Impulse (6 page)

Her fingers touched his inner thighs and he heard her draw in her breath. “Perhaps later then,” she said, and laughed. “You’re nice, Marcus, real nice.”

She left the sheet down at his knees and he realized he didn’t have the strength to twist over and pull the damned thing back up. He was on the point of shouting, but fell silent as the grave at Merkel’s loud guffaw.

“My, my, bare-assed. What did Paula do to you? Both your face and your ass are red. I can’t imagine you doing anything close to fun—” He laughed again, a big belly laugh. Marcus sighed. He’d tried for nearly fifteen months now to get a real live, spontaneous laugh out of Merkel. He’d tried every joke, Jackie Gleason gags, practical gags; all had failed. And now he’d done nothing but lie on his stomach with a sheet pulled down to his ankles, and Merkel was nearly in hysterics.

Marcus wasn’t amused. His shoulder hurt, his stomach was roiling with nausea, and he felt like a jackass. He also wanted to relieve himself. He tried to push upward, and Merkel shut up, at least for the moment.

A few moments later, Merkel gave the bottle to one of the silent-faced houseboys, who took it away without
a word. When Marcus was back on his stomach, the sheet up around his back, Merkel chuckled again.

“You’re lucky old DeLorio didn’t waltz in when Paula was playing with you. He’d have had a fit. He’d have blamed you, even though any fool would know you couldn’t have moved even if that little blond, Joanie Fields, had waltzed in here.” He laughed again, enjoying his own mental conjuring scene.

“You could have left my shorts on.”

“You weren’t wearing any. Don’t you remember? Just those cut-offs and a T-shirt. Haymes didn’t care. To look in here and see you lying bare-assed.” More laughter, and Marcus gritted his teeth, regretting that he’d ever made a vow to get laughter out of the damned big silent stone. Another man he liked, another man who could be deadly.

“Well, my boy, I see you finally got Merkel to crack. Quite an accomplishment, and, I should add, unexpected, considering your current state.”

Merkel shut up the moment Dominick walked into the bedroom. He stood respectfully at attention, his expression now carefully blank.

“Unless, of course, Merkel was laughing because he’s a closet sadist and is enjoying seeing you felled and wounded.”

“Sir, of course not. Why, I—”

“I know, Merkel,” Dominick interrupted him. “Let us alone for a bit. Two of our men are still a bit woozy. Check on them, then make sure Lacy’s got the others back to their duties. Ah, yes, the Dutchmen. I think we’ll let them fester in the tool shed for a while longer. I’d like to wait and have our hero of the hour, Marcus, with me before we question them. Have Dukey feed them, but not much.”

“Yes, sir,” Merkel said, and left, not looking again at Marcus.

“A fine soldier,” Dominick said absently, glancing after Merkel. “Well, my boy, you could be looking
better. On the other hand, you could also be looking dead, which wouldn’t give me any pleasure whatsoever. Is your head clear now?”

“Yes. Tell me what happened. I thought Koerbogh and Van Wessel were all wrapped up. Who was this woman Tulp? She was the leader—I sensed that immediately when I saw them. What was she saying to you?”

Dominick smiled gently and held up a narrow, quite beautiful hand. “I’ll tell you everything, just relax.”

Marcus watched Dominick Giovanni ease his aristocratic body into the chair recently vacated by Paula and Merkel. He made it look like a throne. Strange, but it was true. There was something about Dominick, an aura, a communicated feeling that he knew about things and how to fashion them to his liking. His arm was bandaged and he now wore a short-sleeved shirt with a fresh pair of white slacks. He looked urbane and quite cool despite the carnage that had swept over the western side of the island, leaving him shot, his men gassed, and a deal gone sour. He was fifty-seven years old and looked younger. He had fine bones, Marcus thought, studying him. And good muscle tone for a man of any age. Coco insisted in that understated French way of hers that all of Dominick was well toned. Pale blue eyes, starkly deep eyes, that saw everything. His once-black hair was peppered with white that made him look all the more powerful, all the more charismatic. Marcus kept silent now, knowing that Dominick would talk when he chose to do so. He forced himself to be patient, trying to relax and not fight against the waves of pain. He knew well enough that tensing his muscles would only make it worse. He remembered suddenly that first time he’d believed Dominick to be utterly human. He’d been showing Marcus his art collection. He’d been the proud father praising his children, and Marcus had nearly forgotten. Marcus shook away the memory.

“Is DeLorio back?” he asked finally.

Dominick shook his head. “I told him to remain in Miami, to have that meeting with Mario Calpas. He’s not needed here. Haymes says you’ll be just fine. The bullet tore muscle, but you’ll heal if you don’t overdo for a couple of weeks. He also said you’d get back all your rotation and your strength. I know it’ll be hard, but you’ve got to heal, Marcus.” He absently rubbed his wounded arm. Then, “The deal with the Dutchmen was set. You know that, you went to Boston to wrap up the final details with Pearlman. Their appearance today was primarily one of diplomacy, if you will. A show of our continued goodwill; their continued desire to do business with us. They were, supposedly, the consummate middlemen.” He shrugged.

“Who or what is
Bathsheba
?”

“What are you talking about?”

“That word was on the side of the helicopter. It was in green letters—
Bathsheba
.”

“I don’t know. Painted on the side of the helicopter? Like a company name or logo?”

At Marcus’s nod, Dominick said slowly, “Well, there was Queen Bathsheba, a woman I’m sure was nothing like Tulp. It’s interesting, though. A name of an organization. We’ll find out. I’ve already got contacts working on Tulp. Pearlman claims, ah, vociferously, that he doesn’t understand a thing. As for the phone number in Amsterdam, it’s disconnected. The two Dutchmen are in the tool shed, doubtless contemplating their sins.” Dominick fell silent a moment, then added, looking bewildered, “It’s amazing. They actually believed they’d get away with killing me and getting off this island.” He patted Marcus’s arm and rose. “You get some rest, my boy. Then, when you’re feeling up to it, we’ll question our guests and find out what the hell happened. But, you know, Marcus, I’d be very surprised if the two men know anything. A
pity, but I hate coercion-forced persuasion, if you will.”

“But there’s no need to wait, Dominick. Bring them in here, or I can go—”

“No, Marcus.” Dominick shrugged. “Perhaps that’s why I’m content to wait. They won’t know anything. You know I’m right.”

“All right, then, but at least tell me how three people managed to knock out all our men.”

“It was cleverly done, yet very, very basic. They came in friendship, but Link, you know, is the most suspicious of men. He wanted them searched. I’d already sent Merkel to get you. Before any searching could begin, the woman, Tulp, after shaking my hand, stuck her nasty little automatic in my ribs. I knew, strangely enough, that she was fully prepared to kill me if the men didn’t drop their weapons and agree to be herded like donkeys into the dining room. They went, and Koerbogh gassed them. As for DeLorio, he’d already left for Miami. Paula was at the resort, and my poor Coco was locked in a cabana. Merkel would have been gassed too if I hadn’t sent him to find you just before they landed. I knew you were my only hope, and you didn’t disappoint me, Marcus. My thanks.”

He took Marcus’s hand and lightly squeezed it. “I’m dining with Coco. She’s a bit on edge, as you can imagine. I’ll see you later. Merkel will bring your dinner and stay with you.” Then Dominick Giovanni was gone.

There were so many more questions, so much more Marcus wanted to know. It was very quiet now. He felt the pain like an inexorable tide, ebbing briefly, only to gather momentum, rushing through him, tearing at his resistance. He had three scars now: one on the inside of his left thigh, a long thin scar over his belly, and now the souvenir on his shoulder. Two were from knives and one from Tulp’s bullet. He’d survived
Navy intelligence and the CIA without a scratch. He’d gotten all his scars after he’d joined Dominick and become a criminal.

Well, the pain was better than being dead. He was asleep again shortly after eating a bit of beef broth and homemade bread with Merkel. He suspected that the lemonade was drugged, and so it was. He slept soundly until late the following morning.

It was then that Haymes appeared again and none too gently removed the bandage from his shoulder. Marcus, teeth gritted, heard Haymes grunt, and wondered what it meant.

There was another grunt.

“Think you could manage some words, like in English?”

“Lie still, Devlin, and shut your trap. Your flesh looks pink, the wound is closing nicely, and it’s just your black soul that might cause infection and kill you off. Hold still.”

Marcus yowled when the needle slammed into his left buttock. He felt Haymes’s hand hold him down.

“More antibiotic. Most efficient in your butt.” The needle was pulled out, leaving a cold, shocked track, and Haymes rubbed a cool alcohol pad over the spot.

“You sadistic butcher.”

“I’ll take out the stitches in seven or eight days. Keep the shoulder immobile. You don’t have to stay in bed, but don’t run any marathons, and that includes up and down the stairs.”

“Thanks.”

“Have someone massage you to keep your muscles flexible. Oh, yeah, lover boy, no sex for another week at least. You tear that wound open, and I won’t send you a bill, I’ll bury you. You got that?”

“I haven’t got a horny bone or muscle in my body, Haymes.”

“I’m not worried about your bones or your muscles.
And that’s not what I heard from a very nice girl named Susie Glanby.”

Marcus groaned. “She seduced me, I swear it. I was innocent. I didn’t know she was married to a boxer, for God’s sake. You think I’ve got a death wish?”

Haymes grinned, showing the wide space between his front teeth. “Old Marty’s a piece of work, isn’t he? He smacked Susie a couple of times, knocked her silly, got scared, and called me. And that’s how I know what happened. Ah, well, young lust. Stay celibate, Devlin.”

“I can’t believe you were a Polo Lounge society doctor in Beverly Hills.”

“Yeah, look how human a guy gets, surrounded by sterling characters like you and Merkel.”

“Come on, Haymes, you’ve got all those rich guys at the resort to pander to.”

“For the most part, they’re boring as hell. Do you know how prevalent syphilis is still? You’d think the fools would have more brains than to screw around with no protection.” He shook his head and rose. He paused a moment and looked down at the young man who now had his eyes closed against the pain.

“Don’t be so bloody macho, Devlin. Oh, what the hell.”

Then Marcus felt another deep jab in his right buttock and yelled.

“It’s for pain,” Haymes said, and pulled the sheet back up.

“You’re responsible for the pain.”

But Haymes only waved at him and slipped out of the room. A redheaded leprechaun who was a sadist, curse him.

But the pain was receding, almost at once, and it was wonderful not to have to concentrate on keeping it to himself. He fell asleep and slept deeply.

Coco and Dominick appeared later that evening. Coco was the quintessence of a rich man’s mistress.
She was just a bit older than Marcus, model-thin, with long legs and big breasts and ash-blond hair that hung long and perfectly straight to between her shoulder blades. She looked expensive, which she was, and she deferred to Dominick in the most charming way. She was a smart cookie, Coco was. She’d been a high fashion French model, just peaking in her career five years before when she’d met Dominick in St. Moritz on the slopes, both of them avid skiers. They’d shortly become an item, the French paparazzi going crazy over the power-broking mystery man, twice indicted, once on tax-evasion charges, once on organized-crime corruption, and both times acquitted, and the beautiful model. Then they’d become lovers.

Marcus liked Coco. She was loyal, she was intelligent, and judging from the occasional yells from the fastidious Dominick when he’d chanced to be walking by their suite, Marcus imagined that she was incredible in bed.

She didn’t seem to pay much attention when Dominick presented her with fabulous jewels. But his son, DeLorio, did, the greedy whining little jerk.

“Hello, Marcus,” she said, her French accent quite absent this evening, as it usually was around the compound. “Dr. Haymes said you needed to be massaged. Paula volunteered. I counter volunteered. Dominick has seconded the motion. Paula is, how do we French say it? Ah, peesed off but trying not to show it because she’s not sure when DeLorio will be back. I brought my Keri Lotion.” Coco Vivrieux, Marcus knew, was actually just as American as he was. But she did the French routine very well.

Marcus eyed Dominick, who’d sat himself down on the wicker love seat and was reading through a sheaf of papers.

“She won’t leave you bare-assed,” Dominick said, not looking up. Marcus saw his unholy grin before his face disappeared behind a
Wall Street Journal.

Marcus moaned when her long fingers smoothed deeply into his back muscles. Her fingers were incredibly strong and she hurt him, but it felt so good he couldn’t complain.

“I’ll be well enough tomorrow to have a chat with the Dutchmen,” he said when Coco moved to his thighs.

“All right,” Dominick said, still not looking up from the paper. There was, however, a sudden frown on his forehead. “Merkel tells me they’re not very happy with their, er, accommodations. I suspect that they expect the worst. I’m rather enjoying letting them sweat. And I’m more than certain they don’t know a damned thing. If they did, they’d be squealing loudly, hoping for a deal. They don’t know that I haven’t the taste for good old-fashioned torture.”

“Ah, that’s wonderful, Coco. Who was that woman? Why was she going to kill you?”