George looked at him a moment, finally sighed, and swung his chair about. He searched the top of the small bar a moment, found a bottle that suited him, and poured a generous drink. He swung back, leaned over, and placed the glass on the far side of the desk.
“This is some of the finest cognac to ever come out of France. I hope you appreciate it.”
Dondero showed his appreciation by clasping the glass in both hands, upending it, and taking the drink down in one gulp. He shuddered, grimaced, caught his breath, and then wiped his mouth on the back of one of his cuffed hands. He wiped that hand on his trouser leg and belched.
“Okay, I guess.” He looked around the room and his eye fell on the sofa. “Hey, you know, the bed in that figlio de madre carcere, nobody can sleep on her. Guanciale, she’s like stone.” He suddenly yawned and came to his feet. “Hey, we talk in the morning, huh? Right now I think I sleep.”
George’s big hand slammed down on the desk in sudden fury; Dondero’s empty glass jumped. Dondero looked down on the bearded man with a faint sneer.
“What’s a matter?”
“Sit down.”
The voice was dangerously quiet. Dondero shrugged and sat down again. “Okay, I sit. Now, what’s a matter?”
“The matter,” George said through his teeth, “is that we didn’t get you out of jail just to watch you drink or watch you sleep. We—”
“Yeah,” Dondero said, interested. “Why did you get me out of jail?”
“You know damn well! Where is the stuff?”
“Stuff?” Dondero looked puzzled. “I don’ know what you talk about, you know?”
George took a deep breath and slowly exhaled it, managing to keep himself under control. He studied the insolent look on Dondero’s face a moment and spoke quietly and clearly.
“Now, look, my friend. Listen and listen carefully. Before you continue with this charade about now knowing what I’m talking about, do you remember your friend Lazaretti?”
“Lazaretti ain’ no friend of mine!”
“Lazaretti,” George said slowly, “is no friend of anyone at the moment, unless it’s the crabs on the bottom of the bay. You are probably not aware of it, but we first thought Lazaretti was the man we wanted, and last night we got our hands on him in what the police thought was a trade for their sergeant. In any event, before he died — and he died very poorly, my friend — he talked, or tried to talk. His English was practically nonexistent, and I had no intention of bringing anyone else into the deal just to serve as a translator. Still, he did make enough sense for us to gather that he was merely the bodyguard. You were the courier—”
Dondero wrinkled his forehead; it was not all acting. He looked like a man who was doing his best to understand someone speaking too rapidly in a language he didn’t thoroughly understand. Still, he got the general idea. What he needed were details.
“Courier? What’s a courier?”
“You still want to be cute, eh? A courier, my friend, is a man who carries things from one country to another. You brought the stuff in. You brought it in for someone else, it’s true — and that someone else is just stupid enough to be waiting for you to get out of jail to take delivery — but I’m afraid it will be a little late for him by then.”
Dondero maintained a poker face. Now, at least, the whole thing made sense. Although how knowing what it was all about could help him at the moment was still one of the great mysteries. He brought his attention back to George and studied him through narrowed eyes.
“You think you know so much, maybe you don’t know as much as you think you know.”
George smiled. “No? You think I’m guessing? I don’t go to this much trouble for guesses, my friend. You brought two and a half kilos of Turkish pure into this country a week ago. Let’s stop playing games. I want to know where you hid it.”
Dondero sneered. “An’ if I don’ tell you, then I gonna end up in the water with Lazaretti, huh?” He shook his head. “Then nobody ever goin’ to find it, huh?”
The bearded man considered the tough unshaven face across from him for several moments, then took a deep breath.
“All right, Patrone. You can be broken, and if you think you can’t, you’re wrong. Your share in the deal is so damn small, anyway, that you’d crack the first time you started to hurt. But I’m getting tired of wasting time. So I won’t even threaten you — I’ll talk business with you.”
Dondero nodded. “That’s better. I don’ like threats, you know?”
“And I don’t like to make them. Let me put it this way — I know more about the deal than you think. You were paid the equivalent of five thousand dollars to bring the stuff in and deliver it. Five thousand lousy dollars!” He leaned forward, impressively. “If you’d even consider handing it over for that, you’re a bloody fool. You’ve got a fortune there, man! Come in with me and we’ll split right down the middle. I’ve got the best distribution system in the world, one that nobody can touch. Right here in this building I’ve got a system that makes all the rest of them look silly. No pushers, no street-corner exchanges in front of half the town, no kids selling in some dumb locker room. No chance, in short, of getting caught. Come on, Vito — come on in! It makes sense all around.”
Dondero appeared to think about it. “Sure,” he said at last. “It makes sense, but it only makes sense for you. I go for any deal like that, then the guy who hire me in Italy, he get mad, and I go down the street in Roma someday, and bang! bang!” Despite the manacles he managed to raise a pointed finger to his head, triggered by his thumb. “Then Vito Patrone, he’s just a memory. Like Lazaretti.” He shook his head dolorously. “I don’ like it.”
“Listen!” George said fiercely, scenting victory without the waste of time involved in torture, “don’t be a bloody fool! You don’t have to go back to Italy! You can be in Mexico tomorrow, or anywhere else you want to be! Hell, your share would be a kilo and a quarter of Turkish pure, and do you have any idea of what that’s worth when I get through cutting it and spreading it around? Man, you can pick your spot — Hong Kong, Rio de Janeiro, Sydney — and live like a king!”
“Yeah, but—”
“But, what?”
“Hey, you know, them guys, they trusted me—”
George came as close to snorting as he ever permitted himself.
“Trusted you? Trusted you? Who do you think you’re kidding? A man who made his living showing tourists the Trevi Fountain and the Spanish Steps, and then stole some loose change from their purses? Did you think I didn’t know that? Trusted you? What do you think Lazaretti was doing traveling with you?” He waved that phase of the matter away as being of minor importance. “In any event, they wouldn’t use you as a courier again, if you handed it over to them or not. Once is par for the course. I mean, they never use the same courier twice; why take the chance? So where does that leave you? Back to rolling little old ladies from Iowa for lunch money! Man, get smart!”
Dondero appeared to be thinking about it. “I don’ know,” he said at last, slowly. “I don’ know...” He looked around the room as if seeking some divine inspiration in arriving at so momentous a decision, and then spotted the sofa. He turned back to George, nodding his head. “I know. I sleep on it.”
“Sleep on it, nothing! You’ll tell me—”
Dondero’s jaw hardened. “I sleep on it,” he said simply.
George studied the tough face across from him a moment and then came to a decision, nodding. “All right, you sleep on it,” he said. “You get a good night’s rest and we’ll talk about it in the morning.”
“I sleep on it,” Dondero said vaguely, and came to his feet, turning toward the comfortable-looking sofa. He suddenly seemed to realize he was still encumbered by the handcuffs. He raised them. “Hey, how about taking these off? I don’ sleep so good with them on.”