Paris Love Match

by Nigel Blackwell

  A cardboard No Way Out sign had been shoddily tied to a lamppost at the street’s entrance. Sidney glanced down the road. “A dumpster, a dead end, and no sign of a Renault.” She sighed. “Any other bright ideas?”

  Piers folded the map. “There’s a few more roads on the island.”

  “They can wait. I’m going to sit down.” She walked off for a café. Piers took one last look down the dead end. “Wait.”

  She stopped and looked back at him. “I need to sit down.”

  “No. Look. Waterloo Large Construction.”

  She rolled her eyes. “So?”

  “That’s my company.”

  “Terrific. I’m going to sit down.”

  “Auguste spat at me when he saw the logo on my shirt.”

  She threw her hands up. “Maybe he didn’t like your bloody cranes spoiling the view. Maybe your company turned him down for a job. Maybe,” she shook her head, “maybe he just didn’t like you.”

  “Or, maybe he hated Waterloo for a reason.”

  “Didn’t you just hear what I said?”

  “Just wait a moment.” Piers started down the dead end. The road was blocked off a hundred yards down from the entrance. Cars lined either side, some of them double-parked to make the most of the dead end. The yellow dumpster had seen better days. It was the large sort. Piers forgot how much it contained, but he knew the big cranes were used to move them around and lift them onto 18-wheelers.

  As he walked toward the dumpster he saw something else, a small patch of dirty color poking out behind it. He quickened his pace. It was hard to tell, but as he saw more of the color he started to run. Seconds later he was staring at a faded blue Renault 5. The stripe along the sides was missing from the passenger door. Probably as a result of accident damage and a re-spray. He waved to Sidney. She trudged toward him.

  He walked around the car. It was wedged in by the dumpster. There were several holes in the tailgate that were large enough he could poke his middle finger into them. Through the windows he could see the holes lined up with holes in the seat backs.

  He heard footsteps, which turned into a run. Sidney grabbed his arm. “My god, is this it?”

  He nodded. “There are bullet holes in the rear.”

  Sidney bounced up and down with her hands clasped together. “My god! Oh, my god. Oh, my god!”

  He took hold of her hands. “Calm down. Don’t forget, we don’t want to attract attention.”

  “Yes. Right.” She stooped to look in through the driver’s side window. “Is this definitely it?”

  Piers tried the door. It opened with a creak. He looked inside before sliding into the seat. The glove box was empty as were the door bins, but wedged under the passenger’s seat he found a four-foot-long tube.

  “Is that it?” Sidney said.

  He looked up, unaware she had pushed her head into the car.

  The tube opened easily, and the contents slid out when he shook it.

  “It’s a painting,” Sidney said.

  Piers folded over a portion of obviously fragile fabric. “Certainly seems to be.”

  “Is it the right one?”

  “How would I know?”

  “What’s on it?”

  He held it up so she could see. The head and wings of an angel were visible, with what looked like storm clouds and a rising sun behind.

  Sidney gasped and grabbed hold of the door for support. “My god. That’s it.”

  Piers slid the painting back into the tube. “You all right?”

  She swallowed and looked at him. “Of course. Why shouldn’t I be?” She reached out to take the tube. “We just found the painting. A famous painting.”

  Piers moved the tube away from her. “You know it?”

  She ducked back out of the car. “Well, you know, I kind of recognize it. I couldn’t tell you what it’s called or anything.”

  “But you said that’s it.”

  “What is this, the Spanish Inquisition?”

  “No. But I had no clue what painting we were looking for.”

  “So, what, you think I knew?”

  “Apparently.”

  She screwed up her face. “That’s rubbish. It’s a painting. I vaguely recognize it and I’m sure it’s valuable. That’s all.”

  Piers levered himself out of the car.

  Sidney grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him. “We figured it out. Well, you figured it out, really. But we found it. We can return it. Get it back where it belongs.”

  Piers nodded. “We have to get in touch with Little and Large’s boss.”

  Sidney stepped back. “Their boss?”

  “Yeah. You don’t think we want to trust that pair, do you?”

  “Well …”

  “No. We need to deal with their boss to make sure this gets handed over and that we’re off the hook with these guys.”

  He watched as Sidney’s nostrils flared and she clamped her jaw shut. She pushed her lips together so hard the pink almost disappeared. Then her smile returned and she put her arm through his. “You’re right. Come on. Let’s get away from here and sort it out.”

  “Riiight.”

  They walked out of the dead end and away from Notre Dame.

  “We need to celebrate,” Sidney said.

  Piers tapped the tube. “After we’ve handed this thing over.”

  “It’s not a thing, it’s a precious painting. Either way, we need a good place.”

  They passed a couple of restaurants until they reached a sign that read Epicure. “This one,” she said as she veered off into an expanse of tables set with white clothes fluttering in the wind. She talked to the maître d’, and waved for Piers to follow as they disappeared into the restaurant.

  His skin prickled. He licked his lips and looked up and down the street. For once, he wished he saw the familiar faces of Little and Large.

  He breathed deep and followed Sidney. Her hair drifted from side to side as she walked. Even in the low heels she had chosen in Places des Voges, she walked with supreme grace. She weaved around the tables with a spring in her step that had been absent while they were searching the side roads. He sighed.

  She was exactly his sort. Hell, she was any man’s sort, but he wasn’t hers. Even in the clothes she had picked for him, he was no different than what he’d always been. Same old, same old. Once the painting was handed over she would run a mile.

  Sidney directed the woman to a table in the corner, behind a pillar. The maître d’ looked surprised at her table choice, then handed them menus, and left. Piers placed the tube between himself and the wall, laying his arm across it for good measure.

  Sidney flipped through the options in seconds. “Ratatouille. Plain and simple, just like me.”

  “You just ate a couple of hours ago.”

  “We found the painting. I’ve got my appetite back.”

  “Obviously.”

  She pulled the menu from Piers’ hands. “Aren’t you happy?”

  He forced a smile. “Course.”

  She lowered her head and stared at him through her fringes. “Course? That’s the best you can say? We found it. We’re done. It’s over. One moment we’re in fear for our lives and the next, poof, we’re back to normal. Surely that deserves some sort of celebration?”

  “I’m only going be happy once we’ve handed this thing over.”

  Her smile faded. “Yes. Soon.” She stood up. “Order for me. I’m going to the restroom.” She walked away, fumbling her phone from her pocket.

  Piers watched her go, hypnotized by the spring in her step and the motion of her silky dress.

  “Monsieur?”

  Piers lurched back to the real world and grabbed for the tube.

  A young man with black pants and a starched white shirt stood beside the table. “You are ready to order, non?”

  Piers looked the guy up and down and scanned the restaurant before speaking. “Ratatouille. Twice. And two glasses of red wine.”

  “Red?”
>
  “Yeah, red.”

  The man turned over the menu. “We have many reds, monsieur, if you like.” He paused, and his voice took on a bored tone, “Or we have the house red.”

  Piers snapped the menu shut. “That’ll do.”

  The young man departed and Piers surveyed the restaurant before pulling out Auguste’s phone. He turned to face the wall and dialed Little and Large.

  Little answered on the first ring. “Where are you?”

  “I never knew you cared.”

  “Don’t get smart with me.”

  “The merest hint of an inkling of a thought hadn’t even begun to start formulating in—”

  “And don’t do that either. We’re on a tight schedule. The boss wants his stuff back.”

  “Ah, pronto, as you said.”

  “So?”

  “So, what?”

  “So, are you going to hand it back?”

  “It’s not as simple as that. There are things to consider. Options. Permutations. Configurations—”

  “And the likelihood that you’ll be killed if you don’t hand it over.”

  “So, you think we should hand it over?”

  There was a long pause. “You mean … you have it?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  There was an even longer pause. “You sure?”

  “Course I’m sure. We found Auguste’s car and found it inside.”

  Piers heard Little take a deep breath. “Right.”

  “Right, what?”

  “Right, just right, you know.”

  “Right.”

  Piers heard the pair talking in hushed tones before Little spoke into the phone again. “Okay. We need to let the boss know. Where are you?”

  “Tell you boss we’ll meet him at Epicure. It’s a restaurant. We’ll be sat outside. Be there at seven.”

  “No funny stuff.”

  Piers huffed. “Trust me, we want this over as much as you do.”

  He could hear Little clicking his tongue against his teeth. “There’s, er . . .”

  “What?”

  “Well, there’s something, I mean—”

  “Just get on with it.”

  Little took a depth breath. “Don’t mess with the boss. He’s isn’t called Matchstick for nothing. And … “

  “And what?”

  “He’ll bring another crew.”

  Piers bit his lip. His heart raced and his mouth felt dry. He swallowed. “Meaning?”

  “Not us. Trained killers. Real. Trained. Killers.”

  Piers took deep breaths and tried to slow his heart. “Right.”

  “Do what he says to the letter and you’ll be all right.”

  “Yeah, thanks.”

  The phone went dead as Sidney returned to the table. “Did they call?”

  “I called them. Seven o’clock. Outside. We hand over the painting and try to get our lives back.”

  “What?” Sidney grabbed her phone and checked the time. “Oh. Long enough.”

  The waiter returned with their meals and two glasses of red wine, which he handled with his fingertips, as if he might catch something from them.

  Piers stared at Sidney. “Long enough for what?”

  “To eat,” she said, waving her fork.

  The Ratatouille was good. The tomatoes and herbs had worked their way into the sliced vegetables to perfection.

  “Good choice,” he said, holding up a red-tinged slice of zucchini.

  “My comfort food.” She held up her glass. “Along with this.”

  He clinked his glass with hers. “To normality.”

  “Normality,” she chorused.

  They ate for a few moments before she spoke again. “This is a different Friday night, eh?”

  He nodded and ate some more. “Friday night. Yes. I guess you go out with your … I guess … I mean do you … “

  She looked at him expectantly. “Do I what?”

  He cleared his throat. “Do you … do you have … I mean … do you have a boyfriend?”

  She snorted. It was part amused and part contemptuous, and Piers wasn’t sure which part was in the majority.

  “Nah. I go out with some girls I know. You know. Try to enjoy ourselves without men.”

  “Oh.”

  She grunted. “It’s not like that. I want to meet someone, just not drunk in a bar, you know? I want to get to know someone before I go out with him. The men I’ve met in bars have only been as faithful as their options.”

  Piers had to think for a moment before he understood. “Right.”

  She put another forkful of vegetables in her mouth. “What do you look for in a girl?”

  He forced down a mouthful of ratatouille. “I, I, I don’t really look—I mean, I don’t really know. I never thought about it.”

  “You have to think about it. You have to know what you want. You can’t leave it to chance. You’ll end up unhappy.”

  He nodded, uncertainly. “What do you want?”

  She laughed. “A friend. Someone who stands up to me and doesn’t say yes just because they think it’ll make me happy. Because it won’t. Neither of us will end up happy. I want someone who’s willing to grab life, jump in with both feet. Someone who’ll drag me along as much as I drag them. Someone who’ll take me dancing before they think of dragging me to their bed. Someone like James Bond, but without the sappy floozies fawning all over him.”

  He gave a false laugh. “Well, that leaves me out. I’ve seen the movies, but I don’t have the car.”

  She winked at him. “At least you have the accent.” She curved her foot around his ankle and ran it slowly up his calf. “And … you do have some muscles.”

  Piers tensed. The back of his neck prickled, and he licked his lips. “I, I work out. You know. A little. Not for strength, just endurance.”

  She bit her bottom lip and smiled. “Mmmm, endurance.”

  Piers swallowed and rubbed his hands together. He watched her gaze trace over his face, down his chest, and back up to his eyes. His blood thundered in his ears and the backs of his hands tingled. He wanted to get up, to cool down, to run away, to hide and think, to work out what he should say, to understand what he should do—but his muscles refused to cooperate. He was trapped between dying to say how he felt, and dying on the spot.

  Sidney’s phone dinged and her smiled dissolved. Her gaze drifted away. Piers felt his heart pause, waiting for her look back at him, hoping for the chance to say the right thing, to say anything that would prolong the moment. But she stared at her phone and muttered, “junk mail,” before glancing around the room. “Six-thirty. We should have coffee.”

  Piers sighed. His shoulders sagged and he closed his eyes for a second. He felt as if a cold wind had blown over him. He had to open and close his mouth twice before his voice worked. “Coffee?”

  “Yeah, coffee. People have coffee after dinner. At least this people does.”

  Piers arranged his knife and fork and pushed his plate away. His heart was pounding. He didn’t want the meal to end, but he told himself he would feel better when they had got rid of the painting. They had to focus on that first. He took a deep breath. “Okay. Let’s go outside.”

  “No, let’s sit here.”

  He shook his head. “I told Little and Large we’d be outside.”

  “At seven o’clock, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s only six-thirty, so we can stay here a while longer.”

  Piers looked around the room. It was quiet, and perhaps they should keep out of sight as much as possible. “Okay.”

  A few minutes later, they chinked their coffee cups in a second toast. He sniffed at the thick black liquid. “I’m going to be up all night.”

  She laughed. “I was hoping we’d be able to go to bed.”

  Piers stopped breathing with his cup inches from his mouth.

  She looked at him for a moment before laughing loud. “On my own, so wipe that look off your face.”

  He felt as if
his face was on fire. “I’m sorry, I didn’t . . . I wasn’t—”

  “It’s okay, I’m teasing.” She punched him playfully on the shoulder.

  He shuffled in his seat. “Of course. I wasn’t—”

  The front door to the restaurant slammed and Sidney jerked her head up.

  Piers twisted in his chair and saw an old couple being led to a table by the maître d’.

  He looked back at Sidney. “Getting twitchy?”

  “No, why should I?” She checked the time on her phone. “Still fifteen minutes yet.”

  Piers leaned back in his chair. They’d have to go outside soon, but he didn’t want her doing anything rash. He took a deep breath. “There’s one thing you need to know.”

  She turned her gaze slowly toward him. “What?”

  “Little and Large warned me that their boss isn’t one to be messed with.”

  She shrugged. “That’s not exactly a surprise.”

  “And that he would be bring a different crew.”

  Sidney cheeks sagged. She spoke slowly. “Meaning?”

  “Meaning trained killers.”

  She slapped her hand to her forehead. “Oh, god! Why didn’t you tell me? I thought it was going to be Little and Large, and now . . .”

  “Now what?”

  “Now . . . now …” She shook her head. “This isn’t good.”

  “Obviously. I’ve no desire to meet trained killers either. But we’ll do it outside. On the street. With plenty of people around. That way they won’t be able to do anything, you know?”

  “Like kill us if things don’t go their way?”

  “Well—”

  “Why the hell didn’t you tell me earlier?” She looked at her phone and shook it, as if willing it for some kind of answer.

  “I didn’t want to frighten you.”

  “Great, so you leave it until the last minute, until it’s a crisis.”

  She started typing on her phone.

  “What are you doing?”

  She ignored him and finished her typing. Her phone dinged a moment later.

  “Did you send a message to someone?”

  “You’re just full of questions this evening, aren’t you?”

  “Thinking ahead is what’s kept us alive. It’s why we’re here with a chance to get our lives back. Did you send a message to someone?”