narc could come up with on short notice. Bolt was wide awake now. Oh yeah.
Wham!
The taxi banged into the highway, swerved into another lane, miraculously empty at this hour of the morning, and tires squealing, straightened out and kept speeding toward Paris.
Bolt, eyes wide, mouth open, heart scraping his ribs, let the air explode from him, chest collapsing. Shaking his head slowly in nervous anger, he yelled in French, “Jean-Paul, you bastard! If I had wanted to take a plane to my hotel lobby, I would have taken a fucking plane to my hotel lobby! Jesus Christ, you can take your death wish and shove it up your fat French ass! Slow this fucking piece of junk down, goddamn it!”
Jean-Paul Lamazère, forty-two, tall and packed with pink flesh from years of eating his own gourmet cooking, wrinkled his big nose, grinning slowly with a mouth that consisted almost entirely of one thick lower lip. Jean-Paul was enjoying himself. “Get out and walk, you lazy American bastard.” But he eased his huge foot off the accelerator, eyeing the speedometer as it dropped to one hundred and ten kilometers—sixty-eight miles an hour.
John Bolt breathed loudly through his open mouth, slowly shaking his head from side to side, feeling himself calm down and relax as touches of hot anger and cold fear crawled away from him. His stomach was sliding down from his throat now, heading for its rightful place. Hallelujah.
Shit, he liked Jean-Paul Lamazère, but something seemed to snap in that son-of-a-bitch’s head every time he slid behind the wheel of a car. Like most Frenchmen, Jean-Paul was a rotten driver, and like most rotten drivers, he thought he was good. “Tell you something, Jean-Paul. I’d let an alligator chew on my dick before I’d ride around with you again. When am I ever going to learn that you can’t drive, any more than you can give birth to twins? Shit, you get worse the older you get, you know that?”
“Italian drivers are worse,” said Jean-Paul, shrugging his thick shoulders, his eyes on the road. “An Italian driver will run over a pregnant nun.”
“Serves her right. You’re looking good, you fat bastard, did I tell you that? Shit, I’m so tired I don’t know what the fuck’s going on. Yeah, you’re looking good. Eating your own cooking … and speaking of eating, you’re probably getting more ass than a toilet seat.”
Bolt’s red-rimmed eyes looked into the rear-view mirror, locking with Jean-Paul’s large brown eyes and the saggy pink bags under them. Pink bags and thick black eyebrows. Colorful and ugly.
Yeah, Jean-Paul Lamazère was sure ugly to look at. Six feet four inches, overweight, big nose, a mouth with only one lip, a thick lower lip at that, and some people thought it was a kindness to describe the huge French cop as one of God’s bad jokes. That was their mistake. He was smart, tough, incorruptible, in a country where the police force could be bought too often for too little.
And incredibly enough, this big, quiet man who was a superb chef and lived alone in a small house with twelve dogs, was devastating with women, getting more of them than any man Bolt had ever met in his life. God’s bad joke was having the last laugh, because he was one of those rare men born with an indefinable attraction that women recognized immediately and responded to. Whatever the ugly French cop had, it was special, and it worked.
His women were beautiful, shapely, intelligent, rich, poor, and in-between, members of royalty, actresses, journalists, or lovely whores who sought him out and didn’t think of asking for money.
And always the big, ugly cop would be the one to end the affair. He left first, no expression on his face, ignoring tears and shouts, leaving the woman sad, angry, frustrated, shocked, hurt. And wanting to see him again, anytime and on his terms.
How did the ugly bastard do it? Bolt didn’t know. All he knew was that Jean-Paul Lamazère got his hands on more pussy than a
Wham!
The taxi banged into the highway, swerved into another lane, miraculously empty at this hour of the morning, and tires squealing, straightened out and kept speeding toward Paris.
Bolt, eyes wide, mouth open, heart scraping his ribs, let the air explode from him, chest collapsing. Shaking his head slowly in nervous anger, he yelled in French, “Jean-Paul, you bastard! If I had wanted to take a plane to my hotel lobby, I would have taken a fucking plane to my hotel lobby! Jesus Christ, you can take your death wish and shove it up your fat French ass! Slow this fucking piece of junk down, goddamn it!”
Jean-Paul Lamazère, forty-two, tall and packed with pink flesh from years of eating his own gourmet cooking, wrinkled his big nose, grinning slowly with a mouth that consisted almost entirely of one thick lower lip. Jean-Paul was enjoying himself. “Get out and walk, you lazy American bastard.” But he eased his huge foot off the accelerator, eyeing the speedometer as it dropped to one hundred and ten kilometers—sixty-eight miles an hour.
John Bolt breathed loudly through his open mouth, slowly shaking his head from side to side, feeling himself calm down and relax as touches of hot anger and cold fear crawled away from him. His stomach was sliding down from his throat now, heading for its rightful place. Hallelujah.
Shit, he liked Jean-Paul Lamazère, but something seemed to snap in that son-of-a-bitch’s head every time he slid behind the wheel of a car. Like most Frenchmen, Jean-Paul was a rotten driver, and like most rotten drivers, he thought he was good. “Tell you something, Jean-Paul. I’d let an alligator chew on my dick before I’d ride around with you again. When am I ever going to learn that you can’t drive, any more than you can give birth to twins? Shit, you get worse the older you get, you know that?”
“Italian drivers are worse,” said Jean-Paul, shrugging his thick shoulders, his eyes on the road. “An Italian driver will run over a pregnant nun.”
“Serves her right. You’re looking good, you fat bastard, did I tell you that? Shit, I’m so tired I don’t know what the fuck’s going on. Yeah, you’re looking good. Eating your own cooking … and speaking of eating, you’re probably getting more ass than a toilet seat.”
Bolt’s red-rimmed eyes looked into the rear-view mirror, locking with Jean-Paul’s large brown eyes and the saggy pink bags under them. Pink bags and thick black eyebrows. Colorful and ugly.
Yeah, Jean-Paul Lamazère was sure ugly to look at. Six feet four inches, overweight, big nose, a mouth with only one lip, a thick lower lip at that, and some people thought it was a kindness to describe the huge French cop as one of God’s bad jokes. That was their mistake. He was smart, tough, incorruptible, in a country where the police force could be bought too often for too little.
And incredibly enough, this big, quiet man who was a superb chef and lived alone in a small house with twelve dogs, was devastating with women, getting more of them than any man Bolt had ever met in his life. God’s bad joke was having the last laugh, because he was one of those rare men born with an indefinable attraction that women recognized immediately and responded to. Whatever the ugly French cop had, it was special, and it worked.
His women were beautiful, shapely, intelligent, rich, poor, and in-between, members of royalty, actresses, journalists, or lovely whores who sought him out and didn’t think of asking for money.
And always the big, ugly cop would be the one to end the affair. He left first, no expression on his face, ignoring tears and shouts, leaving the woman sad, angry, frustrated, shocked, hurt. And wanting to see him again, anytime and on his terms.
How did the ugly bastard do it? Bolt didn’t know. All he knew was that Jean-Paul Lamazère got his hands on more pussy than a
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