by Joseph Flynn
Gabbi had summoned the police to take the three football hooligans to the Gare du Nord and put them on the next Eurostar train to London. She didn’t want Red getting back behind the wheel drunk. If she’d misled the aggrieved intellectual jaywalker as to the Englishmen’s fate, it was probably for the best.
“You reimburse him for his baguettes?” McGill asked.
“Bien sûr.” Of course.
Changing the subject, McGill asked, “Can you place bets legally in France?”
Going with the flow, Gabbi said, “There’s Le Francais des Jeux: the lottery. There’s PariMutual Urbain: the government monopoly on betting on horse races. And I think there are discussions going on about organizing online betting on sporting events. It gets complicated because of conflicts of interest between individual countries and the European Union as a whole.”
McGill mulled that over, nodded to himself.
“Okay,” he said. “How about if someone wants to get a bet down and doesn’t give a damn about the law? There’ll be somebody to take his action, right?”
Gabbi said, “Sure. Just like at home, crooks come in all sizes, shapes, and colors, and they run all sorts of rackets. What are you thinking?”
“Something that guy, Red, mentioned. About being glad Thierry Duchamp is dead because Thierry always beat his home team. That and Red having a connection to a bookie.”
Gabbi came to a stop for a red light and looked at McGill.
“I don’t understand. There’s no connection between Glen Kinnard and any bookie, is there?”
“Not that I know of, but I’ll check.”
“And wouldn’t a bookie, if he were trying to fix a game, pay off the player instead of having him killed?”
“That would be the usual way, yes.”
“Then what are you thinking?”
The light turned green and Gabbi put the Peugeot in motion.
“I’m thinking there might have been a big game—a match or whatever they call it—that Thierry Duchamp had been scheduled to play in, only he met up with Glen Kinnard first.”
“We can find that out.”
“It would be good if we could find out if there was any unusual wagering on that match, too. Betting against Thierry’s team.”
Gabbi pulled over to the curb and stopped the car. She stared at McGill.
“You think Glen Kinnard was hired to kill Thierry Duchamp? As part of some gambling scheme?”
McGill shook his head. “No. Even if Thierry’ Duchamp’s team didn’t postpone its game out of respect for his passing, I’d guess that all previous bets on the game would have been cleared and new odds posted.”
“Then what are you saying?”
“What if some lowlife gamblers wanted to make a killing—ironic word, I know. But what if they hired some local muscle just to rough up Thierry. Having our missing blonde provoke Thierry into slapping her around would be the setup, but she didn’t realize Kinnard wasn’t the other party to the scam.”
Gabbi saw it now, what McGill had in mind.
“Sure, if another guy came by, if he was in on the scheme, and if he was good enough to just, say, break Thierry’s leg instead of kill him, then everything would work. The football match wouldn’t be postponed, the betting line would be changed for people placing bets after the incident, but not for those who already had their money down.”
McGill nodded. “It wouldn’t have been the bettors’ fault the sports star was a jerk who beat on a woman, and the guy who came to the rescue couldn’t have been faulted. He was just doing what France’s Good Samaritan law required of him.”
“But why didn’t the blonde know that Glen Kinnard wasn’t the right guy?”
McGill told her, “If the people who set the whole thing up—assuming I’m even right—are smart, they would have used a strong arm guy the woman didn’t know, someone who couldn’t be connected to her in any way. So the cops wouldn’t smell a conspiracy.”
Gabbi regarded McGill with a look of respect. This guy was good.
She followed with what had to be the next piece of the puzzle.
“But once the woman saw things were going a lot farther than planned, she took off.”
“Yeah,” McGill said. “To who knows where.”
Gabbi frowned at that idea, and then her expression of displeasure deepened further.
“What?” McGill asked.
“It just occurred to me. This guy who was hired to break a leg? He’d have to be a lot better fighter than Glen Kinnard. He’d have to be as good as you.”
McGill understood what Gabbi was feeling now. Concern for him, and for herself. She was the one assigned to protect McGill. If they ran into the hired muscle … McGill wondered if Sweetie was about done with her case. Whether she might enjoy a trip to Paris.
What he said to Gabbi was, “That’s something to keep in mind, but if he’s that good, maybe he’s already made a name for himself and will be easier to find. And then there’s something else to think about.”
“What?” Gabbi asked, looking as if she really didn’t want to know.
“That English goof, Red. He gave me a tip while you were off calming down the professor. He was sure the news about my working for Glen Kinnard would be hitting websites for soccer fans soon. He said I should be careful. Next time it might be a carload of Thierry Duchamp’s fans after me.”
Gabbi moaned. “Oh, God. I was so glad we didn’t have to shoot anyone.”
“Me, too,” McGill said. “So, I’m going to need a discreet barber for a new haircut, and you’re going to have to buy me some clothes that don’t look so American. I’m going to have to blend, look like a whole new man.”
Eighteenth Arrondissement, Paris
18
Odo Sacripant, drove Investigating Magistrate Yves Pruet slowly along the Rue des Poisonniers in northeastern Paris. The neighborhood looked as though it might have been transplanted whole from West Africa. Women shoppers wore traditional African garb. Street vendors clogged the sidewalks. Soukous music percolated from the speakers of a music shop. In the back seat of his Citroën, Pruet had his mobile phone pressed to his ear as Odo looked for a place to park.
The bodyguard saw two men come out of a storefront. Their eyes locked onto Odo immediately. Natural enemies—a cop and crooks—regarded each other, trying to decide whether to fight or pass by. Odo took his FAMAS G2 bullpup assault rifle off the front passenger seat and placed it on the dash board. The bad guys decided to depart. They got into a gray, rusting minivan and pulled out, leaving Odo a parking space.
Catch you another day, he thought.
Pruet, meanwhile, concluded his conversation.
“Thank you, M’sieur McGill. I will see what I can do.”
“The Ami is playing within the rules?” Odo asked. “Despite his exalted status?”
Odo was regarding Pruet via his rearview mirror. The magistrate noticed the weapon on the dashboard.
“We are expecting a pitched battle?” he asked. “I have forgotten my body armor.”
“You never know what they might get up to in Chateau Rouge.” The neighborhood’s traditional name. “Street brawls are not uncommon.”
“Let us hope the ceasefire holds for the duration of our visit. And, yes, the president’s henchman is being most cooperative.” Pruet told Odo of McGill’s theory of what might have happened under the Pont d’Iéna.
Odo mulled it over. “Not a bad thing for him to think.”
“Mon ami, do you think M’sieur McGill could have broken Thierry Duchamp’s leg without having to kill him?”
“I think he could break whatever he wants. Inflict damage by degrees.”
“A pleasant fellow for all that.”
“You still wish to talk to the artist?” Odo asked.
“As long as we are in the neighborhood. Bring your weapon.”
19
Bertrand Kalou was waiting in the open doorway to his apartment on the first floor above a shop selling clothing styled
in sub-Saharan Africa, not the fashion houses of Paris. He, however, wore a workingman’s pants and shirt, but his feet were bare. His hair was closely cropped and graying; his skin was wrinkled; his brown eyes were sad. But he was not as gaunt as many of the newcomers were. He’d found enough to eat in France and his accent was suitably Parisian.
“Bonjour,” he said, “you are from the police?”
Pruet presented his credentials.
“Come in, gentlemen,” Kalou said. “I have been expecting you.”
The apartment was tiny, furnished with secondhand furniture, but was clean and smelled of the flowers that the artist kept in a half-dozen vases placed about the flat. One floral arrangement sat on an artist’s table placed next to a window looking out on the street.
Pruet sat on a settee with Kalou opposite him in an armchair. Odo stood guard in the hallway outside, after making sure there was no way anyone could climb in through the window.
“You are here in France legally, m’sieur?” Pruet asked.
“Oui. I waited many years for your embassy in Yamoussoukro to extend me the right to come here and not be afraid I’d be sent back.”
“Bon,” Pruet said. “But now something has made you afraid. You were expecting the police.”
The artist nodded. “I have read of the death of Thierry Duchamp. I fear I may be in some jeopardy.”
Pruet understood why. Not complying with France’s Good Samaritan law was a crime punishable by up to five years imprisonment.
He asked, “You heard him struggle with the man charged with his death?”
Kalou’s eyes became sadder than usual. “I heard screams and blows, shouts and curses such as I had not heard since I left the Cote d’Ivoire.”
The man’s head bobbed as if agreeing with the terrible memory playing in his mind.
“M’sieur Kalou,” Pruet said, “please tell me what you saw or heard.”
“The terror was mostly in my ears, and my mind. First, I heard a woman’s voice, harsh with anger, sharpening to scorn and ridicule. Then came the bellow of a man’s anger in response.”
“French voices? Native speakers?”
The artist nodded, “Oui. Then the woman screamed so loudly I thought my ears would surely bleed. The sounds of flesh striking flesh followed. Again very loud. Sharp sounds. Slaps, I think.”
“The man was beating the woman? With an open hand?” Pruet asked.
The artist’s sad smile spoke of another memory of his homeland.
“It is ironic, I know, but there are men who will beat a woman to death while trying not to destroy her beauty. At the very least, an open-hand blow can destroy one’s hearing. At most … well, at most, a strong man can break a woman’s neck with such a blow.”
Pruet looked closely at Kalou now. He didn’t see a man who’d delivered such a vicious strike but perhaps one whose wife—mother, sister, daughter—had met such a fate.
“You did not think to call the police then, m’sieur?” Pruet asked.
“I do not have a mobile. I walk slowly. I was starting to leave and look for a phone when I heard a second man shout, in English, and then I heard two men fighting to the death.”
The immigrant looked as if he knew those sounds as well.
“But you still did not call the police,” Pruet said.
“I remained in place, like an animal too frightened to move, hoping not to call any attention to myself. And then…”
“Then what, m’sieur?”
“I saw a woman move out from under the far side of the bridge, and not too long after that the sounds of the fight stopped.”
“The woman appeared unharmed.”
Kalou shook his head. “I saw her only from behind, but she staggered.”
“Then you departed?”
“I waited. For how long I cannot say. But long enough to hope it would be safe to flee.”
“And was it?”
“Another man came along. He went under the bridge where the two men and the woman had fought. I held my breath waiting for him to scream in horror at what he’d found. But he didn’t make a sound. After little more than a minute, or so it seemed to me, this new man departed. After he’d gone, I also left, assuring myself that this new fellow, having regarded the terrible scene that surely must have lain at his feet, would call the police. I was safe, or so I thought. But now I see that neither of us summoned help.”
Pruet considered the story. Then he asked, “Can you describe this final man who went under the bridge?”
“I can do better than that.”
Kalou got slowly to his feet and shuffled over to his artist’s table.
He picked up a ceramic tile and held it out to Pruet.
“I painted him.”
St. Germain, Paris
20
Alexandru and his wife, Ana, walked the Boulevard St. Germain. They wore their best clothes: expensive and mainstream. They were clean and carefully groomed. Still, they wouldn’t fool any cop who knew his business. He’d see their street-smart, watchful eyes and know the two of them were running some sort of game. Their olive complexions would add to a flic’s suspicions. But the two of them holding hands in public, and Ana in a skirt that stopped above her knees, her long hair shining in the sun, would let the gendarmes know, thank all saints, that they weren’t Arabs, weren’t jihadis. But it would take only a heartbeat for the police to identify them: Rom. Gypsies.
On the expensive reaches of one of the city’s most exclusive streets, the two of them could only be up to no good and, worse, they were straying from the precincts where their trickery with tourists was tolerated.
Alexandru had the job of watching for flics and steering the two of them away from trouble. Ana, seemingly chattering gaily on her mobile phone in fluent Spanish, was the photographer. If Alexandru saw a woman who might be their target, he would give Ana’s hand a gentle squeeze, nod in the appropriate direction, and his wife would turn her head, laughing as if she’d just heard a wonderful joke, and use the mobile to take a picture without ever removing it from her ear: a skill she practiced regularly.
That day, Ana had photographed a dozen possibilities, always careful to include some landmark in the shot as well as the woman, so they could tell where the picture had been taken. But so far Alexandru had yet to give Ana’s hand a double squeeze, the signal to photograph and follow. This one was probably the one they wanted.
After hours of walking, the young couple rested their feet sitting on a park bench, taking turns sipping from a cup of Coke. Not wanting to attract any official attention, or have a merchant chase them down the street, Alexandru had paid for the drink rather than steal it. As Ana took small sips, making sure she saved most of the drink for her husband, Alexandru cupped her mobile in one hand and scrolled through the photos Ana had taken. All of the women were in focus and within the general description of the woman they wanted, but upon inspection none was their target.
Alexandru gave the mobile back to Ana and took the cup of Coke from her.
“So many women color their hair these days,” Ana said. “All of them want to be blonde.”
Alexandru shrugged as he sipped.
“Would you like me to be blonde?” Ana asked.
He looked at his wife. Rom women didn’t color their hair.
Not unless a scam called for it, and then only with great reluctance.
As if reading his mind, Ana said, “I could wear a wig. Only for you. Only in our bed.”
Alexandru felt himself start to get excited, but he pushed the thought away.
“Maybe we could each wear one,” he said. “Pretend we’re Swedish.”
Ana’s face grew cross, thinking she was being mocked. But when Alexandru smiled at her, she had to smile back. They both laughed, and Alexandru gave her the cup back. She sipped, grateful to have a generous husband. One who loved her for who she was.
She would do everything she could to be worthy of him.
“This woman we want to find,” A
na asked, “could she have been wearing a wig?”
“Not unless they make blonde wigs with dark roots.”
“Dark roots?” Ana looked intently at Alexandru. “You actually saw her? When?”
“Early in the morning. I couldn’t sleep. I went for a walk along the river, hoping I might find some tourist droppings.” Tourists lost the most amazing things, quite on their own. In the natural order of things, scavengers followed along close behind them. “I did not find anything of value, but I did see the blonde woman. That’s why I was able to see how much she looked like the one with the American.”
“Why didn’t you tell me before now?” Ana demanded.
She had wondered if her husband leaving their bed had somehow been her fault.
“Grandmother taught me I must save my secrets as carefully as I do my gold.”
Ana felt great relief. The call of fortune, she decided, had compelled her husband to go out early, not any failing on her part. She kissed her husband’s cheek, a public display of affection a Rom woman would normally not even consider, especially where passing gadje — outsiders — could easily see it.
“The woman I saw had a small rhinestone on the right side of her nose,” Alexandru added, pointing to a spot on his own nose. “But it was small, might have just been stuck on.”
Ana beamed at her husband. “You are giving us the best chance to find her.”
“Bunica Anisa will reward us if any of our tribe finds this woman and brings us riches. But if we find her ourselves, the reward will be even greater.”
Ana couldn’t help herself. She kissed her husband again. On his mouth.
Alexandru yielded to his wife’s passion. He told himself it would be excellent cover for two Rom pretending to be gadje. Almost as excellent as the kiss itself.
Warm and wet and tasting of Coke.
Ana set the cup on the pavement and put her mobile on her lap. She took both of Alexandru’s hands in hers and looked him in the eye.
“If there is anything else about this woman you did not tell the others, you must tell me now, so I might know if I see her while you are watching for the flics.”