Busted Flush Read Online Free PDF Page B

they’re locked in a dispute with us . . .”
    “Right you are. Clean hands, plausible deniability, and all that.”
    “Is there any way for you to break up this Committee?”
    “I’m trying, but I only have nights. And not every night because Noel Matthews also has a life as a stage magician.”
    “I thought Lilith does her best work at night.”
It’s bizarre hearing ponderous sexual innuendo from those stone lips.
    “Yes, well, but I can only fuck so many men a night, and my choices are a little limited. But if Lohengrin and DB were to go after each other . . .” The image is irresistible—Lohengrin’s sword against DB’s sonic attack. It would be an interesting match-up. “It wouldn’t be hard. Men are so predictable.”
    Flint cocks his head in query.
“Only because you are playing the slut. Why do you do that? Is that how you view women? And you’re not very charitable toward men, either.”
    “Yes, but I hate people. They are universally such shits.”
    “Hmmm.”
And then Flint is back to Africa.
“Try to get posted to Africa. That way we can control the information coming back.”
    All this talk of controlling information and stopping an investigation finally registers in my sleep-deprived mind. “We’re sure nothing is going on in the Niger Delta . . .”
    “Perfectly sure. And we will not allow the PPA to invade on a pretext.”
    “And if they do?”
    “They’ll be dealt with.”
     

     
    The room has a sour, musty smell. I want to open the window, but it’s a raw day with wind and rain squalls. Dad’s breath seems to rattle in his chest, and his skin looks gray. I need to keep him warm.
    I shouldn’t be here. I should be in New York with Lohengrin. But I had to come home. Even though I canceled dinner I can still teleport into Lohengrin’s bed. He’d probably prefer that. To be fair the big German ace doesn’t begrudge the money he spends on me. God knows, he’s got enough with all his product endorsements.
    Thinking about food has my gut clenching with hunger. I can’t remember the last real meal I ate. A cup of tea is at my elbow, and a plate of macaroons I picked up at the bakery sits on the bedside table. But Dad wants me to read to him. Once he falls asleep I’ll eat. He hands over the Bible with a shaking hand. It’s open to the Psalms. I just start reading. They’re all the same to me.
    “ ‘I love the Lord, because he hath heard my voice and my supplications. Because he hath inclined his ear unto me, therefore will I call upon him as long as I live. The sorrows of death compassed me . . .’ ” My voice cracks, and an aching vise closes my throat. “Excuse me.” It comes out as a rasp.
    I plunge into the bathroom until I compose myself. It takes a long time.
     

     
    Wearing loose-fitting clothes that will accommodate Bahir’s bulk I decide to stop at the Highwayman’s favorite watering hole for a pint. I need to wile away another hour until the sun has set. I check my watch. That will put me in New York at 2:00 A.M.
    I don’t particularly enjoy the sweat, diesel, and overcooked boiled vegetable smell that fills the working-class pub, but I like to keep on good terms with my fellow members in the Silver Helix, and I want to hear from Bruckner about his runs to Nigeria. Not that I don’t trust Flint . . . it’s just that I don’t trust anyone. And it was Flint who taught me that.
    From the alley I can see the big lorry parked illegally in front of the pub. There’s the twist and pull as my flesh resumes its normal shape. I tighten the belt a couple of notches and cross the street to the pub. It’s called the Saracen’s Head, and a picture of a turbaned, bearded head with blood flowing from the severed neck adorns the sign. I’m glad the Highwayman doesn’t know that in my other life I’m Bahir.
    Bruckner has seated himself where he can look out a window every few minutes and check on his ride. A bell over the door rings as I enter. Bruckner’s