Corsican Death Read Free

Corsican dope dealers in France, each man had said nothing except “Put us in touch with the French consulate and an attorney.”
    Let the agents try to prove who they were.
    That had been three days ago. Meanwhile, both Corsicans were in the hospital, no guards in front of their doors, because, as French consulate officials and lawyers had pointed out, neither man had committed a crime in America or had been officially identified as a criminal.
    But federal agents were busy as hell trying to learn who the Corsicans really were. That much Mr. In had passed on for free. And that’s why the escape had been planned.
    Get out of America. Leave the money where it was, hidden safely away in the French consulate. No one would touch it. No one in his right mind. Because Corsican vengeance never stopped until it was satisfied. No, the money was safe.
    Don’t risk running into federal narcotics agents by trying to collect it. Leave it there. Come back for it later.
    The two hundred kilos of heroin was a combined load from Count Lonzu, Remy Patek, and four other Corsican dealers. Largest shares belonged to the Count and Remy, and while Remy bowed to the Count out of respect and more fear than he would admit, Remy was still dangerous.
    That’s why the Count had allowed Remy to send his brother with Alain. Remy, who trusted no one but his own, wanted to make sure that he was getting an accurate count on the money. As long as the Count continued to deliver, to make rich deals with the Americans, then he ruled the Corsicans.
    But Remy Patek watched and waited for his chance, the chance to be France’s number-one dope dealer.
    The Count watched Remy, too.
    It was a shaky peace, one that would explode if something went wrong with this American deal. That’s why Alain had killed Claude. But he was sure the Count would understand and handle things with Remy.
    Sure, Claude was a Corsican, and Corsicans never betray their own, never talk to cops, and keep to themselves. Always.
    But pain was something else, and the leap from the hotel room had given Claude Patek more pain than he had ever felt in his life. Jumping out of a window had brought Claude to the point where pain made him cry out in the night, each night he was in the hospital.
    Now Alain Lonzu sat on the edge of the bed staring at Claude’s dead body. You screamed in pain, Claude, and you said things. You mentioned his name, Mr. In’s and you mentioned the four million dollars. You talked too much, Claude, and no one heard you but me.
    Your casts made it impossible for me to take you with me. You would slow me up, and I had no wish to spend the rest of my life in an American prison because you were stupid enough to leap out of a hotel window. I couldn’t take you with me, and I couldn’t leave you behind.
    If you had talked to agents, this deal would be no good. I lose the money and lose our friend in the Justice Department, and my brother, the Count, who loves me, would not love me anymore. I would have cost him more than he could afford.
    I must not fail my brother, for if I do, if I fail to sell the two hundred kilos to the black, if I lose the money, I think my brother would kill me. Reluctantly, perhaps, but he just might have to do that in order to keep his empire.
    He loves me, my brother loves me, but he is a Corsican and a businessman with responsibilities.
    No, Claude. I could not leave you behind. Your agony and pain would have meant my death. My brother will explain to your brother. Perhaps Remy will understand, perhaps he won’t. But that is not my worry now.
    I had to do it, Claude, don’t you understand? I had to.
    Alain Lonzu stood up, nervously locking his lips, half-expecting Claude Patek to turn over, sit up in bed, and begin answering him. But the dead man lay still.
    Sorry, my friend. I am sorry.
    But Alain was not sorry.
    Snapping his head from the dead man, Alain rose to the door, yanked the chair from under the knob, and sent it clattering to the floor