The Take

by Christopher Reich

  Simon shook himself awake. He’d been dozing.

  He rose from the bed and opened his laptop, typing in “Le Galleon Rouge.” A map showed its location on a side street not far from the Place des Vosges. There was a picture of the bar, too. A sign above the door advertised its name. Otherwise, there was no indication what was inside. Le Galleon Rouge was not trawling for customers.

  He closed the laptop and went to the closet. He didn’t need Nikki Perez to tell him how to dress. Black V-neck T-shirt, jeans, and ankle boots with zippers. Crucifix and braided chain around the neck. Pinkie ring with amethyst. Pomade for his hair. He’d come prepared. But the clothing was only window dressing. His entry card to Le Galleon Rouge was inked on his forearm. The tattoo designating him as a member of La Brise de Mer.

  Two tasks remained before he could go. First, he accessed an app on his laptop, checked that the wireless connection was robust, and set it to record. Then he opened his metal briefcase—or as he liked to think of it, his “bag of tricks”—and removed his newest addition. The StingRay was the size and shape of a fat pack of cigarettes, made of black metal. The only visible controls were an on/off switch and a tiny bulb that burned green to indicate the unit was activated. Originally, it had been designed to allow law enforcement authorities to locate and track cellular phones, and it worked by mimicking a wireless carrier’s cell tower in order to force all nearby mobile phones to connect to it instead of the real tower. Simon had opted to purchase the latest version, code-named Hailstorm. Hailstorm attracted all calls in a given location, recorded their conversations, and, by a trick of wizardry, collected all data stored on those phones. Emails, texts, call logs, photographs—everything. It was an indiscriminate beast that cared as much about an individual’s privacy as a Peeping Tom. At twenty thousand dollars a copy, it had better be.

  Satisfied he was giving the enemy as little chance as possible, Simon slipped the StingRay unit into his jacket pocket and turned to his last bit of business. The sardines.

  He ate them with plenty of toast and butter and didn’t bother brushing his teeth when he’d finished.

  When in Rome…

  On the way out of the room, he passed a full-length mirror. A low-class, street-smart hoodlum stared back. He froze, shaken by the image. He was looking at the man he’d almost become.

  Somewhere—in heaven or in hell—Monsignor Paul was smiling.

  A fifteen-minute cab ride took Simon to the Marais. He got out at the Église Saint-Paul-Saint-Louis and walked a block to the Rue des Rosiers. Le Marais was an historical district popular with tourists. The streets were lined by old government buildings, maisons de villes, and churches dating from the fourteenth century. At night, when traffic quieted and the sidewalks grew deserted, it was easy to lose one’s place in time. Even now, Simon could imagine the wheels of a tumbrel cart clattering over the cobblestones, delivering its unfortunate charge to the Place de la Concorde for his date with the guillotine.

  He spotted the sign for Le Galleon Rouge. In ten steps, he was miles away from the quaint, clean streets. Garbage bags lined the sidewalk. Pools of grease sullied the road. Urban music blared from an open window. The side street was like any other gritty alley in the wrong part of town.

  Nearing the bar, Simon slipped the StingRay from his pocket and dropped it behind one of the garbage bags. A man stood near the entry, leaning unsteadily against the wall. He looked at Simon, then pushed open the door with one arm. “Salut.”

  “Salut.” Simon stepped inside, pausing to allow his eyes to adjust to the low light. It was a small room, choked with cigarette smoke, tables to one side, video poker games on the wall, and a foosball table in the corner. At 10:30, the place was half full but lively, a few couples dancing to Italian disco music. He walked to the bar and propped his elbows on the counter, aware that all eyes were on him. He might look like one of them, but he was an outsider, and outsiders were not to be trusted.

  He ordered a beer and remained standing, facing straight ahead. The bartender set the glass on the counter. “Visiting?”

  “Quick trip.”

  “Know anyone in town?”

  “I’ve been away for a while.”

  The bartender’s eyes gave him the once-over. He saw the tattoo and the penny dropped. “This one’s on the house.”

  Simon raised his glass.

  The bartender left and Simon gave a look over his shoulder. The place was filling up, mostly men in their thirties and forties and their dates. The women ranged from brassy blondes showing too much flesh to dark-haired matrons who looked like they’d come straight from Mass. From the corner of his eye, he noticed the bartender speaking to an older man at the end of the counter. The man’s eyes turned to Simon. He smiled faintly and made his way over. “Mind?” he asked, pointing at an empty stool.

  “All yours.”

  “Luca Falconi,” he said.

  “Simon Ledoux.” If he was visiting the old gang, he might as well use his old name.

  Falconi offered a meaty hand. He was pushing sixty, wavy hair dyed black as oil, an extra thirty pounds hanging from his gut. “Laurent told me you’d been away. Where were you, on vacation?”

  “Down south.”

  “Les Baums?”

  Simon nodded and sipped his beer. “It was a while ago. I’ve been out of the country a few years.”

  “What brings you here?”

  “Looking for a friend.”

  “Maybe I can help.”

  “His name is Tino Coluzzi. We go way back.”

  “Coluzzi, eh?” Falconi made a show of searching for the name, eyes moving here and there, mouth twisted in puzzlement. To Simon’s eye, it was a poor performance. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “He’s a little taller than me. Better looking. I heard he liked this place.”

  “Really? Where’d you hear that?”

  “Nowhere special. In fact, we did some work together back in the day.”

  “Can’t help you. Not a name to me.”

  “Too bad. I wanted to give him a message. You see, he has something I’m looking for. He might have found it by accident, but he needs to give it back. Otherwise, he could get into a lot of trouble. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to him.”

  “Sounds serious.”

  “It is what it is.”

  Falconi considered this, his eyes never leaving Simon’s. “What did you say your name was again?”

  “Ledoux. Simon Ledoux.”

  “Well, Mr. Ledoux, like I said, I can’t help you.”

  “Tell him there’s still time. No hard feelings. Just in case you remember.”

  Falconi raised his glass. “Stay out of trouble.”

  “I’ll try.” Simon went back to minding his own business. Falconi disappeared into the back office. Simon had a good idea what he was up to. It looked like Nikki Perez was right about this being Coluzzi’s hangout.

  Chapter 30

  Tino Coluzzi was asleep when the phone rang. He sat up and checked the number before answering.

  “Yeah, Luca,” he said. “What is it?”

  “Something’s up. A guy’s in here asking about you.”

  “A cop?”

  “It’s not about Sunday. All the boys are keeping their mouths shut.”

  “Then why are you bothering me?”

  “The guy’s one of us.”

  “La Brise?”

  “Yeah.”

  Coluzzi rubbed his eyes, still half-asleep. “Recognize him?”

  “Never seen him before, but he says he knows you.”

  “Who is he, then?”

  “Ledoux.”

  The name rocked him like a swift kick in the nuts. “Say again.”

  “Ledoux. Says he’d heard you liked to hang out here. And he wanted to give you a message.”

  “What’s that?”

  “He thinks that you might have something he wants. Something you found by accident but that you need to give back. You know what he’s talking abo
ut?”

  Coluzzi was fully awake now and on edge. Still, he needed time to put everything together. He rose and stalked through the small, low-ceilinged house, throwing open the doors to the terrace and stepping outside.

  He called the place Le Coual, and it was situated far off the beaten path on a promontory overlooking the sea twenty kilometers outside Marseille. He’d built the place himself over the course of two summers not long after he’d gotten out of prison. He’d learned at a young age that he needed a place to lay up from time to time. A place where no one could find him, friend or foe. The line between the two could be razor thin, and subject to change without notice.

  “You there?” asked Falconi.

  “Yeah, I’m here.” Coluzzi put a foot on the retaining wall and breathed in the sea air. A thousand feet below him the ocean crashed against the rocky shoreline. “I got no idea what he means. I don’t have anything that belongs to him.”

  “He said there’s still time. No hard feelings. Mean anything to you?”

  “Nah. Nothing.”

  “You think he’s talking about the other day?”

  “Of course not. Anyway, it’s impossible. It can’t be Ledoux.”

  “You sure? He said you two did some work together a while back.”

  “What’s he look like?”

  “Black hair, not too big, green eyes. About forty. Just a regular guy. Oh yeah…and a scar on his forehead.”

  “A scar?”

  “A nasty one. Like a fishhook.”

  Coluzzi remembered delivering the blow, swinging the sharpened stick of iron, putting all of his weight into it, all of his anger, all of his fear. “No, no,” he said. “That can’t be. No way.”

  “I almost forgot. His first name is Simon.”

  Coluzzi felt the wind against his scalp, heard the breakers crashing on the rocks far below. But in his mind, he was back in the prison yard, standing over Ledoux’s unmoving body, the sun beating down, thinking he’d never seen so much blood in his life. “Listen to me, Luca. There’s no way Simon Ledoux can be in Paris.”

  “So you do know him?” said Falconi with relief. “I thought something was up.”

  “Know him?” said Coluzzi. “I killed him.”

  Chapter 31

  A voluptuous brunette with cunning dark eyes and ruby-red lipstick took Falconi’s place next to Simon. She set her purse on the counter, then arranged her hair, giving him a look he was too experienced to misinterpret. Her name was Raquel. He bought her a few drinks and listened to her hard-luck story. She was just what he needed to keep an eye on the place.

  Luca Falconi had installed himself at a table in the far corner. He was seated with a fidgety man with sideburns and a thick mustache, and a svelte blonde who looked too sophisticated for the place. Simon allowed his gaze to linger, letting the restless guy see him, guessing that this might be the Giacomo Nikki had mentioned.

  Raquel was getting drunk quickly and laid a hand on Simon’s thigh. “Hey,” she said huskily. “Why don’t you take me to someplace nice?”

  “Any ideas?”

  “I’ll bet you live someplace nice.”

  Simon smiled. She smiled back. The woman’s eyes were glazed and her mouth had a sloppy habit of hanging open at one side. He leaned closer. “You’re right,” he said invitingly. “I do. But you’re not ever going to see it.”

  The woman quaffed the rest of her drink before grabbing her purse and walking toward the ladies’ room. As Simon’s eyes followed her, he observed that Falconi and his nervous friend had been joined by two men, both of whom looked like they came from the enforcement side of the business.

  “Another beer?” asked the bartender.

  “No, thanks. Just the bill.”

  “Didn’t find your friend?”

  “Must be at the wrong place.” Simon paid the bill. When he turned to leave, Falconi and his cronies were blocking his path.

  “Ledoux,” said the one with the mustache.

  “Do I know you?”

  “My name’s Jack,” said the man, not offering a handshake. “You were asking about Tino Coluzzi?”

  “Jack” for Giacomo. No doubt now. Nikki had steered him to the right place.

  “He’s an old friend,” said Simon. “Like I said to Luca.”

  “Is that right?” said Jack. “Maybe we can talk about this outside.”

  “I’m fine here.”

  “It’s confidential,” said Falconi easily, buddy to buddy. “Just take a minute.”

  “Sure thing.” Simon crossed the room in a leisurely manner, the four men close behind. He opened the door and stepped outside. At the end of the alley, a steady stream of pedestrians passed by on the well-lit street. Jack walked in the other direction, deeper into the shadows, before addressing Simon.

  “So you are a friend of Tino?” he asked, more of an accusation than a question.

  “I am.”

  “Because I know all of Tino’s friends. I’ve never seen you or heard him mention you.”

  “We worked for Signor Bonfanti.”

  “Bonfanti,” said Jack, rising up onto his toes. “He’s done. No one cares about him anymore.”

  “Giacomo,” said Falconi. “Show some respect.” The older man directed his attention to Simon. “When did you work for Il Padrone?”

  “A long time ago. Almost twenty years. Don’t remember you.”

  “You wouldn’t. I was away. In Italy. Cremona.”

  “Making violins.” As well as the home of the finest violin manufacturers in Italy, Cremona housed one of Italy’s largest maximum-security prisons.

  “Something like that,” said Falconi. “I need to ask you a couple of questions, then we can all get out of here. What do you say?”

  “I’m listening.”

  “What exactly is it that you think Tino Coluzzi took?”

  “I’ll tell Tino when I see him.”

  “He’d prefer that you tell me.”

  “So you do know him?” Simon said. “You had me going back there. You’re very good, you know. Usually I can tell straight off if someone’s putting me on. But you? I was sure I’d come to the wrong place. The problem was that I was sure Jack had mentioned that he hung out here with Tino.”

  “The hell I did.” Jack looked at Luca. “I’ve never seen this guy in my life.”

  “You also said that Tino was getting a crew together. Mostly guys from back home.”

  Luca Falconi gave Jack a withering glare, shaking his head. It was clearly not the first time Jack’s big mouth had betrayed him.

  “Answer the question,” said Jack, growing more agitated.

  “Tino knows what it is,” said Simon. “I don’t need to tell him. Where is he, by the way? Maybe we can meet up. It’d be good to see him again.”

  “He would like to know who you’re working for,” said Falconi.

  “Like I said, I’ll be more than happy to explain everything to him when I see him. If you want, give him a call. I’ll tell him over the phone.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Didn’t you call him already? I mean, why else are we out here? Bet you surprised him. Not the kind of news I’d want to get in the middle of the night.” Simon laughed. “How’d he take it?”

  Luca Falconi said nothing,

  “Don’t listen to this guy,” said Jack. “He’s not one of us. He’s a cop. Look at him. Why else does he show up now?”

  “Shut up, Jack. Look at his arm.”

  “It’s fake.”

  “I’ll give you a chance to take that back,” said Simon.

  “Whoever you are, Tino doesn’t like you asking questions,” said Falconi.

  Jack took a knife from his pocket and flicked open the blade. Black carbon steel. Serrated along one edge. A gutting knife.

  Instantly, Simon was back in the yard at Les Baums. Instinct took over. Reflexes fired before reason could control them. He slugged Jack in the jaw, dropping him to the ground.

  “Kill him,”
said Falconi.

  The two enforcers moved in quickly, one from either side. Simon heard the click of a switchblade, caught a flash of steel. He threw out a foot and hooked the assailant’s leg, landing him on his back, the man’s head bouncing off the asphalt. The other threw a wild punch that struck Simon’s neck, stunning him. He rolled with the impact, taking two steps, then spinning, anchoring a foot, and putting a fist into the charging man’s sternum. The man stopped cold, mouth opened wide, all of his breath expelled. Simon finished him with an uppercut to the jaw, feeling a knuckle break, grabbing the man by his lapels and tossing him against the wall.

  Two down.

  Jack scrambled to his feet, knife in hand, coming at him, eyes crazed. He lunged at Simon, and Simon retreated. He lunged again, quick as a cat, and Simon felt the blade nick his ribs. He danced to his right, away from the hand brandishing the switchblade. He could feel the blood rolling down his torso. One more scar to brag about.

  To his left, he was aware of Falconi digging into his jacket, but he knew better than to chance a look. He kept his eyes fixed on Jack, on the blade carving tight circles. Simon stumbled, catching his toe on a cobblestone. Jack jumped at once. Simon was ready, his ploy working as expected. He reached for the outstretched hand, finding the wrist, twisting it violently as he dropped to a knee, the bone cracking like a dry branch. The knife fell to the ground. Simon kept hold of the ruined joint, rising as fast as he could, wrenching the arm and forcing Jack to the pavement. Still, Simon didn’t let go. He placed his boot on the man’s shoulder and twisted the arm again. Spiral fracture of the humerus. Shearing of the rotator cuff. Jack screamed. Simon released him.

  Falconi stood a few feet away, arm extended, a compact, nickel-plated pistol glimmering in the darkness. He advanced on Simon, raising the weapon, thumb cocking the hammer.

  “Vaffanculo,” he said. “You are no friend of Tino’s, whoever you are. Simon Ledoux is dead.”

  Simon backed up a step, knowing that no matter how fast he might be, he couldn’t outmaneuver a bullet. “Tell Tino to hit me harder next time.”

  “There won’t be a next time,” said Falconi. “Tino thinks Simon Ledoux is dead. I’m not going to tell him otherwise.”