I Kill by Lex Lander

Author:Lex Lander [Lander, Lex]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781685491949
Published: 2023-01-09T16:00:00+00:00

My rendezvous with Giorgy was for 2.00pm on Sunday, outside the Voile d’Or Hotel, which looks out over the marina. It was essential to achievement of my objectives however, to hold our discussions in absolute seclusion. On board Seaspray, and at sea, would meet that requirement.

Anticipating Giorgy’s refusal to rumple his ever-immaculate drapes by paddling out to Seaspray’s mooring in a dinghy, I had bribed an official of the Yacht Club d’Agde et du Cap to lease me a temporarily vacant berth in the marina, only a minute’s walk from the Voile d’Or. Now access to my boat was by the luxury of a gangplank, complete with handrail. Even Giorgy couldn’t reasonably object.

This party was not for such innocents as Liza and Alfredo. I packed them off ashore, impressing upon Alfredo in an aside, that he was not to leave Liza alone.

“Not even when I must pee-pee, Señor André?” he demurred, with a lipless, toothless grin.

“Not even when you must shit-shit,” I retorted, and the grit in my voice wiped away the smirk. “And I don’t care if you mess your pants. Just don’t…” I prodded his flat, bony chest, “let her out of your sight. Entiendas, amigo?”

“Si, Señor André.”

Liza liked her banishment not at all, and was predictably earthy about it.

“One of these days you’ll realize I’m not a kid to be sent out to play whenever you want to talk business. Business? Big fucking deal!”

But this was the only wave she made, and when we parted company after lunch she pecked me on the cheek to show no hard feelings.

“You brought your cell phone, didn’t you?” I said.

She patted her shoulder purse. “Never without it.”

“See you back on board at six,” I said, and unthinkingly patted her bottom. It was not sexually motivated, but she pivoted round and eyeballed me, a reflective smile tweaking her lips.

I walked away fast, thrusting a passage through the vacationing multitudes to arrive before the Voile d’Or at two on the nose. Giorgy, there ahead of me, materialized from behind a rack of picture postcards. In dazzling white from collar to the soles of his shoes apart from a red handkerchief flopping from his top pocket like an open wound, and an anachronistic red cravat with white spots snuggling under his chin. Always immaculate, no matter where or when.

His handshake was less firm than usual. Cooler.

“You are looking well,” he commented unsmilingly.

“You too. Younger than ever.” I couldn’t resist the dig. He recognized it for what it was, and a shadow of resentment clouded his countenance.

The press of humanity was forcing us under the awning of the postcard boutique. I fetched up against a beefy, wide-shouldered man. I apologized in French and he replied in drawling English: “That’s okay…André.”

A frisson of alarm ran through me at this familiarity from a stranger. I gave ground, opening up space between us. Ready for combat.

“Easy, André, easy.” Giorgy murmured in my ear, also in English, in which he was fluent, but used only when he had to.

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