Thursday, September 30th, 2010

Time	Event
12:25a	Robert Ludlum ?? THE BOURNE ULTIMATUM 290 “Cut... Robert Ludlum ?? THE BOURNE ULTIMATUM 290 “Cut it out!” roared the asshole“Awright, my name’s Nicolo Nicholas Dellacroce, and for even giving you that you gotta get me protection! Like with Valachi, that’s part of the deal “It is?” Holland frowned“I don’t remember mentioning it “Then you don’t get nuthin’!” “You’re wrong, Nicky,” broke in Alex from across the small room“We’re going to get everything we want, the only drawback being that it’s a one-time shotWe won’t be able to crossexamine you, or bring you into a federal court, or even have you sign a deposition “Huh?” “You’ll come out a vegetable with a refried brainOf course, I suppose it’s a blessing in a way You’ll hardly know it when you’re packed into that shell casing in Hatteras “Hey, waddaya talkin’?” “Simple logic,” answered the former naval commando and present head of the Central Intelligence Agency“After our medical team cartier roadster replica gets finished with you, you can’t expect us to keep you around, can you? An autopsy would railroad us to a rock pile for thirty years and, frankly, I haven’t got that kind of timeWhat’ll it be, Nicky? You want to talk to us or do you want a priest?” “I gotta think—” “Let’s go, Alex,” said Holland curtly, walking away from the bed toward the door“I’ll send for a priestThis poor son of a bitch is going to need all the comfort he can get “It’s times like this,” added Conklin, planting his cane on the floor and rising, “when I seriously ponder man’s inhumanity to manIt’s not brutality, for that’s only a descriptive abstraction; it’s merely the custom of the trade we’re all inStill, there’s the individual—his mind and his flesh and his all too sensitive nerve endingsIt’s the excruciating painThank heavens I’ve always been in the background, out of reach—like Nicky’s associatesThey dine in lady dior elegant restaurants and he goes over in a tube beyond the continental shelf, six miles down in the sea, his body imploding into itself “Awright, awright!” screamed Nicolo Dellacroce, twisting on the bed, his obese frame tangling the sheets“Ask your fuckin’ questions, but you give me protection, capisce?” “That depends on the truthfulness of your answers,” said Holland, returning to the bed “I’d be very truthful, Nicky,” observed Alex, limping back to the chair“One misstatement and you sleep with the fishes—I believe that’s the customary phrase “I don’t need no coaching, I know where it’s atDellacroce,” said the CIA chief, taking a small tape recorder out of his pocket, checking the charge and placing it on the high white table by the patient’s bedHe drew up a chair and continued speaking, addressing his opening remarks to the thin silver recorder“My name is Admiral Peter Holland, currently balenciaga motorcycle handbag director of the Central Intelligence Agency, voice confirmation to be verified if necessaryThis is an interview with an informer we’ll call John Smith, voice distortion to follow on interagency master tape, identification in the DCI’s classified filesSmith, we’re going to cut through the bullshit to the essential questionsI’ll generalize them as much as possible for your protection, but you’ll know exactly what I’m referring to and I expect specific answersWhom do you work for, MrSmith?” “Atlas Coin Vending Machines, Long Island City,” replied Dellacroce, his words slurred and spoken gruffly “Who owns it?” “I dunno who owns itMost of us work from home—some fifteen, maybe twenty guys, you know what I mean? We service the machines and send in our reports Robert Ludlum ?? THE BOURNE ULTIMATUM 291 Holland glanced over at Conklin; both men smiledWith one answer the mafioso had placed himself balenciaga blue within a large circle of potential informersNicolo was not new to the game“Who signs your paychecks, MrLouis DeFazio, a very legitimate businessman, to d’best of my knowledgeHe gives us our assignments “Do you know where he lives?” “Brooklyn HeightsOn the river, I think someone told me “What was your destination when our personnel intercepted you?” Dellacroce winced, briefly closing his swollen eyes before answering“One of those drunk-anddope tanks somewhere south of Philly—which you already know, MrBig Shot, ’cause you found the map in the car Holland angrily reached for the recorder, snapping it off“You’re on your way to Hatteras, you son of a bitch!” “Hey, you get your info your way, I give it mine, okay? There was a map—there’s always a map—and each of us has to take those cockamamy back roads to the joint like we were driving the president or even a don superiore to an Appalachian kelly hermes bags mee (Comment on this)
12:25a	“I’ll send for a priestThis poor son of a bitch... “I’ll send for a priestThis poor son of a bitch is going to need all the comfort he can get “It’s times like this,” added Conklin, planting his cane on the floor and rising, “when I seriously ponder man’s inhumanity to manIt’s not brutality, for that’s only a descriptive abstraction; it’s merely the custom of the trade we’re all inStill, there’s the individual—his mind and his flesh and his all too sensitive nerve endingsIt’s the excruciating painThank heavens I’ve always been in the background, out of reach—like Nicky’s associatesThey dine in elegant restaurants and he goes over in a tube beyond the continental shelf, six miles down in the sea, his body imploding into itself “Awright, awright!” screamed Nicolo Dellacroce, twisting on the bed, his obese frame tangling the sheets“Ask your fuckin’ questions, but you give me protection, capisce?” “That depends on the truthfulness of your answers,” said Holland, returning to the bed “I’d be very white prada bag truthful, Nicky,” observed Alex, limping back to the chair“One misstatement and you sleep with the fishes—I believe that’s the customary phrase “I don’t need no coaching, I know where it’s atDellacroce,” said the CIA chief, taking a small tape recorder out of his pocket, checking the charge and placing it on the high white table by the patient’s bedHe drew up a chair and continued speaking, addressing his opening remarks to the thin silver recorder“My name is Admiral Peter Holland, currently director of the Central Intelligence Agency, voice confirmation to be verified if necessaryThis is an interview with an informer we’ll call John Smith, voice distortion to follow on interagency master tape, identification in the DCI’s classified filesSmith, we’re going to cut through the bullshit to the essential questionsI’ll generalize them as much as possible for your protection, but you’ll know exactly what I’m referring to and I expect specific white ceramic chanel watch answersWhom do you work for, MrSmith?” “Atlas Coin Vending Machines, Long Island City,” replied Dellacroce, his words slurred and spoken gruffly “Who owns it?” “I dunno who owns itMost of us work from home—some fifteen, maybe twenty guys, you know what I mean? We service the machines and send in our reports Robert Ludlum ?? THE BOURNE ULTIMATUM 291 Holland glanced over at Conklin; both men smiledWith one answer the mafioso had placed himself within a large circle of potential informersNicolo was not new to the game“Who signs your paychecks, MrLouis DeFazio, a very legitimate businessman, to d’best of my knowledgeHe gives us our assignments “Do you know where he lives?” “Brooklyn HeightsOn the river, I think someone told me “What was your destination when our personnel intercepted you?” Dellacroce winced, briefly closing his swollen eyes before answering“One of those drunk-anddope tanks somewhere south of Philly—which you already know, MrBig Shot, picasso cartier ’cause you found the map in the car Holland angrily reached for the recorder, snapping it off“You’re on your way to Hatteras, you son of a bitch!” “Hey, you get your info your way, I give it mine, okay? There was a map—there’s always a map—and each of us has to take those cockamamy back roads to the joint like we were driving the president or even a don superiore to an Appalachian meetYou gimme that message pad and the pencil, I’ll give you the location right down to the brass plate on the stone gate The mafioso raised his uncased right arm and jabbed his index finger at the DCI“It’ll be accurate, MrBig Shot, because I don’t wanna sleep with no fishes, capisce?” “But you won’t put it on tape,” said Holland, a disturbed inflection in his voice“Why not?” “Tape, shit! What did you call it? An interagency master bullshit? What do you think our people can’t tap into this place? Hoo-hah! That fuckin’ doctor of yours could be one of us!” “He’s not, but sac dolce gabana we’re going to get to an army doctor who is Peter Holland picked up the message pad and pencil from the bedside table, handing both to DellacroceHe did not bother to switch on the tape recorderThey were beyond props and into hardball In New York City, on 138th Street between Broadway and Amsterdam Avenue, the hard core of Harlem, a large disheveled black man in his mid-thirties staggered up the sidewalkHe bounced off the chipped brick wall of a run-down apartment building and slumped down on the pavement, his legs extended, his unshaven face angled into the right collar of his torn army-surplus shirt “With the looks I’m getting,” he said quietly into the miniaturized microphone under the cloth, “you’d think I’d invaded the high colonic white shopping district of Palm Springs “You’re doing beautifully,” came the metallic voice over the tiny speaker sewn into the back of the agent’s collar“We’ve got the place covered; we’ll give you plenty of omega geneve notice (Comment on this)

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