Ded Reckoning by William F Lee Page A

always out-ranked me; you were always in a bunker,  and I was always the one laying in the paddy with the leeches and AK47 rounds buzzing around me like pissed-off bees."
    "Well, hell, Hawk.  I was always the better thinker.  You were always better at killing.  It is what it is."  Joe pauses.  "So, get to know Columbo, but be careful.  She's a black widow.  We'll talk more about it when you get here.  Just get squared away.  Don't talk to anyone out there in San Diego, including Bradovich. And be here Thursday.  And plan to move on to the continent.  Preferably into London, then on to Geneva for cash, then on to Rome.  From there to Pisa, and wherever the currents and winds take you."
    "Joe, c'mom, this is not good.  The woman does have a family.  Even spiders ..."
    "Hawk.  Stop.  I know what we're doing."
    "There's that 'we' again.  Joe."
    "Right.  We.  Now listen, please.  She knows what she's doing.  Has for a long time."  He pauses.  "See you on Thursday.  Call me, or have her call me with your schedule.  I mean, after all, she's your secretary.  Make like she is one.  And stay away from the help."   Joe laughs, then adds nothing for several seconds.  Nor does Hunter.  Then, "Hunter.  Don't you do her." Click.
    Hunter stares at the phone, holding it in front of him, then deliberately cradles it. Gets up, flips up the seat and table, eases out and locks the closet, returning to the kitchen.  Picks up his mug of coffee and takes a sip as he strolls back toward the patio.  He gags.   This is bad.  It's not just sludge, it's ... it's asphalt.  
    He slides open the patio door, drifts out and onto a lounge chair next to the Jacuzzi.  He looks out over the same-as-everyplace wood fence and into the fading light.  Evening twilight has arrived quickly.  The day has swept past, as has the last eleven years, like the old Santé Fe Express.  He takes in a deep breath.  Takes another sip of the "Black Death."  Mumbles, "Whoa!"  Then checks his "Hush Puppy" in his rear waist band.  Looks at the mug and tosses the sludge onto the grass at the edge of the pool.
    "Hell, I don't need paving.  I need a drink."
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    Pisces slinks into his study like a leopard on the prowl.  Even his loafers seem to be scratching the tile like angry claws. Rocco pads behind like a trained bear.  Robert Camack, aka Roberto Camack Catalano, slides in behind his huge antique mahogany desk as if settling on a tree limb to lay in wait.  Only a few items are on top of the desk.  An envelope.  A phone.  A calendar, page turned to today's date.  He puts the envelope in top center drawer.    Nothing to detract from the beautiful rust colored inset leather desk top.  The bear and leopard exchange a glance before the big cat takes in the paneled walls, also in mahogany, shelves on one wall crammed with books never read.  Original oils carefully hung on the other walls, as they are throughout the villa.  His works of art.  Pisces prides himself in his painting.
    Bruno, comfortable, casual in deportment comes through the door of the great study and  eases toward the desk front.  Looks at Rocco and says in Italian, "Good day, yes?  Great weather. Better, a great trip for the boss," then looking away from Rocco to Pisces. "Right, Bossa?"
    Pisces looks at Bruno, smiles and says warmly in English, "How long have you been working for me?  How long have we been friends?"
    Bruno, internally warmed, grins broadly, says in English, "Forever, Bossa.  Forever.  I'm so," then lapses into Italian, "grateful for the chance to work for you.  To be with you."  Twists his head first one way, then the other searching, for Rocco who has moved.  He's behind him but off to one side.  Bruno grins and nods at Rocco, seeking agreement, approval or perhaps subconscious