her of what could happen to Roger.
The four of them—Bolt, Roger, Edith, and Jean-Paul—sat outside in back of Jean-Paul’s small house, enjoying the cool morning sunshine and blossoming green trees of a Paris April. Dogs were everywhere on the small patio—French poodles, cocker spaniels, a dachshund, a Saint Bernard. And puppies. Small, warm, cute, and friendly. Bolt, eyes picking out the puppies, gave them a half-smile. Enjoy it while you can, fellas. The older you get, the tougher it gets.
He let the subject of his scar drop. His green eyes went to Edith’s face, and he understood why she didn’t ask him more questions. I can dig it, baby, and you’re right. Why be reminded? You’re right about something else, too. I did get it trying to stay alive.
Two New York cops on the pad, greedy little hands grabbing every dollar they could get from dope dealers, got tired of hearing me tell them I didn’t want in. And when they heard I was going to drop their names before a federal grand jury investigating police tie-ups with dope dealers, they paid me a visit at my apartment and things got hairy.
Shooting. A gun battle in my living room, and when it was over, they were dead and I was almost dead. Two bullets in my gut, one across my forehead. But I lived to tell the tale, and it hurts only when I laugh, which ain’t too often.
Jean-Paul came out of his house, croissants piled on a plate. “ Voilà, as we French say. They’re hot. Watch your fingers, everybody.”
Setting them down on the small glass table, he stepped back, looking down at the plate. He nodded once, pleased with his own cooking. The big French policeman said nothing else, waiting for the verdict.
John Bolt, mouth full, shook his head from side to side. “Mmmmm.” Fucking incredible. Best croissants he’d ever tasted. Fresh taste, soft, still hot, and just fucking incredible. Jean-Paul was some cook.
“In America when something’s good, we say it’s bad. And Jean-Paul, these are some bad croissants.” Bolt smiled at him.
“Crazy, you Americans are crazy.” Edith was not fond of America or Americans, though she tolerated Bolt because her husband and Jean-Paul did. She was a short woman, somewhere between cute and all right in the face, outspoken, chubby, and she made her own clothes, which tended to make her feel more virtuous than anyone else around her.
Roger Dinard was something of a puritan, too, principled as hell; but in him it was believable, and it didn’t bother Bolt, at least. Maybe it was because Roger—short, fat body, moustache, and all—was putting his life on the line for what he believed. At almost any time, crooked cops, Corsicans, hoods from a dozen countries, could blow Roger away and he’d be lying naked on a marble slab in the morgue, an identification tag around his big toe.
But what the hell, Edith was all right. Why not? She wasn’t married to Bolt, was she?
“Staggers,” said Dinard. “Some of those names he gave you we didn’t have. Maybe it’s good that you came to France, Johnny, even if you stay only a short time.”
“Yeah. I like Paris, but like you say, it’s a short time. Counting today, I got four more days, and that’s it. I come out in the open after that, and France and America remain friends.”
Jean-Paul, who loved his own cooking, stuffed three-fourths of a croissant into his mouth, licked his fingers, chewed, then swallowed. Taking another from the plate, he broke off a small piece and fed it to the collie who had both front paws on Jean-Paul’s huge thighs and an expectant look on his thin tan-and-white face. “You’re going to see Cloris Carroll.”
“Yeah. Staggers says she’s the gal Alain’s been with the most lately. What the hell, he might come back to her, hide out until he can square things with his brother about the killing and the four million.”
“Not just his brother,” said Roger, reaching for another croissant. “Remy’s the one. He’s a bad one, and
The four of them—Bolt, Roger, Edith, and Jean-Paul—sat outside in back of Jean-Paul’s small house, enjoying the cool morning sunshine and blossoming green trees of a Paris April. Dogs were everywhere on the small patio—French poodles, cocker spaniels, a dachshund, a Saint Bernard. And puppies. Small, warm, cute, and friendly. Bolt, eyes picking out the puppies, gave them a half-smile. Enjoy it while you can, fellas. The older you get, the tougher it gets.
He let the subject of his scar drop. His green eyes went to Edith’s face, and he understood why she didn’t ask him more questions. I can dig it, baby, and you’re right. Why be reminded? You’re right about something else, too. I did get it trying to stay alive.
Two New York cops on the pad, greedy little hands grabbing every dollar they could get from dope dealers, got tired of hearing me tell them I didn’t want in. And when they heard I was going to drop their names before a federal grand jury investigating police tie-ups with dope dealers, they paid me a visit at my apartment and things got hairy.
Shooting. A gun battle in my living room, and when it was over, they were dead and I was almost dead. Two bullets in my gut, one across my forehead. But I lived to tell the tale, and it hurts only when I laugh, which ain’t too often.
Jean-Paul came out of his house, croissants piled on a plate. “ Voilà, as we French say. They’re hot. Watch your fingers, everybody.”
Setting them down on the small glass table, he stepped back, looking down at the plate. He nodded once, pleased with his own cooking. The big French policeman said nothing else, waiting for the verdict.
John Bolt, mouth full, shook his head from side to side. “Mmmmm.” Fucking incredible. Best croissants he’d ever tasted. Fresh taste, soft, still hot, and just fucking incredible. Jean-Paul was some cook.
“In America when something’s good, we say it’s bad. And Jean-Paul, these are some bad croissants.” Bolt smiled at him.
“Crazy, you Americans are crazy.” Edith was not fond of America or Americans, though she tolerated Bolt because her husband and Jean-Paul did. She was a short woman, somewhere between cute and all right in the face, outspoken, chubby, and she made her own clothes, which tended to make her feel more virtuous than anyone else around her.
Roger Dinard was something of a puritan, too, principled as hell; but in him it was believable, and it didn’t bother Bolt, at least. Maybe it was because Roger—short, fat body, moustache, and all—was putting his life on the line for what he believed. At almost any time, crooked cops, Corsicans, hoods from a dozen countries, could blow Roger away and he’d be lying naked on a marble slab in the morgue, an identification tag around his big toe.
But what the hell, Edith was all right. Why not? She wasn’t married to Bolt, was she?
“Staggers,” said Dinard. “Some of those names he gave you we didn’t have. Maybe it’s good that you came to France, Johnny, even if you stay only a short time.”
“Yeah. I like Paris, but like you say, it’s a short time. Counting today, I got four more days, and that’s it. I come out in the open after that, and France and America remain friends.”
Jean-Paul, who loved his own cooking, stuffed three-fourths of a croissant into his mouth, licked his fingers, chewed, then swallowed. Taking another from the plate, he broke off a small piece and fed it to the collie who had both front paws on Jean-Paul’s huge thighs and an expectant look on his thin tan-and-white face. “You’re going to see Cloris Carroll.”
“Yeah. Staggers says she’s the gal Alain’s been with the most lately. What the hell, he might come back to her, hide out until he can square things with his brother about the killing and the four million.”
“Not just his brother,” said Roger, reaching for another croissant. “Remy’s the one. He’s a bad one, and
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