delicacy,” Lillehammer observed.
Croaker came back, sat down. He pointed to the briefcase Lillehammer had brought aboard. “What’s that made of?”
“Dunno, really. Some space-age plastic tougher and lighter than steel. But I can tell you it’s bloody well indestructible. Couldn’t get a bullet to dent it in the lab. Couldn’t blow a hole in it with plastique, either.”
Croaker held up his hand for Lillehammer’s inspection, carefully retracted the long fingers until they were only the equivalent of one knuckle in length. Then he leaned over, took one corner of the top of the case between his left thumb and attenuated forefinger in a pincer motion. He pressed inward.
Foomp!
His fingers clicked together through the small hole they had pierced in the material.
Lillehammer sat staring at what Croaker had done to his previously indestructible briefcase. “I think I’ll have that second beer now, thank you very much,” he said softly.
Lillehammer sat nursing his beer for the longest time. Croaker was aware of the sun moving across the cabin’s cowling, the light changing as the wind shifted. Storm coming, he thought, scenting the phosphorus in the air. But we still have time. For what? He waited patiently for Lillehammer to tell him why he had come.
The chop had picked up, and the boat was bobbing quite a bit on its tether. Croaker felt distinctly unwell, and he got up abruptly, went out of the cabin. He bent over the rail on the opposite side of the boat where the young ensigns still stood watch and vomited over the side.
“Sorry about that,” Lillehammer said when he returned. “I’m afraid those pills haven’t quite been perfected yet, either.”
“Do me a favor and next time keep that shit to yourself,” Croaker said, and rinsed his mouth out with beer. “I’d rather deal with the slight headache.”
“I quite understand. My apologies.”
“De nada.”
Lillehammer put down his beer, came close to him, and said quietly, “Does the name Dominic Goldoni mean anything to you?”
“Sure. Mob boss, sang his brains out so that the feds took out two of his leading rivals, lock, stock, and barrel. For that, they didn’t fry him. They put him into WITSEC. From which sanctuary, so I have heard, he’s been running his entire East Coast machine through his brother-in-law, the respected attorney Anthony DeCamillo, also known as Tony D., among his friends. I also hear that Goldoni’s remaining chief rival, the Clam Man—”
“You mean Caesare Leonforte.”
“That’s right. Bad Clams, they call him. Anyway, I understand that the Clam Man is thinking of taking fate by the throat, making the move he’s been itching to make on Goldoni’s territory.”
Lillehammer nodded. “Commendable. You have details not known to the general public. However, the connection between Goldoni and Anthony DeCamillo, a well-renowned legit lawyer, cannot in any way be proved. I know. WITSEC has tried.” He squinted at Croaker, the effect of which was to intensify further the focus of his extraordinary eyes. “I see you have kept up your contacts.”
“Some of them. Others, I can no longer afford.”
Lillehammer made that awful smile again. “I fancy your humor, Mr. Croaker. Dry and distinct, like a fine wine.”
“But not half as complex,” Croaker said, giving in to the man’s nuttiness.
Lillehammer’s smile broadened, and now Croaker could see the tiny crosshatch lines of the stitching on the pale scars. It had been a hurried job, perhaps in a red zone somewhere far away from the high-tech civilization that had provided Croaker with his remarkable prosthesis. But the fact that the scars were on both sides of Lillehammer’s mouth ruled out an accident or a wound taken in the pursuit of a clandestine enemy. Rather, they seemed the deliberate hallmark of the torturer—there was a sadism implicit in what the incisions had tried to do as well as explicit in the scars themselves.
“I wouldn’t talk,
Croaker came back, sat down. He pointed to the briefcase Lillehammer had brought aboard. “What’s that made of?”
“Dunno, really. Some space-age plastic tougher and lighter than steel. But I can tell you it’s bloody well indestructible. Couldn’t get a bullet to dent it in the lab. Couldn’t blow a hole in it with plastique, either.”
Croaker held up his hand for Lillehammer’s inspection, carefully retracted the long fingers until they were only the equivalent of one knuckle in length. Then he leaned over, took one corner of the top of the case between his left thumb and attenuated forefinger in a pincer motion. He pressed inward.
Foomp!
His fingers clicked together through the small hole they had pierced in the material.
Lillehammer sat staring at what Croaker had done to his previously indestructible briefcase. “I think I’ll have that second beer now, thank you very much,” he said softly.
Lillehammer sat nursing his beer for the longest time. Croaker was aware of the sun moving across the cabin’s cowling, the light changing as the wind shifted. Storm coming, he thought, scenting the phosphorus in the air. But we still have time. For what? He waited patiently for Lillehammer to tell him why he had come.
The chop had picked up, and the boat was bobbing quite a bit on its tether. Croaker felt distinctly unwell, and he got up abruptly, went out of the cabin. He bent over the rail on the opposite side of the boat where the young ensigns still stood watch and vomited over the side.
“Sorry about that,” Lillehammer said when he returned. “I’m afraid those pills haven’t quite been perfected yet, either.”
“Do me a favor and next time keep that shit to yourself,” Croaker said, and rinsed his mouth out with beer. “I’d rather deal with the slight headache.”
“I quite understand. My apologies.”
“De nada.”
Lillehammer put down his beer, came close to him, and said quietly, “Does the name Dominic Goldoni mean anything to you?”
“Sure. Mob boss, sang his brains out so that the feds took out two of his leading rivals, lock, stock, and barrel. For that, they didn’t fry him. They put him into WITSEC. From which sanctuary, so I have heard, he’s been running his entire East Coast machine through his brother-in-law, the respected attorney Anthony DeCamillo, also known as Tony D., among his friends. I also hear that Goldoni’s remaining chief rival, the Clam Man—”
“You mean Caesare Leonforte.”
“That’s right. Bad Clams, they call him. Anyway, I understand that the Clam Man is thinking of taking fate by the throat, making the move he’s been itching to make on Goldoni’s territory.”
Lillehammer nodded. “Commendable. You have details not known to the general public. However, the connection between Goldoni and Anthony DeCamillo, a well-renowned legit lawyer, cannot in any way be proved. I know. WITSEC has tried.” He squinted at Croaker, the effect of which was to intensify further the focus of his extraordinary eyes. “I see you have kept up your contacts.”
“Some of them. Others, I can no longer afford.”
Lillehammer made that awful smile again. “I fancy your humor, Mr. Croaker. Dry and distinct, like a fine wine.”
“But not half as complex,” Croaker said, giving in to the man’s nuttiness.
Lillehammer’s smile broadened, and now Croaker could see the tiny crosshatch lines of the stitching on the pale scars. It had been a hurried job, perhaps in a red zone somewhere far away from the high-tech civilization that had provided Croaker with his remarkable prosthesis. But the fact that the scars were on both sides of Lillehammer’s mouth ruled out an accident or a wound taken in the pursuit of a clandestine enemy. Rather, they seemed the deliberate hallmark of the torturer—there was a sadism implicit in what the incisions had tried to do as well as explicit in the scars themselves.
“I wouldn’t talk,
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