The Lion Killer (The Dark Continent Chronicles) by James S. Gardner Page A

black attorney. I think that's only natural. Jesse, the law business isn't for the fainthearted. Anytime you can get a competitive edge, you take it. We're here to get justice for our clients. If we make a little money in the process, well, that's all right too. Don't get me wrong, there's nothing wrong with becoming a fifty-thousand-dollar-a-year crusader working over at the county courthouse. If that's what you want out of life, go for it. But if you aspire to something a little more, shall I say, comfortable,” Turner said, opening his palms, “Jesse, we think you'd be perfect for us.”
    “I could ask you a bunch of questions about your firm, but I might say something stupid. If you're sure you want me, I have only one question—when do I start?”
    “What about tomorrow?”
    “Tomorrow works for me.”
    “Good. Earl, bring up a bottle of 1996 Cristal,” he said, activating the intercom on his antique desk.
    “Jesse, I do believe the good Lord's brought us together. Make no mistake about it—we're going to do great things together. Working for Turner and Turner will be the smartest decision you've ever made. You're destined for great things, my friend.”
    They finished the interview with small talk. Jesse sensed Turner wanted to get rid of him. After saying goodbye, the butler showed Jesse to the door.
    Max looked across his manicured lawn at Jesse Spooner's worn-out Chevy pulling out of his driveway. As he shuffled through his mail a hand-addressed envelope caught his attention. The lettering on the envelope was his son's handwriting. Turner's pulse pounded in his ears. It had been posted from Kampala, Uganda on December 11, which was after his son disappeared. Maybe Arthur wrote the letter before he died. Or it could be another extortion attempt. He had difficulty breathing. As he read, his expression turned dark. He reread the last page, crumbled the letter into a ball and threw his champagne glass at the mounted lion. When he screamed, it was bloodcurdling.
    “Mr. Turner—is anything wrong?” his butler asked. Turner didn't answer.
    “Can I get you something?”
    “What? No. I'm fine. What do you want?”
    “Sir, Bob is waiting to see you.”
    “Show him in. Have the maid clean that up.” He pointed at the broken glass.
    Turner peeled back a section of carpet behind his desk. He spun the tumbler in opposite directions. The safe made a clicking sound. He pulled the door open and extracted four twenty-five thousand dollar packets. He closed the safe before Bob was led into the room.
    “Sit down,” Turner demanded. After a pause, he began. “I want you to bug Spooner's apartment. Use the detective we just hired. I'm inviting Spooner to a cocktail party onboard the Liti-Gator Friday night. That should give Gillespie time to break into his apartment. Let's put a tail on Spooner. Everything about this guy seems to be, as advertised. There's too much at stake to take chances. Stay close to him, but not too close.”
    “Is there anything else?”
    “I want you to deliver this envelope to my ex-wife.” Turner put the money in a large manila envelope and slid it across his desk. “Call me if you come across any startling bits of information about Spooner.”
    As soon as Bob closed the door, Max wrote the following wire instructions to his bank in Switzerland:

Dear Sirs:
This is your authorization to transfer one million dollars to Barclays Bank in Kampala, Uganda, Africa. Account number: 4344405T.
Maxwell Turner

    Jesse Spooner checked his rearview mirror. His meeting with Max Turner had gone off without a hitch. It had been almost too easy. He punched the redial button on his cell phone. After he heard the dial tone, he entered his five-digit identifier. “It's Spooner. I'm in. Yes sir, every Friday at eighteen hundred. I understand. Goodbye.”
    ***
    A formally dressed string quartet played softly on the fantail of the Liti-Gator . The music muffled the bouts of counterfeit laughter. Max met his