12th Man For Death by Gregory Randall

Author:Gregory Randall
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: san francisco, iraq, sailing, iran, lafayette, bay area, venice, golden gate bridge, ellison, sharon, walnut creek, americas cup, sf bay, omara
Publisher: Gregory Randall

10b

After the morning’s events, the last thing Sharon wanted to do was visit Alain Dumont. And it was the only thing she needed to do. Alain had become almost like a grandfather to her; he was, like her, an orphan. He was a true self-made man, even with the kick-start of forty ingots of found gold at the end of World War Two. At ninety-four, the billionaire had been involved in almost every high tech venture since the invention of the transistor. He lived in a fine mansion on upper Broadway in San Francisco and had lived well, sired a beautiful, but damaged, daughter who OD’d on drugs but left him a granddaughter, Claudette Leclair. Claudette met Sharon as she climbed the steps to Dumont’s front door, they kissed and then hugged.

“He’s resting peacefully,” Claudette said. “Evelyn’s with him.”

They walked the length of the hallway, past the parlor, to the library. There, amongst one of the greatest private collections of art, first editions and small Impressionist statues, lay Alain Dumont on a hospital bed. A large black man stood directly behind the head board and smiled at the women as they entered. Evelyn Luca sat on a low velvet footstool near the bed. She held the right hand of her godfather. The bed had been adjusted allowing Dumont to sit more upright.

Sharon kissed Peter Brass, Dumont’s nurse and bodyguard, on the cheek. “How’s he doing?”

“As well as can be expected, the medication has softened the edge but he’s still with us.” Peter said.

“Damn straight I am,” a hoarse voice mumbled from directly below the two. “As long as I’m breathing, I’ll be a pain in the ass. How are you, my dear?” Alain Dumont said as he slowly raised his free hand toward Sharon.

She took his hand, kissed his sallow cheek and saw that he was even thinner than the last time she visited; he was almost translucent.

“I missed you Alain; are you comfortable?” Sharon asked.

“As best as I can be, not much else I can do.”

“You rest,” Evelyn said.

Dumont took in a large breath, his eyes brightened. He turned his head to take in the three women in the room; calmness seemed to soften the hard edge to his cheeks.

“A man could ask for nothing more than to have you three with me, you are like my Valkyries leading me to Valhalla,” he chortled then coughed, not a deep cough but a laughing cough. “

“Quiet now,” Claudette said.

“Granddaughter, soon I’ll be quiet forever. It is my hope that my love will meet me at the gates, I have missed her for more years than I can remember.” He took in another breath.

After Alain Dumont fled the army at the end of World War Two, by faking his death and changing his name from Robert Alan Dupont, he moved to Paris and became a very successful, if not creative, importer of goods for desperate Europeans. He also found and married the love of his life, Dominique, Claudette’s grandmother. The gold

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