璇玑之心刃·冷血悍将-第153章

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‘Yes；　sir。　You‘re　due　some　time　off。　Did　you　get　any　sleep　at　all？‘　Captain　Griffin　asked。
‘Well；　I　think　I‘ll　depressurize　in　New　Orleans　before　I　fly　back。‘
‘Not　a　bad　place　for　it；　sir。‘　Griffin　walked　Kelly　to　his　car；　already　loaded。
One　other　bit　of　intelligence　had　been　stunningly　easy；　Kelly　thought；　driving　out。　His　room　in　the　Q　had　contained　a　New　Orleans　telephone　directory　in　which；　to　his　amazement；　had　been　the　name　he‘d　decided　to　look　up　while　sitting　in　James　Greer‘s　office　in　CIA。
This　was　the　shipment　that　would　make　his　reputation；　Tucker　thought；　watching　Rick　and　Billy　finish　loading　things　up。　Part　of　it　would　find　its　way　to　New　York。　Up　until　now　he‘d　been　an　interloper；　an　outsider　with　ambition。　He‘d　provided　enough　heroin　to　get　people　interested　in　himself　and　his　partners　…　the　fact　that　he　had　partners　had　attracted　interest　of　its　own；　in　addition　to　the　access。　But　now　was　different。　Now　he　was　making　his　move　to　be　part　of　the　crew。　He　would　be　seen　as　a　serious　businessman　because　this　shipment　would　handle　all　the　needs　of　Baltimore　and　Philadelphia　for。。。　maybe　a　month；　he　estimated。　Maybe　less　if　their　distribution　work　was　as　good　as　they　said。　The　leftovers　would　start　meeting　the　growing　needs　in　the　Big　Apple；　which　needed　the　help　after　a　major　bust。　After　so　long　a　time　of　making　small　steps；　here　was　the　giant　one。　Billy　turned　on　a　radio　to　get　the　sports　news；　and　got　a　weather　forecast　instead。
‘I‘m　glad　we‘re　going　now。　Storms　ing　in　later。‘　Tucker　looked　outside。　The　sky　was　still　clear　and　untroubled。　‘Nothing　for　us　to　worry　about；‘　he　told　them。
He　loved　New　Orleans；　a　city　in　the　European　tradition；　which　mixed　Old　World　charm　with　American　zest。　Rich　in　history；　owned　by　Frenchmen　and　Spaniards　in　their　turn；　it　had　never　lost　its　traditions；　even　to　its　maintenance　of　a　legal　code　that　was　nearly　inprehensible　to　the　other　forty…nine　states；　and　was　often　a　matter　of　some　befuddlement　to　federal　authorities。　So　was　the　local　patois；　for　many　mixed　French　into　their　conversations；　or　what　they　called　French。　Pierre　Lamarck‘s　antecedents　had　been　Acadians；　and　some　of　his　more　distant　relatives　were　still　residents　in　the　local　bayous。　But　customs　that　were　eccentric　and　entertaining　to　tourists；　and　a　fortable　life　rich　in　tradition　to　others；　had　little　interest　to　Lamarck　except　as　a　point　of　reference；　a　personal　signature　to　distinguish　him　from　his　peers。　That　was　hard　enough　to　do；　as　his　profession　demanded　a　certain　flash；　a　personal　flair。　He　accentuated　his　uniqueness　with　a　white　linen　suit　plete　with　vest；　a　white；　long…sleeved　shirt；　and　a　red；　solid…color　tie；　which　fitted　his　own　image　as　a　respectable；　if　ostentatious；　local　businessman。　That　went　along　well　with　his　personal　automobile；　an　eggshell…white　Cadillac。　He　eschewed　the　ornamental　excesses　that　some　other　pimps　placed　on　their　automobiles；　nonfunctional　exhaust　pipes。　One　supposed　Texan　even　had　the　horns　of　a　longhorn　steer　on　his　Lincoln；　but　that　one　was　really　poor　white　trash　from　lower　Alabama；　and　a　boy　who　didn‘t　know　how　to　treat　his　ladies。
This　latter　quality　was　Lamarck‘s　greatest　talent；　he　told　himself　with　great　satisfaction；　opening　the　door　of　his　car　for　his　newest　acquisition；　fifteen　years　old　and　recently　broken　in；　possessed　of　an　innocent　look　and　demure　movement　that　made　her　a　noteworthy　and　enticing　member　of　his　eight…girl　stable。　She‘d　earned　the　pimp‘s　unaccustomed　courtesy　with　a　special　service　of　her　own　earlier　in　the　day。　The　luxury　car　started　on　the　first　turn　of　the　key；　and　at　seven…thirty；　Pierre　Lamarck　set　off　on　another　night‘s　work；　for　the　nightlife　in　his　city　started　early　and　lasted　late。　There　was　a　convention　in　town；　distributors　for　something　or　other。　New　Orleans　attracted　a　lot　of　conventions；　and　he　could　track　the　cash　flow　of　his　business　by　their　ings　and　goings。　It　promised　to　be　a　warm　and　lucrative　night。
It　had　to　be　him；　Kelly　thought；　half　a　block　away；　behind　the　wheel　of　his　still…rented　car。　Who　else　would　wear　a　three…piece　suit　and　be　acpanied　by　a　young　girl　dressed　in　a　tight　mini？　Certainly　not　an　insurance　agent。　The　girl‘s　jewelry　looked　cheap…showy　even　from　this　distance。　Kelly　slipped　the　car　into　gear；　following。　He　was　able　to　lay　back。　How　many　white　Caddies　could　there　be？　he　wondered；　crossing　the　river；　three　cars　back；　eyes　locked　on　his　target　while　peripheral　parts　of　his　mind　dealt　with　the　other　traffic。　Once　he　had　to　risk　a　ticket　at　a　traffic　light；　but　otherwise　the　tracking　was　simple。　The　Caddy　stopped　at　the　entrance　to　an　upscale　hotel；　and　he　saw　the　girl　get　out；　and　walk　towards　the　door；　her　stride　a　mixture　of　the　businesslike　and　the　resigned。　He　didn‘t　want　to　see　her　face　all　that　closely；　afraid　of　what　memories　might　result　from　it。　This　was　not　a　night　for　emotion。　Emotion　was　what　had　given　him　the　mission。　How　he　acplished　it　had　to　e　from　something　else。　That　would　be　a　constant　struggle；　Kelly　told　himself；　but　one　he　would　have　to　contend　with　successfully。　That　was；　after　all；　why　he‘d　e　to　this　place；　on　this　night。
The　Cadillac　moved　on　a　few　more　blocks；　finding　a　parking　place　by　a　seedy；　flashy　bar　close　enough　to　the　nice　hotels　and　businesses　that　a　person　could　walk　there　quickly；　yet　never　be　far　from　the　safety　and　fort　of　civilized　safety。　A　fairly　constant　stream　of　taxicabs　told　him　that　this　aspect　of　local　life　had　a　firm；　institutional　foundation。　He　identified　the　bar　in　question　and　found　himself　a　place　to　park　three　blocks　away。
There　was　a　dual　purpose　in　parking　so　far　from　his　objective。　The　walk　in　along　Decatur　Street　gave　him　both　a　feel　for　the　territory　and　a　look　at　likely　places　for　his　action。　Surely　it　would　be　a　long　night。　Some　short…skirted　girls　smiled　at　him　as　mechanically　as　the　changing　of　the　traffic　lights；　but　he　walked　on；　his　eyes　sweeping　left　and　right　while　a　distant　voice　reminded　him　of　what　he　had　once　thought　of　such　gestures。　He　silenced　that　voice　with　another；　more　current　thought。　His　clothes　were　casual；　what　a　moderately　fortable　man　might　wear　in　this　humid　heat　and　heavy　atmosphere；　dark　and　anonymous；　loose　and　baggy。　They　proclaimed　money；　but　not　too　much；　and　his　stride　told　people　that　he　was　not　one　to　be　trifled　with。　A　man　of　understated　substance　having　a　discreet　night　on　the　wild　side。
He　walked　into　Chats　Sauvages　at　eight…seventeen。　His　initial　impression　of　the　bar　was　smoke　and　noise。　A　small　but　enthusiastic　rock　band　played　at　the　far　end。　There　was　a　dance　floor；　perhaps　twenty…five　feet　square；　where　people　his　age　and　younger　moved　with　the　music；　and　there　was　Pierre　Lamarck；　sitting　at　a　table　in　the　corner　with　a　few　acquaintances；　or　so　they　seemed　from　their　demeanor。　Kelly　walked　to　the　men‘s　room；　both　an　immediate　necessity　and　an　opportunity　to　look　the　place　over。　There　was　another　extrance　on　the　side；　but　no　closer　to　Lamarck‘s　table　than　the　one　through　which　both　he　and　Kelly　had　entered。　The　nearest　path　to　the　white　Caddy　led　past　Kelly‘s　place　at　the　bar；　and　that　told　him　where　his　perch　had　to　be。　Kelly　ordered　a　beer　and　turned　conveniently　to　watch　the　band。
At　nine…ten　two　young　women　came　to　Lamarck。　One　sat　on　his　lap　while　the　other　nibbled　at　his　ear。　The　other　two　men　at　the　table　watched　with　neutral　interest　while　both　women　handed　over　something　to　him。　Kelly　couldn‘t　tell　what　it　was　because　he　was　looking　towards　the　band；　careful　not　to　stare　too　often　in　Lamarck‘s　direction。　The　pimp　solved　that　problem　immediately：　it　turned　out；　unsurprisingly；　to　be　cash；　and　the　man　somewhat　ostentatiously　wrapped　the　bills　around　a　roll　removed　from　his　pocket。　Flash　money；　Kelly　had　troubled　himself　to　learn；　an　important　part　of　a　pimp‘s　public　image。　The　first　two　women　left；　and　Lamarck　was　soon　joined　by　another；　in　what　became　an　intermittent　stream　that　didn‘t　stop。　His　table　mates　enjoyed　the　same　sort　of　traffic；　Kelly　saw；　sipping　their　drinks；　paying　cash；　joshing　with　and　occasionally　fondling　the　waitress　who　served　them；　then　tipping　her　heavily　by　way　of　apology。　Kelly　moved　from　time　to　time。　He　removed　his　jacket；　rolling　up　his　sleeves；　to　present　a　different　image　to　the　bar‘s　patrons；　and　limiting　himself　to　two　beers；　which　he　nursed　as　carefully　as　he　could。　Tedious　as　it　was；　he　disregarded　the　unpleasant　nature　of　the　evening；　instead　noticing　things。　Who　went　where。　Who　came　and　left。　Who　stayed。　Who　lingered　in　one　place。　Kelly　soon　started　recognizing　patterns　and　identifying　individuals　to　whom　he　assigned　names　of　his　own　creation。　Most　of　all　he　observed　everything　there　was　to　see　about　Lamarck。　He　never　took　off　his　suit　jacket；　kept　his　back　to　the　wall。　He　talked　amiably　with　his　two　panions；　but　their　familiarity　was　not　that　of　friends。　Their　joking　was　too　affected。　There　was　too　much　emphasis　on　their　interactive　gestures；　not　the　casual　fort　that　you　saw　among　people　whose　pany　was　shared　for　some　purpose　other　than　money。　Even　pimps　got　lonely；　Kelly　thought；　and　though　they　sought　out　their　own　kind；　theirs　was　not　friendship　but　mere　association。　The　philosophical　observations　he　put　aside。　If　Lamarck　never　t