Blood Hunt

“Keep close to this, Dulwater.”

“Sir, with respect, I advise we-”

“Son, don’t presume to advise Jeffrey Allerdyce. You’re not far enough advanced on the board.”

“Board, sir?”

“Chessboard. You’re still one of my pawns, Dulwater. Moving forward, but still a pawn.”

“Yes, sir.” A hurt pause. “Pawns aren’t very flexible, are they, sir?”

“They just inch their way forward.”

“But if they inch far enough, sir, isn’t it right that they can turn into more important pieces?”

Allerdyce almost laughed. “You’ve got me zugzwanged, son. I’m going back to my lunch.” Allerdyce dropped the receiver. He was beginning not to detest Dulwater.

Back at the table, Cal Waits was in conversation with a leggy blonde who’d paused to say hello. She was standing in front of the booth, leaning down over the senator. It was a gesture hinting at intimacy, carried out solely so the other diners would notice. It wasn’t supposed to embarrass Waits; it was supposed to flatter her. She wore a blue two-piece, cut just about deep enough so Waits could see down the front.

She smiled at Allerdyce as he squeezed none too gently past her and resumed his seat. “Well, I’ll leave you to your meal, Cal. Bye now.”

“Bye, Jeanette.” He released a long sigh when she’d gone.

“Dessert, Cal?” Allerdyce asked.

“Just so long as it ain’t jelly on a plate,” Cal Waits said before draining his wine.

THIRTEEN

REEVE MADE THE CALL FROM THE FERRY TERMINAL. It was either early morning or else the middle of the night, depending on how you felt. He felt like death warmed up, except that he was shivering. He knew the time of day wouldn’t matter to the person he was calling. When he’d been a policeman, Tommy Halliday’s preferred shift had been nights. He wasn’t an insomniac, he just preferred being awake when everyone else was asleep. He said it gave him a buzz. But then he resigned, changed his mind, and found the force wouldn’t take him back-just like what had happened with Jim and his newspaper. Maybe the force had discovered Halliday’s drug habit; maybe news had leaked of his wild parties. Maybe it just had to do with staffing levels. Whatever, Halliday was out. And what had once been a recreation became his main source of income. Reeve didn’t know if Tommy Halliday still dealt in quantity, but he knew he dealt in quality. A lot of army-types-weekenders and would-be mercenaries- bought from him. They wanted performance enhancers and concoctions to keep them awake and alert. Then they needed downers for the bad time afterwards, times so bad they might need just a few more uppers…

Reeve had few feelings about drug use and abuse. But he knew Tommy Halliday might have something he could use.

The phone rang for a while, but that was normal: everyone who knew Tommy knew he let it ring and ring. That way he only ended up speaking to people who knew him… and maybe a few utterly desperate souls who’d let a phone ring and ring and ring.

“Yeah.” The voice was alert and laid-back at the same time.

“It’s Gordie.” All Tommy’s callers used first names or nicknames, just in case the drug squad was listening.

“Hey, Gordie, long time.” Halliday sounded like he was light-ing a cigarette. “You know a guy called Waxie? Came to see you for one of your long weekends.”

Henry Waxman. “I remember him,” Reeve said. This was typical of Halliday. You phoned him for a favor from a pay phone and spent half your money listening to his stories. Through the terminal’s windows, Reeve saw a greasy sky illuminated by so-dium, a blustery wind buffeting the few brave gulls up there.

“He’s become a good friend,” Halliday was saying. Which meant Waxman had become a serious user of some narcotic. It was a kind of warning. Halliday was just letting Reeve know that Waxman might not be as reliable as he once was. Halliday was under the misapprehension that Gordon Reeve trained mercenaries. Reeve had done nothing to correct this; it seemed to impress the dealer.

“Sorry to ring you so early. Or do I mean late?”

“Hey, you know me. I never sleep. I’m right in the middle of Mean Streets, trying to figure out what’s so great about it. Looks like a home movie. I dunno.” He paused to suck on his cigarette and Reeve leapt into the breach.

“Tommy, I’d like you to get Birdy for me.”

“Birdy?”

“Can you do that?”

“Well, I haven’t seen him in a while…” This was part of the Drug Squad game, too. Birdy wasn’t a person. Birdy was something very specialized, very rare.

“I’ve got something for him.” Meaning, I can pay whatever it takes.

“I dunno, like I say, he’s not been around much. Is it urgent?”

“No, I’m going to be away for a few days. Maybe I’ll call you when I get back.”

“You do that. I’ll see if I bump into him, maybe ask around. Okay, Gordie?”

“Thanks.”

“Sure, and hey, do me a favor. Rent out Mean Streets, tell me what’s so great about it.”

“Three words, Tommy.”

“What?” The voice sounded urgent, like it mattered.

“De Niro and Keitel.”

He slept for three-quarters of an hour on the ferry crossing. As soon as the boat came into Calais and drivers were asked to return to their vehicles, Reeve washed down some caffeine pills with the last of his strong black coffee. He’d made one purchase onboard-a hard-rock compilation tape-and he’d changed some money. The boat was nearly empty. They took the trucks off first, but within five minutes of returning to his car, he was driving out onto French soil. Back at a garage outside Dover, he’d bought a headlight kit, so he could switch beam direction to the other side of the road. Driving on the right hadn’t been a problem to him in the USA, so he didn’t think it would be a problem here. He’d jotted down directions so he wouldn’t have to keep looking at the map book he’d added to his purchases at the garage.

He headed straight for Paris, looking to take one of the beltways farther out, but ended up on the peripherique, the inner ring. It was like one of the circles of Dante’s Hell; he only thanked God they were all traveling the same direction. Cars came onto the road from both sides, and left again the same way. People were cutting across lanes, trusting to providence or some spirit of the internal combustion engine. It was a vast game of “Chicken”: he who applied the brakes was lost.

Still hyped from the caffeine and loud music, and a bit dazed from lack of sleep, Reeve hung on grimly and took what looked like the right exit. The names meant nothing to him, and seemed to change from sign to sign, so he concentrated on road numbers. He took the A6 off the peripherique and had no trouble finding the A10, which called itself l’Aquitaine. That was the direction he wanted. He celebrated with a short stop for refueling-both the car and himself. Another two shots of espresso and a croissant.

When he started hallucinating-starbursts in his eyes-still north of Poitiers, he stopped to sleep. A cheap motorway motel looked tempting, but he stayed with his car. He didn’t want to get too comfortable, but it didn’t make sense to turn up for his meeting with Marie Villambard unable to concentrate or focus. He wound the passenger seat as far back as it would go and slid over into it, so the steering wheel wouldn’t dig into him. His eyes felt gritty, grateful when he closed them. The cars speeding past the service area might as well have been serried waves crashing on the shore, the rumble of trucks a heartbeat. He was asleep inside a minute.

He slept for forty deep minutes, then got out of the car and did some stretching exercises, using the car’s