The Mad and the Bad

28

Hartog, his features drawn and his lower lip covered with cold sores and fading bite marks, was slumped in a chaise lounge on a tiled deck. An enormous glass with a sprig of mint trailing in it sat on the ground beside him alongside an overflowing ashtray. A stained cigarette dangled from the redhead’s mouth. Dark glasses hid his eyes. He was wearing white pants and a mesh undershirt.

Dédé, the driver, wearing a dark suit, tiptoed up to him from behind.

“Any news?” asked the redhead between gritted teeth.

“The second goon died on the way to the hospital. The roadblocks have come up with nothing yet. The police are combing the region by helicopter.”

“I don’t understand what happened,” muttered Hartog. “Where has she gone, that loony bitch?”

The driver shrugged, stuck his hands in his pockets, and let his gaze wander over the Mediterranean, which was slapping at the pebbles below the deck.