Corsican Death by Marc Olden

can see your hotel. He hasn’t moved since the phone calls.”
    “I was right,” said Bolt. “He’s calling friends. What do you bet they’re on the way over with no white powder but with something else, like maybe something that fires bullets.”
    “I don’t bet; you are betting. With your life. You sure you don’t want me and Jean-Paul in on this?”
    “No. Cops are going to throw them off, and you guys are known everywhere. If I come out of this thing, and I’m going to do my best to see that I do, then any cops nearby will only make things look bad.”
    “If we kill Staggers and his friends, there’ll be no problem.”
    Bolt grinned. “You’re a practical bastard, Roger. I need Staggers. How’s your wife taking these late hours you keep?”
    “She doesn’t like it. She worries, but what can I do?”
    Yeah, what can you do, you stupid bastard? You don’t have sense enough to quit. All you can do is hold on to what you think is right and pay a terrible price for it. You are dumb. But I love you for it, you and Jean-Paul.
    “Hey, uh, Roger, thanks for—”
    Dinard interrupted, his precise voice coming through the receiver fast. “For what? For letting me and Jean-Paul live like men for a brief time? For letting us be a part of something that is right in a world where nothing is right? For letting us strike at those who’ve corrupted so much of my government? Ah, John, I should thank you.” He stopped.
    He means it, thought Bolt. The bastard is so straight he squeaks, and maybe he’s a little pompous, but damn, you gotta like the little man with the bald head and thick moustache that keeps getting caught in his food.
    “O.K., Roger. But I owe you one, you and the big man. You know that.”
    “I do, John. You take care. I’ll phone if you have visitors. It’s getting cramped in this telephone booth.”
    “I’ll send you a broad.” A joke. Roger Dinard was probably the only Frenchman in Paris faithful to his wife. Somebody ought to cut off the bastard’s cock for that and bronze it.
    Roger laughed.
    “Yeah, well, hang loose, Roger.”
    “You hang loose too, my friend.”
    Bolt hung up, staring at the phone, fingers brushing the Colt .45 APC Commander furnished him by Jean-Paul. Shaking his head, he stood up and began moving quickly around the room. Time to get ready. They’ll be here soon. I know it. They’ll be here.

CHAPTER 8
    T HE THREE MEN STOOD in front of the door, each man silent, face stiff with tense alertness, his head turning from left to right to make sure no one was coming down the quiet hotel corridor. Good. All clear. Now they faced the door with nothing else to worry about except the man on the other side. One man with a lot of money. No problem.
    Staggers looked from William Barkley to Carlos Ran, then nodded his head as if to say, “Now’s the time.” Barkley, a twenty-eight-year-old deserter from the United States Army in Germany, picked his nose and wondered if the dude on the other side had any good clothes, something expensive that would fit him. If the cat had some threads that were worth anything, Barkley was going to cop them too, because he was tired of wearing this European shit.
    Fucking foreigners made their clothes too tight.
    Carlos Ran, a thirty-year-old deserter from the French Foreign Legion, fingered the 9mm M1950 pistol in his belt, the best damn handgun made in France, and wondered if he could trust Jesse Staggers, because Staggers was a liar, a braggart who was always out for himself. Staggers had told them about the money, but he hadn’t said how much. All he had said was two thousand dollars for Carlos and Barkley if they’d do the rip-off with him.
    Carlos and Barkley had worked rip-offs with Staggers before. They had also traveled with him, riding shotgun on runs from Turkey to Munich, Munich to Marseilles, when Staggers worked for the Corsicans. You had to watch Staggers; Carlos knew that. But worry about it later. Right now, let’s go through