show was over. That Bolt. Jesus, he made life exciting, didn’t he, folks? Sure.
Weaver was standing over Bolt’s chair, looking down, his fleshy brown face sad as a basset hound’s. “You look like you sittin’ bare-ass on broken glass.”
“Craven,” said Bolt. One word. As if it contained pages of detailed criticism.
“Ain’t that way, brother John.” Weaver’s voice was smooth, deep, and he spoke as though he were a father giving his kid his first lesson on how to fish. “He cares. The man cares. Five days sounds like he’s pushin’, that maybe he don’t want you to rock the boat and get some people mad. But what he sayin’ is that in five days Alain Lonzu hits France and some bad people are gonna be around him. His brother, Remy, cats like that. And some of their friends. You know what that means to you? Means your ass get blown away if you get unlucky. Means you get killed, man. Craven ain’t bein’ mean, he bein’ sensible.”
Shit. All of a sudden it hit Bolt. Craven wasn’t being a prick, he was just trying to cut down the odds on an undercover narcotics agent getting his head blown off, and Bolt was so hot and bothered he never noticed that. Shit.
Bolt exhaled. Yeah, it was true. After five days, things would be goddamn tougher than they were now, and that was bad enough. For a few minutes Bolt had had only one thing on his mind—winning.
He hadn’t thought of losing, of the danger, of the viciousness of the Corsicans.
Craven. He did his job, did it his way, and well.
So did Bolt, but sometimes neither one knew this about the other.
Bolt looked
Craven nodded. So far he had no objections.
Bolt thought, Maybe I can get out of this meeting with almost everything I want. Almost. Jesus, only five days. That might not be enough time to get in, follow a trail, and grab Alain. Frankly, all I want to do is get little brother to talk. I don’t care if he ends up dead.
“You’ll need help from this end,” said Craven. “Want Kramer?”
Bolt smiled. “Better believe it.” Kramer, a black agent, worked out of New York and was one of Bolt’s favorite people. Kramer. Street-smart and cool, together and tough, a former schoolteacher in a southern all-black school, teaching six subjects for five thousand dollars a year until he decided he could do a lot better, and should, before he got much older.
Yeah, my man K. will do just fine. Gotta tell him he’ll be a big New York dope man and he’s getting a trip to Paris out of it. He’ll dig it.
“Maybe Masetta, too,” said Bolt. Masetta was also out of New York, a short, stocky Italian agent who laughed a lot, lived in Brooklyn with a wife and three kids, and who hated Italian food but loved women with big legs. Two good agents, two good men.
If Bolt had to put his ass on the line—that was the name of the game in undercover work—then he couldn’t think of two better men to back him up. There were more details to be worked out of course, and Bolt had to telephone Paris and speak to Lamazère and Dinard, to let them know he was coming and to keep quiet about it.
But five days! Not enough time. He knew it. Just not enough time. But it would have to do, because Craven wouldn’t budge from some things, and this seemed to be one of them.
“O.K., Bolt,” he said, standing up and taking a deep breath. “I’ve got to go and make arrangements for the money and iron out a few other details which you probably won’t think are too important. You wait here. I’ll be back.”
When Craven left the room, Bolt slumped back in his chair, collapsing with an aching tiredness. Fucking Craven. Five days. Asshole. What the hell did he think Bolt was going over there for, a goddamn vacation?
The other men in the room relaxed, taking out cigarettes, breathing normally, glad most of the show was over. That Bolt. Jesus, he made life exciting, didn’t he, folks? Sure.
Weaver was standing over Bolt’s chair, looking down, his fleshy brown face sad as a basset hound’s. “You look like you sittin’ bare-ass on broken glass.”
“Craven,” said Bolt. One word. As if it contained pages of detailed criticism.
“Ain’t that way, brother John.” Weaver’s voice was smooth, deep, and he spoke as though he were a father giving his kid his first lesson on how to fish. “He cares. The man cares. Five days sounds like he’s pushin’, that maybe he don’t want you to rock the boat and get some people mad. But what he sayin’ is that in five days Alain Lonzu hits France and some bad people are gonna be around him. His brother, Remy, cats like that. And some of their friends. You know what that means to you? Means your ass get blown away if you get unlucky. Means you get killed, man. Craven ain’t bein’ mean, he bein’ sensible.”
Shit. All of a sudden it hit Bolt. Craven wasn’t being a prick, he was just trying to cut down the odds on an undercover narcotics agent getting his head blown off, and Bolt was so hot and bothered he never noticed that. Shit.
Bolt exhaled. Yeah, it was true. After five days, things would be goddamn tougher than they were now, and that was bad enough. For a few minutes Bolt had had only one thing on his mind—winning.
He hadn’t thought of losing, of the danger, of the viciousness of the Corsicans.
Craven. He did his job, did it his way, and well.
So did Bolt, but sometimes neither one knew this about the other.
Bolt looked
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