But we're fair, Wils. We'll split the purse evenly.'
Brown smiled, sat down, and said, 'Evenly means half for me and half for your backing, and it means half the total purse.'
'I didn't say that,' the Farmer smoothly replied.
'No, man, I said that. It's that or nothing.'
Castiglione was smiling, but only with his lips. 'You could get too damn big for your britches. They could turn to iron, and wouldn't that make for hard swimming in Chesapeake Bay.'
The big Negro again got to his feet. 'I been shit on by experts, man. I got over bein' scared a long time ago. Nowadays I just get mad and glad. Mad, I don't get Bolan for you. Glad, I'll give 'im to you in a gift-wrap.'
Castiglione winced and shifted positions again. 'That fuckin' Bolan!' he muttered. Then, 'Okay, big man. We'll make you glad. You just make me glad.'
'Half of the pot, net, for me.'
'Yeah, yeah, you've made your deal.' The Capo's gaze shifted to Tony Lavagni, who had been tensely silent and all but invisible during the discussion. 'You got those planes pretty well nailed down now? You're sure of that?'
'Yessir,' Lavagni replied. 'There was only three possible ways out, by air I mean. Chicago, Atlanta, or Paris.'
'You already said that.'
'Yessir. I'd say Atlanta looks best, Chicago next. Paris would be a long shot. That plane was leaving when the boys got up there.'
'Just the same we'll cover all three, and play heavy on th' long shot. This bastard always seems to...' He reached for a cigar, groaned, savagely bit off the end, and clamped the cigar between his teeth, lit it, and leaned forward carefully to favor his wounded backside. 'You know who we got in Paris. You handle it, be sure that plane is met, but don't mention my name in no transatlantic telephone calls. Understand?'
'Sure, Mr. Castiglione.'
'Chi and Atlanta will be a snap. I'll put out the word myself from here. You get your boy here set up with a passport and...' He eyed the big Negro in a disapproving inspection and continued. 'Get him to a fast tailor, make 'im look like a traveling buyer... uh, pick out something he knows a little about, something that would make sense him going to Europe in case it turns that way. Get him credentials and all th' crap, but don't use any of my connections, you know what I mean. And tell Paris to cool it. If they spot Bolan, just stick with 'im and let us know right away. Tell 'em anything you have'ta, tell 'em the contract isn't payable outside the country, just don't let 'em louse this up. I want a sure thing this time. I'll tell Chi and Atlanta the same thing. You just get this boy of yours ready to travel. You still with me, Tony?'
'Yessir, I'm still with you, Mr. Castiglione,' Lavagni assured him.
The Farmer dismissed them.
They let themselves out of the house and went directly to their car. As they were moving along the graveled drive, Brown chuckled and observed, 'I never seen you so courteous and polite, man.'
Lavagni growled something inarticulate, then replied, 'Maybe you better try some of the same, Wils. Arnie Farmer is nobody to cross. He likes to be treated with respect, and you better watch the way you talk to him. Especially until he's well and back on his feet again. You put him over a barrel, you know that, Wils — and he don't like that a little bit.'
Brown heaved a contented sigh. 'He don't scare me none. I'll say this, though. I'm glad I'm not Mack Bolan. Man, I never saw so much hate, and I'm an expert on hate.'
'You ever been to Atlanta, Wils? Or Paris?'
'Sure man, I been everywhere there is to go. And it's the same stinkin' world every place, huh.'
Lavagni nodded his head. 'I guess so. This Bolan's going to find that out too, Wils. There ain't no place he can go where we can't get at him. It might be Atlanta, it might be Chi, it might be Paris. But it won't matter, it's all the same. He's going to find that out.'
'I bet he already knows it,' Brown said, sighing. 'He's been everywhere too, man. Everywhere but dead. Wonder what it's like there.'
'Where?' Lavagni asked, throwing the black man a quick glance.
'Th' land of the dead, man. I wonder what it's like.'
Lavagni chuckled and said, 'When you're kissing Bolan, ask 'im. He's dead already and just won't admit it?'
Brown slumped into the seat and gazed out the window at the fields blurring by. 'Well, we'll just have to make it official, won't we,' he said softly.
'Just kiss 'im, Wils,' Lavagni said in a solemn voice. 'That's the closest thing to a last rite he'll ever get.'
'I'll kiss him with an amen then,' the huge Negro muttered.
Bolan was at the self-serve coffee bar helping himself to an early morning refresher when the stewardess came in and told him, 'Orly Airport in about twenty minutes, Mr. Ruggi.'
He said, 'Thanks,' and wondered what else she had on her mind. She had not walked all the way back there simply to tell him that.
'Are you traveling with Mr. Martin?' she asked casually, confirming Bolan's assessment of her motives.
'No,' he replied. 'I'd never heard of the guy. Who is he?'
'Come on, you're kidding,' the girl said. 'You're his double, aren't you.'
'Double for what?'
'Come on now, Mr. Ruggi.'
Bolan relented and grinned. The girl was standard overseas-airline sleek, chic, leggy, with jet black hair, smooth skin — pretty, interesting enough for any man, the Gil Martins included. 'How do you know he's not my double?' he asked, using a teasing tone.
She was not to be teased. Eyeing him thoughtfully, she raised a hand and fingered his sideburns. Bolan caught the hand and held it — this was getting out of control. 'We don't really look that much alike,' he said gruffly.
'Side by side, no,' she replied, laughing softly to gloss the moment of tension. 'But...'
Bolan said, 'Drop it, please. It's not what you think.'
'No, it's not,' she replied, still speculatively eyeing him. 'I had it all wrong. He's the ringer. I should have known, he's too blah. You bring him along to run interference for you, don't you.'
The ex-GI from Pittsfield had not been trained for jet-set maneuverings; the man of him, however, knew that he was being rushed. The whole thing seemed entirely out of character for an airlines stewardess, in Bolan's view at any rate, and he was having trouble reading the signs. He gave her back her hand, forced a laugh, and said, 'You're wrong all the way. Seriously. Would you like to see my passport?'
She shook her head, apparently deciding to ignore his protestations, and said, 'Are yon staying in Paris long?'
'Couple days, maybe.'
Her eyes gleamed with sudden mischief. 'Your double is going on to Rome, or so his ticket says.'
Bolan said, 'Frankly, I don't give a damn where he's going. How can I convince you'
'Orly is my turnaround port,' she said quickly. 'I'll be there until Friday.'
Okay, he thought, so the signs were becoming infinitely more readable. 'That's nice,' Bolan replied.
'I usually stay at the Pension de St. Germain when I'm laying over.'
'Why?'
The girl seemed flustered by the direct question. 'Well it's cheap and it's clean. And I like the St. Germain area, I guess you're a Right Banker, though — Champs Elysees or bust.' She showed him a rueful smile. 'On airline pay, it's the pensions or bust for darned sure.'
'What's a pension?' Bolan asked, though he already knew.
'It's a boarding house.'
Bolan said, 'Oh.'
