A Crying Shame Read Online Free PDF Page B

said,I am not unknown in ... ah ... shall we say ... certain law-enforcement circles.”
    Dr. Thurman rose from his squat beside the carcass of the dead beast.I read an article about you a couple of years ago,” he said to Jon Badon.You’re a damned mercenary.”
    Badon bowed slightly. Au contraire, Docteur. I am, or at least, was, a professional soldier of fortune. Mercenary has such an ugly ring to it, don’t you agree?”
    The doctor snorted his contempt for men who make their living fighting in this war or the other. He was appalled by the number of people who seemed to be fascinated by the lives of mercenaries. Violent people, the lot of them. And to show movies about them on television—where young minds might be molded and shaped by their example. Violence-minded men. Entirely too much violence on TV and in the movies. All that should be taken off TV ... immediately. Show nothing but sports. Football, preferably. Now there was something a young man should set his eyes upon. No violence there, certainly. A perfect example of good, fine, clean-living men. Men who lived exemplary lives: no gambling, doping, womanizing. None of that there. And the good doctor liked to watch the players mix it up on the field; hated it when the camera swung away from a good brawl. Nothing wrong with a good fist fight, now and then.
    The good doctor, like so many others, needed, as the young people put it,to get his shit together.”
    Jon Badon pegged the good doctor immediately. He had seen his type all over the world. The left hand didn’t really know what the right hand was doing—to put it as subtly as possible.
    Why did you call this . . .”—Mike pointed to the dead creature—hairy bastard a Link?”
    Isn’t every living creature a link of some sort?” was Badon’s reply.
    Dr. Thurman snorted.
    Mack looked at the soldier of fortune and concluded, with a professional lawman’s eye, that this big dude would probably be hell on wheels in any kind of fight.
    Joe Ratliff muttered, under his breath,Devil’s beasts, that’s what they are.”
    Sheriff Saucier looked at Badon.I think we’d better have a chat, Badon.”
    That odd smile.I rather suspected you’d say that Sheriff.”
    Â 
    Jon Badon,’ ” Mike read from the teletype just received from the FBI.‘No middle name. Born Jeanerette, Louisiana. Age forty-three. Ran away from home at age thirteen, after parents died in automobile accident. Made his way overseas as cabin boy on a freighter. At age fifteen, enlisted in the French Foreign Legion. Assumed name; lied about age. Fought in southeast Asia as legionnaire, wounded at Dien Bien Phu in 1954. Captured. Escaped. Recaptured. Escaped. Made his way south to freedom. Completed enlistment in FFL. Fought as paid mercenary in southeast Asia, under contract to U.S. Government 1960-64. Mercenary in Africa since mid-sixties.’ ” Mike lifted his eyes.Africa, among other places, that is.”
    Jon shrugged, lifting his heavy shoulders.One must make a living where one can, Sheriff.”
    Mike grunted.‘Expert in all types of firearms, explosives, hand-to-hand combat. Should be considered extremely dangerous. No wants or warrants on record in U.S. or from Interpol. Temperament: can range from suave to violent; known to have killed on contract four times. No prosecution.’ ” He looked up from the paper.Why weren’t you tried, Badon?”
    Jon’s smile was wan.Because I killed on orders from your government, Saucier.” He smiled as the sheriff shifted in his chair at the use of his last name.Or should I say a branch of it?”
    Again, that grunt from Mike. Badon wondered why the man did not take off his dark glasses inside.‘Dropped out of sight in ’78 and surfaced in late ‘78, working for scientific investigation teams, made up of doctors and scientists from half a dozen countries, headed by