Peter Temple: White Dog

‘Goodbye Saint Charlie,’ said Drew.

‘Barras,’ I said. ‘Hirer of the penthouse at the River Plaza. He gave Napoleon his big break.’

‘What?’

‘The Comte de Barras. He put Napoleon in charge of defending the French Convention. I never gave it a thought.’

Drew gave me the look. ‘I’m surprised,’ he said. ‘First thing I thought of. Closer to ground level, the word is that Bernie Paech is giving up Haig in return for considerations. And Londregan’s trying to do a deal on a lesser, shaft the much-missed Stedman, now tragically unable to defend himself.’

International departures. Drew parked, kissing the kerb, I winced. I got out and opened the back door to get the bag.

‘Not much luggage,’ he said.

‘I’ll be living off the land, making my own clothing from reindeer hide.’

‘I suppose I should say I’m sorry I got you into all this terrible shit.’

‘Why would you suppose that?’

He looked at me, the long face, the long nose. ‘Why don’t you just fuck off,’ he said, ‘and leave me to total this car?’

I went without a backward glance.