The Riviera Contract

by Arthur Kerns

  Stone breathed in her familiar scent. “What is your diagnosis, Mademoiselle?”

  She took his arm. “You certainly must be more careful. Let us go to your cottage and put ice on your head.”

  “You get hit in the face a lot?” Margaux had found an ice bag in the medicine cabinet and filled it with ice cubes. On the couch, her body touched his side as she pressed the ice bag to his head. After a bit, she let him take the compress from her. She stayed next to him and traced the long scar on his cheek with her index finger. Still examining his face, she ran her finger back and forth along the mark. Stone knew she was deliberately ignoring his eyes. At last, she said, “You must learn to duck your head.”

  They both laughed and as he moved his arm around her shoulder, she pulled back and moved to the far end of the couch. She brought her legs up and discreetly tugged her shirt down. With her arms wrapped around her ankles, she placed her chin on her knees. He let himself enjoy her coquettishness, while they made small talk as the late afternoon sun slipped through the French doors, casting streams of golden light across the rug.

  “You know, I enjoyed our trip to Cuers,” she said. “How did you fare in Luberon?”

  He smiled. “My meal at the restaurant in Les Baux you suggested was excellent. I had wild boar.” He wouldn’t mention his trip to Villefranche.

  For the first time since they had met, he found himself studying her face. She had high cheekbones and a straight nose, not too long. Her full eyebrows were a shade darker than her light brown hair. “On my next trip, perhaps you would like to come along?” he suggested.

  “How do you say it? We shall see.”

  “What’s going on with the Harringtons? Is there a problem with the Foundation finances?”

  She moved her legs off the couch and, with a slight pout, faced the fireplace. “That is not a good question to ask of me. He is my employer and there is a confidence.”

  “You’re right, but obviously the Harringtons are having a hard time and they aren’t keeping that in confidence.” He pointed to the bruise on his head. “Maybe it’s something other than finances?”

  “You Americans are strange … I mean annoying … at times. You think you can fix everything that is wrong with the world.” She shook her head. “Excuse me. What you tried to do, stopping the Harringtons from fighting was good. Everyone else just ran.” She wiggled two fingers to illustrate a person running. “But sometimes it is not good to act on impulsion?”

  “Well, my dear, my impulse now is to eat dinner. I would cook for you, but there is no food in the refrigerator.” She appeared to interpret what he said as a hint that she should leave, so he quickly added. “Let’s go into town and have dinner at your father’s restaurant.”

  Margaux laughed and threw back her head. “Have you met Papa?”

  He told her David had pointed out her father when they had lunch the week before.

  “He will be very interested in meeting you,” she laughed. “He knows we took a road trip together and has asked many times, ‘Who is this Yank?’ I told him you were an old sailor—I read that on the back cover of your book—and he does not like sailors.” She waved her index finger back and forth.

  “Oh great!” As the words came out, he thought of his daughter in her first year of college.

  “Do not frown, Hayden. I will take care of you.”

  “I was thinking I should be watching over my daughter like your father watches over you.” Her raised eyebrows indicated that his being a father was new information. “I have a son and a daughter. The twins are in their first year at university. Who is there to question her suitors? Young university men can be as dangerous as sailors.”

  “Your son can watch after his sister. They are lucky. They are not alone.”

  “You’re right.”

  “So.” Margaux caught his hand. “Off to my family’s restaurant.”

  Archos had only a few cafés and the loyal patrons of Reynard’s restaurant were filing in to occupy the few remaining tables. Animated conversations competed with the clatter of dishes and silverware. Margaux had reserved a table immediately outside the restaurant under an expansive canvas awning. The chairs were painted the same shade of orangey red as the tables and the awning. Their feet rested on the smooth cobblestones. They had a clear view of the harbor, and fifty feet away sailboats, tied up to the quay, rocked gently. In the near distance, high limestone cliffs, grasping scrubby Holm Oaks to their sides, formed a semi-circle around the village. Dusk retained the day’s spring warmth.

  Margaux agreed with Stone that a white wine would be perfect, and she went into the kitchen and returned with a chilled bottle of Cassis with beads of sweat running down its side. He filled their glasses and she raised her glass to him. “A votre santé.”

  The wine was cold and crisp, and the sunlight glimmering through the clear tulip-shaped glass gave off a pale green tint. He tasted a hint of rosemary.

  Her father, pulling a chair from the next table, joined them. With trimmed gray hair, combed back, he looked about ten years older than Stone and gave the impression of a man confident in life. He had a firm handshake. In French, he told Margaux the kitchen was busy and suggested the rascasse for her and her American friend.

  Stone said, also in French, “This wine is delicious, Mr. Reynard. Is it from your vineyard?”

  “Yes it is, Monsieur Stone,” he answered in English, his eyes traveling over Stone.

  Margaux watched her father pull out a pack of cigarettes. “Papa, they are not good for you.” She put her hand on his arm.

  “Do you smoke, Mr. Stone?” Reynard slipped the pack back into his shirt pocket.

  “A cigar now and then. I should have brought a couple with me tonight.”

  “Ah, Madame Reynard forbids cigars in the restaurant.” Reynard smiled at Margaux. “Yes, my dear?”

  Margaux waved at an attractive woman at the far end of the room standing next to the maitre d’hôtel. “I must go talk to Mama,” she said and got up.

  Stone glanced over but couldn’t see her mother clearly. He turned back to Reynard who watched his patrons while tapping his fingers on the table. His heavy gold bracelet clicked on the surface. Stone waited for him to speak. Reynard turned abruptly in his chair and faced him. He started to speak, but stopped, searching Stone’s face. “I see some American writers get battered.”

  “Only when they let their guard down.”

  “My daughter told us you have written books. Are you a serious writer?”

  “Some say I’m too serious.”

  “You people who study at the Foundation stay for only a short time. Then you move on to some other place, no?”

  Stone nodded.

  “Are you married? Do you have a wife back in the United States?”

  “No. I’m divorced.” Stone set his glass down and leaned back in his chair. “You know, I really like it here in Archos. Perhaps I’ll stay a while … maybe write a book about Archos and all the friendly people who live here. What do you think?”

  Margaux slipped back into her chair and anxiously searched both men’s faces. “What were you two discussing?”

  “We were discussing how writers get banged-up faces.” Stone grinned.

  “I must go back to work.” Reynard bowed slightly. “A pleasure to meet you.” The two men rose and Stone observed they both stood at equal height and had the same build. Reynard looked down at his daughter. “Margaux is, as you say, the apple of my eye.” He quickly shook Stone’s hand and moved off to speak with a group of customers seated at a long table.

  Stone sat down and smiled. “Now, I thought that went quite well, don’t you?’

  “Hayden.” She turned and blinked. “You have a lot to learn about the French and my father. Next to inspect you is Mama.”

  Mrs. Reynard came to the table with the fish stew. Her name was Juliette and she had the same dark brown eyes as her daughter and the same color hair, except for a few strands of gray. Her eyes ran over him,
and when she finished her inspection, he felt as if he had been sized up for a new suit.

  “I see good looks run in the family,” Stone said.

  Juliette faced him, arms akimbo, and shook her head. She turned to Margaux and in French said, “Remember what I told you about older men.” Then she gave an exaggerated sigh. “But, you will not listen.” She walked away shaking her head.

  “I think your mother liked me,” Stone said, sinking into his chair.

  “Perhaps, but I can tell she does not trust you. She will give me a long talk tonight about older men and their tricks.” She picked up the serving spoon. “Let us eat. The rascasse is a fish stew with what the English call scorpion fish.” She served him a steaming portion of fish chunks and vegetables smelling of leek and fennel.

  The stew provided constant subtle surprises in flavor, and the Niçoise salad differed from what he remembered from home, obviously due to the freshness of the olives and the anchovies. He asked Margaux where she lived, expecting her to say her family lived in an apartment above the restaurant.

  “Outside of town,” she said. “In an old house next to the vineyards.”

  Of course, and no doubt the family home was decorated in exquisite taste and reeked of history. Stone let himself relax. He looked away. Across the water, lights became visible as the sun inched toward the cliffs. Over the bay, the colors in the sky had changed. The appreciation for the Mediterranean style of living that had washed over him as a young man had returned. A comfortable world, vastly different from the Washington life he now realized he wanted to leave behind.

  His musings were interrupted by loud voices coming from a restaurant two storefronts away. The stridency of one voice distinguished it. The voice sounded familiar. Margaux stopped eating, her eyes intent, as if straining them helped her hearing. She looked at Stone and both realized the voice belonged to Boswell Harrington.

  “Don’t turn around,” Stone whispered.

  At the same time, Reynard came back to the table. She looked up at her father and put her finger to her lips. Reynard bent down. The two whispered and gestured toward Harrington. Stone got the drift of their conversation, then she pointed to Stone’s bruise.

  Reynard’s moustache turned up in a smile, and he grabbed Stone’s arm. “Your director often eats over there in my competitor’s bistro. Tonight, he is with some tough customers from Marseille. From the look of it, he is having big problems.”

  “Those two thugs he’s with—what line of business are they in?” Stone asked.

  Reynard whispered something in his daughter’s ear. She looked at Stone, then at her father and nodded.

  “Maybe illegal business,” Reynard said. “I know this is not good for the reputation of the Foundation.”

  “We all have skeletons in our closets.” Reynard had not quite caught the meaning of the phrase. “Does it have to do with narcotics?” he added.

  Reynard shrugged and moved away. Margaux pushed her plate aside and leaned back in her chair, tilting her head in the direction of Harrington. Stone studied the faces of the two men from Marseille. The big one had the look of a North African, and the other one, wearing a well-tailored suit, could have been from the Levant, maybe Syria or Lebanon. Both appeared agitated.

  Harrington pushed back his chair and walked out onto the sidewalk. There, he folded his arms over his chest and looked out at the harbor. The man in the suit threw some paper money on the table and joined him. The North African remained in his seat and sipped his coffee. Eventually, it appeared that the man in the suit had reassured Harrington on whatever problem had caused the row and the two started to stroll away from the restaurant. The man at the table got up and followed them.

  “I’ll be right back,” Stone said. “I want to see where they go.”

  She touched his arm. “I will go with you.” Before he could object, she said, “I know this town better than you.”

  As they hurried out of the restaurant, Stone glimpsed Reynard scrutinizing them. He didn’t look happy.

  They slowed down when they were about one hundred meters behind Harrington and the two men. Whatever had triggered the argument apparently had now been mollified. He and his two companions meandered along the quay. They turned left and headed up a tree-lined street.

  Margaux pulled Stone’s jacket sleeve and led him up an alley that ran parallel. “They are on Olive Street. We can go this way. I will show you.”

  The perspiration from Boswell Harrington’s armpits spread into his dress shirt. Tonight, at the restaurant, Rashid had proven to be a problem. Arguing in a public place, especially in Archos, wasn’t wise. Twice today, Harrington had lost control. Not good, especially with business associates. Obviously, Rashid was intent on taking over Harrington’s sources in Marseille. It would not happen. He had worked hard to create his little network. Haphazard as it was.

  “How far away did you park your car?” he asked Rashid.

  “On the street up to the left. I do hope we are still friends. Disagreements always occur now and then.” He touched his heart with his right hand in the Middle East gesture of asking for pardon.

  Harrington had seen this gesture many times and knew when it was accompanied by insincerity. This fat, unctuous man and his ugly companion had no chance of getting what they wanted. Harrington’s contacts in the Marseille drug world were his, and if Rashid persisted in demanding to know who they were, he might have one or two of those contacts pay this bastard an unexpected visit.

  “Rashid, my good friend, we deal in weighty matters, so tensions can arise,” Harrington said. “We will talk of this later.”

  Rashid turned left onto a side street. “Our car is down the street, Boswell. May I call you Boswell?”

  “Not many people do, Rashid.” Harrington slowed his pace. He wanted to leave these two annoying people and return to the Foundation. “This weekend at Villefranche, I will speak of these matters with your boss, Abdul Wahab.”

  Stone and Margaux had reached an intersection and turned right. She pointed down the darkening street to indicate that they would see the men as they walked by. Harrington and the two men appeared, but instead of proceeding straight, they turned the corner and headed toward Stone and Margaux.

  Stone took her hand and pulled her into the narrow, enclosed entranceway of a dress shop. The three men continued to walk toward them on the other side of the street. Dusk had not progressed enough to conceal them in shadows. They huddled next to the door.

  “I don’t want him to see me,” she whispered.

  Of the same mind, he moved her up against the door, and stood with his back turned to the street. Margaux stood facing him and he felt her firm breasts brush him through his open jacket. His impulse was to kiss her. “Let’s pretend to be lovers.”

  She gave him a look that could be interpreted as both unease and alarm. Her cheeks flushed and he caught her perfume.

  “We’re only acting,” he said softly. He kissed her cheek, then rubbed his nose into her hair. Damn. Another night, another woman. Who did he think he was?

  Her body moved, first toward him, then away. She began to say something, but stopped and kissed him on the neck. Her hand ran through his hair.

  “They have stopped,” she said, and she shifted her body to the right. “They are getting into a car, I think.”

  Stone could not look around and had to depend on her eyes. He kissed her forehead and moved his hands below her waist.

  “One is getting into the car. The ugly one.”

  “What about—”

  “Wait … the other one is getting in. Harrington is waving good-bye.” She touched her lips to his neck. “Don’t move now.”

  He had the perverse urge to lick her ear, which he realized would make her jump. He forced himself to concentrate on the charade. “Can you see the license tag of the car?”

  “No. Harrington is walking away.”

  The engine started and the car pulled from the curb.

  “I have the num
ber,” she said, and closed her eyes while her lips repeated the numbers.

  Stone gave her a light kiss on the lips, and she pushed him away. “Why did you do that?”

  “Couldn’t help myself.”

  “It is over. Look, he is returning to the waterfront.” She peered down the street. “Let us go back to the restaurant.”

  Stone’s euphoria deflated. She squeezed past him and went out onto the sidewalk. In the distance a cellphone chimed and both looked to the right in the direction of Harrington. His voice echoed off the buildings’ masonry fronts. Stone heard the name Lucinda. He moved forward and crouched next to a parked truck to listen.

  “Come, let us go back,” Margaux urged.

  “Let’s listen for a second.” Why was Lucinda calling Harrington?

  “No. It is not right to listen to someone talk with his—” She looked around and then motioned for him to follow her.

  “In a second.” The lovely Margaux had become annoying.

  “I am leaving!”

  Stone heard Harrington tell Lucinda he would see her that weekend. Something was said about a business deal, but a car approached from behind him and he no longer could hear the conversation. Harrington approached Olive Street with the phone pressed to his ear and made a right turn toward the harbor. Stone stood and looked around. Margaux had gone.

  He hurried back to Reynard’s restaurant and found it packed with patrons, the waiters running from table to table, balancing drinks and plates on trays. He couldn’t find Margaux. Had she made it back safely? Then she emerged from the water closet. When she saw him, she motioned for him to follow her. The restaurant was larger inside than it appeared from the street. It had the warm, comfortable feel of a Parisian bistro on a rainy night. They stopped next to an old-style coin telephone attached to the wall.