The Death Dealers Read Online Free

nothing to be funny about, nothing at all. Five thousand miles away one of my own could be dying a slow and painful death. Or be already dead. And I had to play the cool end.

chapter 2
    The early A.M. editions of the papers had a few squibs in them about the arrival of the foreign dignitaries. None of the news services had enough information on Teish El Abin to do more than give a sketchy account of the colorful background of the country, Teish’s position in his kingdom’s affairs and its proximity to the major Arabian governments. Each story mentioned his engagement to the younger Vey Locca and his attachment to his chief adviser, Sarim Shey. Only one of the Washington columns hinted at the reason for his visit and even then the supposition was closely guarded in ambiguity.
    I put the paper down, showered and got dressed. Down below the hotel the symphony of the city had started with the dawn, garbage cans and sirens announcing a new day. When I reached the street a few drunks were arguing on the comer until a beat cop crossed over and they took off mumbling to themselves. Taxis on the early shift slowed down hopefully at each comer, checking for possibles. Two hours later you’d get a go-by with a growl for trying to flag an occupied, but right now they were on their best behavior. I walked down a way to the Carnegie Deli, got a Danish and the best coffee in New York, then took a dime from my change and got into a pay phone.
    Jack Brant was one of the few rugged individualists left. After the war he took a fleet of Cats into Israel, moved on into other areas screaming for development, fought flies, heat, dirt and natives with his team of bulldozers, helped irrigate half the deserts in the world and wound up in Saudi Arabia with an oil company until he got disgusted with the political system, plowed under a couple of gooks who tried to kill him and got out before they could stick his head on a pole in the middle of the street.
    I hadn’t seen him for five years and he hadn’t changed a bit. When he answered he said, “What the hell do you want! You know what time it is?”
    “Sure.”
    One word was enough. He stopped short, said something under his breath, then: “Damn! Tiger! You old son of a sheik! Where the blazes are you?”
    “Across the river from you. I didn’t think you’d still be in Brooklyn.”
    “Man, they don’t shoot at you over here. Look, what’s going?”
    “Need help, buddy.”
    “Oh boy.” He laughed then and added, “I’m afraid to ask. The last time you gave me the pitch we mounted fifty-calibers on a Cat and took off after an army. I’m too old for that stuff any more.”
    “So I won’t ask.”
    “Nuts to you. Where do we meet?”
    “How about the Automat on Sixth and Forty-fifth?”
    “Give me about an hour and a half.”
    “Shake it.”
    How do you say hello to an old friend who played guns with you against a common enemy? How do you say hello to a guy ready to go without being asked even if he wasn’t ready any more? You grin, hold out your hand and take it up like there was no time in between the last time and even if the years have left their mark it doesn’t show because you know how the other guy is inside and that’s one thing that never changes.
    I had the coffees ready, but like all the heavy equipment men, he wasn’t satisfied until he loaded a tray army style and had it down in front of him. Jack was one guy I could talk to and knew it stopped there. He had seen our operation in action, been part of it twice and knew how we felt. I gave him the details as fast as I could and watched him soak it up, judging each sentence and trying to correlate it with what he knew.
    When I finished he sat back, nodded and said, “Where do I fit in?”
    “The last time you came back from Saudi you took some of your men with you who begged to get out of there. You smuggled them in, got them new identities and they’re still here. Right?”
    Jack nodded, frowning.
    “They know