@@@@@ ?I couldn?t care lessI told you yesterday, 910
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?I couldn?t care lessI told you yesterday, I?ve only got one priority and he?s in Paris, square
one in Argenteuil
?Then I haven?t been clear,? said Alex, his voice faint, the tone defeated?Last night I had
dinner with MoI told him everythingTranquility, your flying to Paris, Bernardine everything!?
A former judge of the first circuit court, residing in Boston, Massachusetts, United States of
America, stood among the small gathering of mourners on the flat surface of the highest hill on
Tranquility IsleThe cemetery was the final resting place?in voce verbatim via amicus curiae, as
he legally explained to the authorities on MontserratBrendan Patrick Pierre Prefontaine watched
as the two splendid coffins provided by the generous owner of Tranquility Inn were lowered into
the ground along with the absolutely incomprehensible blessings of the native priest, who no doubt
usually had the neck of a dead chicken in his mouth while intoning his benediction in voodoo
language?Jean Pierre Fontaine? and his wife were at peace
Nevertheless, barbarism notwithstanding, Brendan, the quasi-alcoholic street lawyer of Harvard
Square, had found a causeA cause beyond his own survival, and that in itself was remarkable
Randolph Gates, Lord Randolph of Gates, Dandy Randy of the Courts of the Elite, was in reality a
scumball, a conduit of death in the CaribbeanAnd the outlines of a scheme were forming in
Prefontaine?s progressively clearer mind, clearer because, among other inhumane deprivations, he
had suddenly decided to do without his four shots of vodka upon waking up in the morningGates
had provided the essential information that led the would-be killers of the Webb family to
Tranquility IsleThat was basically, even legally, irrelevant; the fact that he had supplied
their whereabouts to known killers, with prior knowledge that they were killers, was notThat was
accomplice to murder, multiple murderDandy Randy?s testicles were in a vise, and as the plates
closed, he would?he had to?reveal information that would assist the Webbs, especially the
glorious auburn-headed woman he wished to almighty God he had met fifty years ago
Prefontaine was flying back to Boston in the morning, but he had asked John StJacques if he
might return one dayPerhaps not with a prepaid reservation
?Judge, my house is your house? was the reply
?I might even earn that courtesy
Albert Armbruster, chairman of the Federal Trade Commission, got out of his limousine and
stood on the pavement before the steep steps of his town house in Georgetown?Check with the
office in the morning,? he said to the chauffeur, holding the rear doo
