Bill Meilen
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DELTA TWO

 

“How soon can you get copy through?” “Tomorrow...what is your deadline?”

Leatherman thought for a moment.” Nineteen hundred hours.”

“Thank you. Bonsoir M'sieu.”

“Bonsoir.” Leatherman dropped the receiver with a click, waited a second, picked it up again and dialled a number.

“Hullo, Charlie boy?”

“Hi, what’s cooking good-looking?”

“Can you arrange imediately for a friend for eighteen hundred hours at Trocadéro Tabac tomorrow evening?”

“Sure—likes and dislikes?”

“That’s easy. Obispo.”

“Got you. He likes slim, dark, tanned that is.” ”Affirmative. But a total vike. No touchy, only plenty lookee, know what I mean.”

”He likes long hair?”

”A must. I admire your taste, sir.”

”Don't mention it. It’s a talent I have. Age?”

“Young, fresh imperative.”

“Contributing to the delinquency of French minors again?”

Leatherman smiled. “Pipe down, Charlie and get on the line. Eighteen hundred at Trocadéro Tabac, corner table.”

“Roger.” There was a click and the line went dead.

Leatherman walked into the kitchen. He broke a large fresh egg into a crystal tumbler, doused it with Worcester sauce, vinegar and salt before swallowing it with a gulp. It is only of psychological value, but I’ll need even that little support if Obispo the Vike is to be kept happy.

 

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