He wrote the options down on paper, feeling foolish, finding no other way to focus his thoughts.
He could just let everything go; Orin would suggest that. Whatever drugs were involved were an infinitesimal amount compared to the tons smuggled in daily, broken into kilos, ounces, grams, stepped on, stepped on again. Another two, three, ten pounds... meaningless.
He could call the police, tell them everything. “And be a martyr,” he said out loud.
He could go to
And then what? And then somehow destroy the drugs. That would end it, that would make Josie’s ordeal at least serve a purpose. It might even make Joe’s ghost go away.
There was a subtle satisfaction to knowing that the late Herbie had somehow managed to swindle the Zulu. Mamadou, who did not particularly believe in an afterlife, nevertheless hoped that somewhere the Zulu’s soul was raging at the theft. Not that it really mattered. They were all dead now, Amelie’s assassins. The Zulu had been the last of them. There only remained one final act to put the universe back into a semblance of order, and that was to wrest the drugs back. By doing that, the shame and horror surrounding Amelie’s last days might at last be put to rest.