by L. T. Ryan
Foster sat in the corner, his back against the wall. Exactly the spot Jack would have chosen for himself. Two of Foster’s bodyguards sat at the table on either side of him. The third stood near the door leading into the restaurant. The man with the wild grey hair sat with his back to Jack. He was talking rather animatedly. Foster shook his head at nearly everything the man said.
They watched the conversation play out for another thirty minutes.
"What I wouldn't give for a parabolic microphone right now," Jack said.
"A what?"
"It's a large dome shaped microphone. Great for picking up conversations, movements, things like that."
"Ah, I see," Pierre said.
The man in the blazer stood. Jack reached for the binoculars.
"Harstein," Jack said. "He's a movie producer. He and Foster did some flicks together a decade ago."
"You think he's involved with Foster's operations?"
Jack shrugged. It was possible, but judging by Harstein's body language, he looked like a man who had been rejected. "I don't think so, but you might want to follow up on that."
"You won't?"
Jack looked at Pierre. "Only if someone pays me to."
The standing bodyguard led Harstein to the gate then walked back to the table as the dejected movie producer slouched down the street.
"I think I'm going to go ask that man a question or two," Pierre said.
Jack nodded. "Not a bad idea."
Pierre left the apartment. Jack stood to get a better view of him leaving the building. As Pierre jogged down the street Jack alternated between watching Foster's party and Pierre. So far no one had paid him any notice. Pierre caught up with Harstein and the two men rounded a corner and disappeared from sight.
It was nearly dark when Pierre returned to the apartment.
"You were right, Jack. He's not involved with Foster."
"What did he want?"
"Capital for a new film."
"Did Foster bite?"
Pierre cocked his head and raised an eyebrow. "Do you mean agree?"
Jack nodded.
"No. In fact, he told Harstein to go to hell."
Jack shrugged. He leaned over and pointed at Pierre's collar.
"Blood?" Jack asked.
Pierre smiled. "I couldn't have him returning to the restaurant asking why some strange but amazingly handsome Frenchman had followed him and asked him about their meeting."
Jack nodded, kicked his feet up on the windowsill.
"Getting close to time," Jack said.
"Agreed. Did I miss anything?"
Jack pointed. "Looks like his wife and kids have joined him."
"Shit."
"Agreed."
Jack shifted between his seat and taking position behind the rifle. He changed positions at least a dozen times since Pierre returned.
"I can't do it," he said. "At least not while the man's kids are around."
Pierre sighed. "It's my weakness too."
"You think she'll stay all night?"
"Normally I would say no. But everything Foster has done today is out of character according to my files. So who knows?"
"I'm going to get closer," Jack said. "Think you can cover me from up here?"
"I'm not quite the shot you are, Jack. My specialty is killing up close."
"Want to join me at the restaurant?"
Pierre picked up the binoculars. After a minute he shook his head.
"Unfortunately there are people eating down there that might recognize me if I walked past them."
Jack scratched at his head.
"Tell you what though," Pierre said. "He always exits and turns left. There is a cafe, not too far, just a few buildings down. I can station myself there."
Jack nodded in agreement.
"You go first," he said. "I'll cover you."
Pierre got up without a word and went to the door.
"Wait," Jack said. He walked across the room and handed Pierre a phone. "I'm the only one with the number. It rings, you answer."
"Got it," Pierre said.
"And see about getting a car dropped off. If you can, position it two blocks away."
"I'll see what I can do."
"Be safe."
"OK. You too, Jack."
Jack watched as Pierre walked down the street and out of sight under the tree cover. Across the street at the restaurant no one seemed to notice or care.
Fifteen minutes later Jack left and followed the same path. He walked to the cafe, made eye contact with Pierre and crossed the street before turning back and making his way to the restaurant.
Jack let himself through the iron gate and pushed through the crowd of people in front of the door that led inside the restaurant. He kept his head down and away from Foster.
He took a seat at the bar and asked the bartender for a whiskey. It was a different man from the night before. When the bartender returned with his drink, Jack asked if Corinne was in.
"She's home, sick."
Jack turned in his chair and found himself face to face with Foster.
"Mr. Blair," Foster said. "Great to see you again."
Jack fought through the shock and jumped into small talk.
"Hey, Mitchell Foster. Wow, what luck. You know, I've been to Hollywood three times and never once met a famous actor. Here I come to Paris and I run into one of my favorites twice."
A broad smile swept across Foster's face.
"Why don't you come sit with us?" Foster asked.
Dumb freaking luck.
"I'm meeting someone," Jack said with a shrug.
"They can join us." Foster motioned to one of the wait staff. "Set up another table."
"Oui, monseiur," the waiter said.
Jack turned his head so he wouldn't be recognized. That waiter had seen him leave with Corinne the night before. He'd rather Foster didn't know he had been there twice yesterday.
Foster led Jack to the patio and offered him a seat at the table.
"Who's that?" a woman said.
"Howard, I'd like you to meet my wife, Sandra." Foster pointed at the two of them. "Sandra, this is Howard Blair. He's from the States, here on business."
Sandra lit a cigarette. "You work with my husband?"
Jack shook his head. "Industrial sales."
She rolled her eyes and looked away as if she had decided he wasn't important enough to waste her time on.
Foster grabbed his arm. "Don't mind her, she's moody."
Sandra shot him a look and flicked him off.
A little girl jumped on Foster's lap.
"Anna," Foster said, "Say hi to Daddy's friend, Howard."
"Hello, Howard," the little girl said through missing teeth.
Jack smiled at the bubbly, blond haired girl. He watched and saw how gentle Foster was with her, the broad smile that appeared on his face every time she giggled. For a moment Foster seemed human. Not that he judged him for his criminal activities. Jack wasn't that big of a hypocrite. He was the one who killed for profit after all.
"You have kids?" Foster asked.
"No," Jack replied. "Don't even have a wife. Not enough time."
Foster nodded. "I know that feeling. When I was in the movie business I never had time. Ruined my first marriage."
Jack looked at Sandra. Her face tightened and she looked away.
"So what do you do now?" Jack asked. He was treading dangerous territory now.
"Don't have to do anything now," Foster replied. "One of the benefits of ripping off the American public with shitty movies."
Jack laughed. Foster smiled and joined him.
They continued chatting for several minutes. Nothing of importance was said. Jack figured Foster wouldn't reveal anything of importance. Still, he couldn't quite figure out why Foster had invited him sit with them.
Sandra pushed her chair back from the table and stood up.
"I'm leaving," she said. "Anna, come with mommy."
Foster stood and he
ld his hands out to the side, palms up. "Do you have to go already?"
Sandra bit her lip and looked toward the street. "Yes, it's near her bedtime. Besides, I have to go pick up the babies from my mother's apartment."
Foster lowered his head. "I see." He lifted Anna up, hugged her tight. "And you my little princess, you take care of your baby brother and sister. You hear me?"
Anna giggled. Foster smiled. He kissed her cheeks a dozen times before handing the little girl to her mother. He leaned in to kiss her too, but she turned her head and he ended up with a mouthful of hair.
Sandra turned to leave. Foster nodded to one of his men who followed her out the gate and down the street.
The table was silent for a few minutes.
"There's a story there, you know," Foster said, inviting Jack into his life.
"There always is," Jack said.
Foster smiled and nodded. He waved to a waitress who promptly stepped up to the table. "Bottle of whiskey."
She smiled and disappeared into the restaurant. A few minutes later she returned with four glasses and an unlabeled bottle.
Foster filled each glass halfway, placed two in front of himself and two in front of Jack.
"Drink," Foster said. "Then I want to talk to you in private."
Jack dropped his hand below the table and squeezed the handle of one of the two pistols he had on him.
"Thanks," Jack said. He took his time sipping on the alcohol.
Foster laughed. "Be a man."
Jack rolled his eyes and threw back the drinks in rapid succession. He squinted and bit down hard. "Happy now?"
Foster laughed some more. "I think that deserves another round." He filled each glass to the top.
Jack got through the first one quickly. His strategy now was to finish these and get on to the talk before he felt the effects of the whiskey.
He picked up the second glass and held it to his lips. A hand squeezed his shoulder.
"Hello, Mitchell," a female voice with a French accent said from behind him.
Jack turned and saw the pretty brown haired woman in the white dress from earlier. She was holding a baby in her other hand.
"Lorraine," Foster said. "And my angel, Sophie."
Foster stood, kissed the woman and took the baby from her arms.
Jack stood and extended his hand to the woman. "Howard Blair."
She smiled and gave a quick nod. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Blair."
Jack offered her his seat.
"Are you an associate of my husband's?"
"No," Jack replied. "Just a fan that got lucky enough to have dinner with him."
Lorraine smiled at Jack and turned toward Foster. She cocked her head and rolled her eyes toward Jack.
"No, he doesn't work with me," Foster said. "At least he doesn't yet. I'm about to make a business proposal to my new friend."
Foster smiled at Jack.
Jack returned the gesture.
Foster leaned over to one bodyguard and whispered something to him, to which the bodyguard nodded. Then Foster motioned for the other bodyguard to follow him. The third had still not returned from escorting Sandra.
Foster stood, leaned over and kissed Lorraine. He handed her the baby then turned to Jack.
"Follow me, Mr. Blair," he said.
Jack got up and followed Foster through the restaurant. They pushed their way through the crowd around the bar and walked to the back. The bodyguard stood in front of the men's room. He opened the door for them and waited for them to pass before entering.
Jack heard a click as the bodyguard locked the door.
Foster checked each stall, verifying that they were empty.
The bodyguard coughed and rolled his eyes.
Foster smiled at him. "Just being careful, my friend. That's all." He walked to the other end of the bathroom and leaned against the light blue tiled wall. "How often would you say you are over here?"
"Paris?" Jack said. "I dunno, once every couple months. Sometimes more, sometimes less. Just depends on the numbers I want to hit."
"Do you go anywhere else?"
"Sure, other parts of Europe, China, Japan, occasionally South America."
Foster grinned and nodded. "What would you say to us establishing a strategic partnership?"
"Not sure I follow," Jack said.
"You see, Howard," Foster said, "I'm not actually retired. I run certain enterprises. If you helped me out in one of those enterprises, I could make you a very, very wealthy man."
"What would I need to do?"
"It's pretty simple," Foster said with a smile. "You would just have to escort one or two women from the U.S. to here. Or transport another kind of package."
Sick bastard.
"Sounds easy enough," Jack said. "What kind of pay are we talking?"
Foster gestured to his bodyguard and the large man stepped out of the bathroom.
As the door opened Jack could hear someone complaining about the locked door. The bodyguard yelled at the man. The door shut and it was silent again. Jack contemplated making a move now.
"Around six figures a month," Foster said.
Jack's mouth dropped. Maybe he was in the wrong business. He whistled with eyes wide.
"Should I take that as a yes?"
Jack nodded.
"Excellent. Knock on that door for me."
Jack knocked on the door and the large man pushed his way back in.
"If you'll excuse me, I hope you don't mind continuing this conversation between a stall door."
"Doesn't bother me," Jack said.
Foster disappeared into the stall. He continued talking about minor details of the arrangement.
The bodyguard stared at the wall, paying no attention.
Jack stepped up to the urinal throwing in an occasional "yes" or "I see" to keep the conversation going. He flushed the urinal and pulled the lever hard so it would stick. He turned his head and spotted the bodyguard out of the corner of his eye. He slipped his hand into his pocket and grabbed the handle of the blackjack he took away from the skinny man the night before.
"So you see, Howard, I can use a man like you." The toilet in the stall flushed.
Jack took a deep breath. Stepped his right foot out. Pivoted on his heel and pulled the blackjack from his pocket in one fluid movement. He slammed the weapon across the bodyguard's throat.
The guard fell back against the door, gagging and gasping for air.
Jack reached into his other pocket and pulled out a dinner napkin and stuffed it into the man's mouth.
The big man slid down the door, grasping at his throat. His eyes bugged out of his head as he slowly suffocated.
Jack pulled one of the nine millimeter handguns from his waistband, the one with the suppressor already attached. He stood near the door, the gun pointed at the stall.
Foster stepped out. "I see us building a long..." His eyes dropped to the sight of his bodyguard on the floor, lifeless. He looked up at Jack in horror. Frantically, he reached behind his back.
Jack pulled the trigger. The bullet slammed into Foster's forehead, an inch above his eyebrows. Foster staggered for a second. There was no life left, just a few stray electrical impulses guiding his body. He fell to the ground.
Jack exhaled, turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on his face. He had to move fast. He grabbed a towel off the wall and covered the gun and his wrist. If anyone got in his way he would shoot. Simple as that. He pulled out his phone and called Pierre.
"I'm leaving." He hung up.
He unlocked the bathroom door and pushed through, leaving the bodyguard where he lay. The crowd around the bar had dispersed. Jack walked through the restaurant with his head down. He hit the patio and kept walking.
Lorraine was standing near the gate, smoking a cigarette. "Mr. Blair, before you go..."
He walked past her.
"Hey," she shouted.
He looked back and saw the other bodyguard moving toward the gate.
; "Mr. Blair," he called out. "Come back here."
Jack stopped, turned, raised his arm, shot the bodyguard in the chest. Lorraine screamed and dropped to the ground.
Had the bullet gone through the guard and hit her too? There was no time to check. Jack turned and sprinted two blocks to the cafe where Pierre had gone. He heard a honk, looked over and saw Pierre in a silver coupe. Jack jumped in. The car made a u-turn in the middle of the street and sped off.
12
Jack took a shower as soon as he got back to his hotel room. He debated over whether or not to stay. Only two people knew that Jack Noble was staying there. Pierre, who had just assisted with the hit on Foster, wasn't going to say anything. The old man knew, Jack was sure of that, but until the old man received the documents, he would stay out of Jack's way. Only then did Jack realize that the old man still hadn't gotten in touch with him about the spot for the switch. Last minute surprises pissed Jack off.
He got out of the shower, put on a pair of shorts and fell into bed. He replayed the hit over and over in his mind. He had started to like Foster and for a moment felt bad about having had to kill him. He thought about the four kids now without a father. Two of those kids would have no memory of him when they grew up. Even little Anna would barely remember the man in five or six years.
Then again, perhaps Jack had done them all a favor.
He reached into the antique nightstand and pulled out an unopened bottle of whiskey. He contemplated whether or not it was a good time to drink. The pros outweighed the cons. He retrieved a glass from kitchenette table and filled it halfway, sat down in a chair, took a small sip. He clicked on the TV and found a local news station. Jack fumbled with the remote until he enabled subtitles.
A small reporting team was positioned outside the restaurant. The camera focused on a gurney being pulled through the door and onto the patio. Judging by the large lump on top of the gurney, they were pulling out the bodyguard. Two more bodies lay on the ground, covered in sheets. They flashed a picture of Foster on the screen and then showed amateur cell phone camera footage of a man leaving the restaurant.
Jack held his breath the length of the segment. They had film of him leaving the restaurant. The shaky footage continued long enough to see Jack turn and fire. The darkness concealed his face, hid his body. When the station zoomed in on the footage there was no way to identify his face from the blurred and distorted picture.