it of dishes, glasses, wine bottles, sending them crashing to the floor. He stood up, hands on the table, leaning his small body forward toward Staggers, his eyes bright with anger. “Find him! My brother is dead, and I want to talk to this man. You find him, you understand?”
Staggers, frowning in fear, hands balled into fists and resting on his lap, flinched, leaning as far back in his chair as possible. Oh shit, oh shit. He didn’t want Remy Patek pissed off at him. No way. Remy was a sadistic prick.
Staggers spoke through a tight throat, forcing the sound out. “O.K., O.K., Mr. Patek, I’ll find him. I’ll find him. I’ll find him, you can count on it.”
“No, Mr. Staggers. You count on it.”
CHAPTER 9
A LAIN LONZU WAS HAVING a nightmare. In a tortured, troubled sleep, he relived an awesome fear, and it was real, so goddamn real. He moaned, mouth open and pink tongue flicking in quick, nervous motions as he tried to form words but couldn’t. He rolled from side to side on the small bunk bed, but in his nightmare he couldn’t move.
All he could do was lie on the hotel floor and cringe, paralyzed with fear as the man with the scar came at him, his foot raised high and ready to kick Alain in the head. Christ! Alain lay there, unable to scream or get off the floor, and the huge foot came down on him, the foot getting bigger and bigger and bigger. …
The man with the scar on his forehead laughed, throwing his head back, his laughter loud and roaring, a horrible echo that swallowed Alain. In his nightmare, his fear was so strong that it pressed down on him with huge, powerful hands, keeping him in place. He couldn’t move! Couldn’t move!
Now his body snapped from side to side faster on the bunk bed, and his face was contorted with the horror of what was to come. When the foot filled his vision, turning everything black, Alain screamed and screamed, coming awake and sitting up quickly, eyes open wide in the night, face shiny with sweat, his heart pounding.
A nightmare! A goddamn frightening nightmare! Mother Mary, blessed Virgin! Jesus, oh Jesus! He sat there, alone in the darkness, thin, pale light coming through a porthole from the moonlight. He sat up in the bed, head down on his chest, breathing deeply and loudly with exhaustion, mind ignoring the physical pain in his back, arm, and head.
There was other pain, pain worse than anything you could feel in your body. It hid in your mind and came out to attack when you were at your weakest. Alain knew that now; God did he know it. Blame that on the man with the scar, that American son-of-a-bitch. He even follows me into my sleep. I owe him this special pain. He gave it to me. The pain, the nightmare. He gave it to me, and right now there’s nothing I can do about it.
Still breathing deeply, head bowed and shaking from side to side in frustration and pain, Alain Lonzu wept silently in the darkened room, his tears thin silver streaks down his sad face.
“New York,” said John Bolt. “Got the scar in New York.” He played with the tiny puppy resting comfortably in his lap, fingers toying with the animal’s long brown ears. Edith—Roger Dinard’s chubby wife—had just asked Bolt about the scar running from the corner of his left eyebrow diagonally across his forehead and up into his hairline.
As soon as she asked about it, the fleshy woman wished she hadn’t. She had noticed the scar before, months ago, when her husband had first introduced her to the American narcotics agent, and it had intrigued her. But now, God, why couldn’t she have kept her mouth shut? John Bolt was an agent working in narcotics, and that meant he had gotten the scar when someone had tried to kill him.
She wasn’t sure about that, but she was pretty sure, because when you’re a policeman’s wife, you sense things. You know, you just know. And because she was a policeman’s wife, she didn’t want to hear about a policeman—any policeman—getting shot.
It reminded
Staggers, frowning in fear, hands balled into fists and resting on his lap, flinched, leaning as far back in his chair as possible. Oh shit, oh shit. He didn’t want Remy Patek pissed off at him. No way. Remy was a sadistic prick.
Staggers spoke through a tight throat, forcing the sound out. “O.K., O.K., Mr. Patek, I’ll find him. I’ll find him. I’ll find him, you can count on it.”
“No, Mr. Staggers. You count on it.”
CHAPTER 9
A LAIN LONZU WAS HAVING a nightmare. In a tortured, troubled sleep, he relived an awesome fear, and it was real, so goddamn real. He moaned, mouth open and pink tongue flicking in quick, nervous motions as he tried to form words but couldn’t. He rolled from side to side on the small bunk bed, but in his nightmare he couldn’t move.
All he could do was lie on the hotel floor and cringe, paralyzed with fear as the man with the scar came at him, his foot raised high and ready to kick Alain in the head. Christ! Alain lay there, unable to scream or get off the floor, and the huge foot came down on him, the foot getting bigger and bigger and bigger. …
The man with the scar on his forehead laughed, throwing his head back, his laughter loud and roaring, a horrible echo that swallowed Alain. In his nightmare, his fear was so strong that it pressed down on him with huge, powerful hands, keeping him in place. He couldn’t move! Couldn’t move!
Now his body snapped from side to side faster on the bunk bed, and his face was contorted with the horror of what was to come. When the foot filled his vision, turning everything black, Alain screamed and screamed, coming awake and sitting up quickly, eyes open wide in the night, face shiny with sweat, his heart pounding.
A nightmare! A goddamn frightening nightmare! Mother Mary, blessed Virgin! Jesus, oh Jesus! He sat there, alone in the darkness, thin, pale light coming through a porthole from the moonlight. He sat up in the bed, head down on his chest, breathing deeply and loudly with exhaustion, mind ignoring the physical pain in his back, arm, and head.
There was other pain, pain worse than anything you could feel in your body. It hid in your mind and came out to attack when you were at your weakest. Alain knew that now; God did he know it. Blame that on the man with the scar, that American son-of-a-bitch. He even follows me into my sleep. I owe him this special pain. He gave it to me. The pain, the nightmare. He gave it to me, and right now there’s nothing I can do about it.
Still breathing deeply, head bowed and shaking from side to side in frustration and pain, Alain Lonzu wept silently in the darkened room, his tears thin silver streaks down his sad face.
“New York,” said John Bolt. “Got the scar in New York.” He played with the tiny puppy resting comfortably in his lap, fingers toying with the animal’s long brown ears. Edith—Roger Dinard’s chubby wife—had just asked Bolt about the scar running from the corner of his left eyebrow diagonally across his forehead and up into his hairline.
As soon as she asked about it, the fleshy woman wished she hadn’t. She had noticed the scar before, months ago, when her husband had first introduced her to the American narcotics agent, and it had intrigued her. But now, God, why couldn’t she have kept her mouth shut? John Bolt was an agent working in narcotics, and that meant he had gotten the scar when someone had tried to kill him.
She wasn’t sure about that, but she was pretty sure, because when you’re a policeman’s wife, you sense things. You know, you just know. And because she was a policeman’s wife, she didn’t want to hear about a policeman—any policeman—getting shot.
It reminded
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