Corsican Death by Marc Olden

better, won’t you? Yeah, that’s it. Back on your crack, my man. Go beddy-bye while me and the big man here talk us a deal. Now, you, Mr. Staggers, suppose you tell me about how you can get me what I asked for. Who do you do business with, or rather, who does Alain Lonzu do business with? I’d like to hear about his friends and associates, and by the way, you remember this one little thing. Get cute one more time, just one, and I am going to end all of your earthly cares and woes forever. A promise, my man. You bet on it. Now, let’s talk, and talk nice. I’m in a listening mood.”
    Bolt relaxed, sighing and leaning back in the chair. Carlos hadn’t moved, and Bolt knew he wouldn’t be moving for a while. Barkley was lying there, hands over his eyes like he was coming out of a bad dream; and Staggers—he was belly-down, looking up at Bolt with a new respect.
    Staggers would talk differently now, because he had to save his ass. He would come up with names, places, and the kind of stuff he would never have come up with if he still felt he was a big man and on top of things. Now he had to stay alive, and that’s the way Bolt wanted him to feel. Under the gun.
    “I work for people besides Lonzu. I mean, if you want some good stuff, you gotta go where the action is, right?” Staggers was in pain, and scared, and he knew he had to talk some talk with this dude or he was in trouble. “I drive for other people.”
    “Like Remy Patek?”
    “Yeah, yeah. Alain tell you that?”
    “I ask, you answer. Can I get shit from Remy?”
    “Yeah, yeah, sure. I can put you in touch with him.”
    “I’m listening.”
    “What else did he say?” Remy looked up from his fried fish and clams, his knife and fork held delicately in his small hands. Putting the fork down, he reached for the glass of chilled white wine and took a small sip.
    Staggers looked around at the men sitting near Remy, and swallowing hard, he ran a finger nervously along the side of his nose, “He didn’t say who he was buying for, except that the guy’s a black.”
    Remy put the glass of wine down, staring at it. He could speak French to Staggers, but he had to speak slowly, because the American’s French was poor. Also, Remy didn’t like the American’s hair. Long hair in a ponytail, tied with a black ribbon. Fucking stupid Americans.
    “Blacks are the future, my friend. They’re taking over American cities, which means they will soon be our best customers. Do you think he knows much about Alain?” Alain. And Claude. Remy inhaled, exhaling slowly. Claude. It was even too dangerous for Remy to go to America for Claude’s body.
    “Mmm, no. Well, at least he didn’t say. All he said was that he wanted some stuff, a lot of it. Said he had talked with Alain in Washington. Guess blacks stick together or something, so when one guy’s got a good source of supply, he tells everybody else, huh?”
    Remy looked at him, holding his gaze. Staggers looked away. “A foolish statement. Blacks in dope do not stick together. They cheat and kill each other as whites do, and for the same reason—money. Money, my friend. Is that how you got that limp, trying to take this Joe Belli’s money?”
    Staggers leaned back sharply in his chair, as though Remy had discovered one of his very private secrets. How the hell did this little frog bastard find out about that?
    “Never mind,” said Remy. “It is of no importance. This Joe Belli. I would like to talk to him. I would like to know how much he learned from Alain. I want to know if Belli knows anything about my brother’s death and about …”
    Remy was going to mention the four million dollars but decided not to. It wasn’t Staggers’ business. “Set up a meeting with Belli here. “Here” was the Blue Cat, a Paris nightclub owned by Remy.
    “O.K., O.K., but he says he’s a busy man. He says he’ll be running around, checking out things for his man. He—”
    Remy’s arm swept across the table, clearing