I had a couple of bogus driver's licenses for names I had used before a long time ago. I looked at all the expensive clothes and shoes and sighed in frustration at not being able to take any of them.I dressed in jeans and a wool sweater with a hood to cover my face when I exited under the camera's eye.I could hear Tony shouting in his office on the first floor and I hoped it was business and not about me or my torrid past.The garage held a half-dozen high-priced autos but I went right past them to my older model Chevy with the law-enforcement chase package. It was my baby and I needed someone I could trust right at the moment.Fortunately, a flight of helicopters from the nearby Air Force base covered the sounds of my engine and the squeaky gate not yet manned for the evening. I slid down the hill with some dislocation of gravel because I was still real nervous.When I got out on the highway, I turned west to Los Angeles and blended into the normal traffic pattern leaving Las Vegas. I. He emerged into the bar of La Belle Aurore. Rick, the owner, was sitting at a table near the bar. On the far side of the room Sam, the bar's pianist and one of the finest jazz musicians in Paris, was chatting with the small knot of girls that had gathered around him as he improvised a short tune at the keyboard.Clegg leant on the bar and ordered a Pastis. He turned to Rick. "One for you?" he asked.Richard Blaine looked up from the table and shook his head. "Come on Freddie," he said. "You know I never drink with customers."Freddie looked apologetic. "Sorry," he said. "I guess you've got other things on your mind right now, too." Haven't we all?" Rick nodded towards the open door of the café. Outside the streets were quiet except for the not so distant thump of German artillery. The sound of the shell fire was louder, closer, than it had been that morning. Clegg looked down at the milky coloured drink, pondering for a few moments whether he preferred the smoother French take on aniseed.
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