back in two hours.”
The former sergeant in the Greek army went to work in his children’s bedroom. It served double-duty as his temporary office and factory. He pulled a box of wires, electrical components, and other equipment from among a chest filled with new dolls, games, and toys.
Achilles Tsoukalas expected that within a year he would save enough cash to move into the middle class suburb of Champigny-sur-Marne. He planned on buying a large old house with enough space to accommodate a workshop in the basement. He would never again have to put up with superior French or German sneers as an unwelcome and needy immigrant on welfare.
No sir! No more insults.
Achilles Tsoukalas would never again have to put up with the pitying or disgusted looks that he got from relatives and friends. He had hit them for tiny loans that soured the relationships as soon as the debts went unpaid. They had lived with family and friends throughout Greece and invariably overstayed their welcome. A few hours before they were forced to live in the streets, the Tsoukalas family had moved to Germany and then to France in a futile search for employment.
During a temporary gig as a gypsy cab driver he had a chance encounter with someone who knew someone who knew someone. Achilles Tsoukalas would never again be unemployed or go begging for a job. His employer had plenty of bomb-making projects for an experienced munitions specialist.
~ ~ ~
Bruno Laprade enjoyed the early morning hours at his rustic home in the countryside northwest of Lyon. The seductive aroma of Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee filled the kitchen. He shoved the plunger down in the Melior cafetière à piston and poured out two cups of coffee. He shambled out to the terrace while balancing the two cups in his gigantic right hand and four croissants in his equally massive left hand. A small table beckoned and he took in the panoramic view of Lyon, the Rhone valley, and the faraway Alps.
The detective lived in a 100-year old home on Route du Mont Thou. A healthy pension and lots of savings from his days at the French Foreign Legion had been put to good use. Laprade savored the solitude of ten acres of forests that he had bought high on Mont Thou and its 2,000-foot summit. He loved the sense of security that he got from his home’s thick fieldstone walls. Of course his pack of deadly attack dogs guaranteed maximum safety.
“Sit,” he said.
Laprade’s three Doberman Pinschers and four German Shepherds immediately obeyed. They had been expertly trained in the Czech Republic at a former KGB academy.
“Here you go.” Laprade broke two of the croissants into smaller pieces which he tossed at his seven guards. Each dog caught the piece in mid-air. “Not bad . . . eh?”
The dogs sat in silence and in an orderly file until he ordered them to go on patrol.
Laprade drank the exquisite coffee and said, “Why can’t humans be as obedient or patient?”
At first the amorous widow Theillaud from the nearby town of Lissieu said nothing.
“The world,” said Laprade, “would be a better place if people were as loyal and obedient and patient as my dogs.”
She stared at him. His gaze fell upon the spectacular breasts that lurked under her silk blouse. Madame Theillaud responded by appraising her lover with a cool look. She said:
“Obedience and patience are taught . . . aren’t they? . . . Besides why complain? You obey no one and nothing. You are definitely not a patient man.”
Laprade laughed.
“Would you hate people less if they were as loyal and obedient as your dogs?”
“Yes. I’d probably like people a whole lot more. . . . But keep in mind that I don’t hate all people . . . just some of them.”
“I stand corrected.”
“At least I have feelings about them. I know too many psychopaths who have zero feelings about other human beings.”
“Like murderers?”
“Of course,” said Laprade. “It’s a common mental illness among criminals . . . and
The former sergeant in the Greek army went to work in his children’s bedroom. It served double-duty as his temporary office and factory. He pulled a box of wires, electrical components, and other equipment from among a chest filled with new dolls, games, and toys.
Achilles Tsoukalas expected that within a year he would save enough cash to move into the middle class suburb of Champigny-sur-Marne. He planned on buying a large old house with enough space to accommodate a workshop in the basement. He would never again have to put up with superior French or German sneers as an unwelcome and needy immigrant on welfare.
No sir! No more insults.
Achilles Tsoukalas would never again have to put up with the pitying or disgusted looks that he got from relatives and friends. He had hit them for tiny loans that soured the relationships as soon as the debts went unpaid. They had lived with family and friends throughout Greece and invariably overstayed their welcome. A few hours before they were forced to live in the streets, the Tsoukalas family had moved to Germany and then to France in a futile search for employment.
During a temporary gig as a gypsy cab driver he had a chance encounter with someone who knew someone who knew someone. Achilles Tsoukalas would never again be unemployed or go begging for a job. His employer had plenty of bomb-making projects for an experienced munitions specialist.
~ ~ ~
Bruno Laprade enjoyed the early morning hours at his rustic home in the countryside northwest of Lyon. The seductive aroma of Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee filled the kitchen. He shoved the plunger down in the Melior cafetière à piston and poured out two cups of coffee. He shambled out to the terrace while balancing the two cups in his gigantic right hand and four croissants in his equally massive left hand. A small table beckoned and he took in the panoramic view of Lyon, the Rhone valley, and the faraway Alps.
The detective lived in a 100-year old home on Route du Mont Thou. A healthy pension and lots of savings from his days at the French Foreign Legion had been put to good use. Laprade savored the solitude of ten acres of forests that he had bought high on Mont Thou and its 2,000-foot summit. He loved the sense of security that he got from his home’s thick fieldstone walls. Of course his pack of deadly attack dogs guaranteed maximum safety.
“Sit,” he said.
Laprade’s three Doberman Pinschers and four German Shepherds immediately obeyed. They had been expertly trained in the Czech Republic at a former KGB academy.
“Here you go.” Laprade broke two of the croissants into smaller pieces which he tossed at his seven guards. Each dog caught the piece in mid-air. “Not bad . . . eh?”
The dogs sat in silence and in an orderly file until he ordered them to go on patrol.
Laprade drank the exquisite coffee and said, “Why can’t humans be as obedient or patient?”
At first the amorous widow Theillaud from the nearby town of Lissieu said nothing.
“The world,” said Laprade, “would be a better place if people were as loyal and obedient and patient as my dogs.”
She stared at him. His gaze fell upon the spectacular breasts that lurked under her silk blouse. Madame Theillaud responded by appraising her lover with a cool look. She said:
“Obedience and patience are taught . . . aren’t they? . . . Besides why complain? You obey no one and nothing. You are definitely not a patient man.”
Laprade laughed.
“Would you hate people less if they were as loyal and obedient as your dogs?”
“Yes. I’d probably like people a whole lot more. . . . But keep in mind that I don’t hate all people . . . just some of them.”
“I stand corrected.”
“At least I have feelings about them. I know too many psychopaths who have zero feelings about other human beings.”
“Like murderers?”
“Of course,” said Laprade. “It’s a common mental illness among criminals . . . and
Similar Books
