by Camilla Monk
“Stop calling him old!” I whispered, worried that I might wake up Kalahari while serving justice.
In the dimly lit living room, March was sitting on the couch while a guy with a thick mop of curly gray hair and a little moustache put the finishing touch on a bandage around his torso. Near them, Ilan was checking his phone with a cup of steaming coffee in his hand. That doctor had taken care of him as well: large Band-Aids covered the side of his face.
Curly-prune turned to look at me. “Seems you have a fan club, Mr.—”
“April,” March completed. Honestly, was a man who used such code names worth fighting for?
In the meantime, Ilan was staring me up and down with a look of slight astonishment. Intimidated by his insistent gaze, I looked away to close the bedroom’s door behind me. “What is it? Is there something funny on my face?”
“No, but it feels strange to see those on someone else than Kalahari.” He shrugged, gesturing to the pink satin pj’s. I had always heard men paid no attention to what women wore unless it was slutty. Ilan must have been the exception to the rule, since he seemed to keep a close eye on Kalahari’s wardrobe.
While Ilan paid Curly-prune and showed him out, I sat beside March and examined the doctor’s handiwork. Okay, I’m lying. I couldn’t focus on the bandages. I did try my best, but he was shirtless again, and my neurons short-circuited. The soft glow of a paper floor lamp near the sofa outlined his handsome features and the hills and valleys of his torso. He had showered recently. I could smell a fresh, soapy scent on him, like citrus. I knew it was wrong, but I pictured myself burying my face in his chest to rub my cheeks against that damn hair and inhale his scent, kinda like cocaine addicts do when they’re at the end of the road and they just slam their face into the entire bag.
He looked at me questioningly when my eyes lingered on his navel—a most excellent one, I should say—and traveled down, following the narrow line of hair on his stomach that, combined with those strange V-shaped muscles, looked like a long arrow pointing down to his groin. I think I unconsciously licked my lips, and when I realized how such a gesture could be misinterpreted, I averted my eyes, reining in my basest instincts.
I plastered a neutral expression on my face. “You don’t really deserve it, but I’m still gonna ask if you’re okay.”
“Splendid. How about you?” he inquired with a gentle smile. “Kalahari told me you had another migraine.”
Dammit, why did he have to give me that smile? I looked at the dimples, those faint crow’s-feet, the warm spark in his eyes . . . and I almost forgot about all the things that scared me. Dries, the secrets of his past, and the storm brewing above our heads. For a moment, none of this mattered.
Well, almost none of this. “You put me in the trunk.”
“You were uncooperative,” he reminded me.
I stared at him, scandalized. “Have you ever heard of mediation?”
“You didn’t want mediation. You wanted to fight me.”
Touché. I raised my hands in surrender. “I may have come on a little too strong, and I’m willing to admit that your shooting skills are marginally superior to mine.”
“Apology accepted.” March chuckled. His smile quickly faded in favor of a more thoughtful expression, though. “Ilan and I paid a visit to Étienne’s office while you were sleeping. You were right: By the time we arrived, the office had been searched. There was nothing useful left.”
I rubbed the bridge of my nose. Now Dries probably was in possession of whatever clues my mom had left . . . and I had just been robbed of the precious few souvenirs she had left for me.
“Still no idea why your mother would have left that book for you?” March asked, crossing his arms.
“No. But her letter hinted that the stone is in Tokyo, so maybe it was some kind of wink. I read that book when I was a kid, and I loved it,” I explained.
March seized the opportunity to pick up where we had left off before my little trip in the trunk. “Speaking of which, what’s the name of your mother’s contact in Tokyo, ‘the man you loved’?”
He never gave up. Too bad I didn’t either.
I forced myself to look at him in the eye. “Look, I won’t throw a tantrum again, but I need you to understand how important it is for me to go there with you. I may never have a second chance to learn the truth. We have a deal, March. I won’t help you if you don’t help me.”
I thought I saw a flash of doubt in his eyes, but it was gone so quickly that I figured I had dreamt it. “When I say keep quiet, you keep quiet. When I say stay back, you stay back. When I tell you not to touch a weapon, you don’t touch it. Are we clear?”
I nodded eagerly.
His smile turned a little smug. “Good. That name now?”
I was about to tell him when Ilan stepped in to give me the benefit from his twenty years of experience as a spy and shadow man. “Stop and think, girl! You have him by the balls. Make the best of that piece of intel. It would be a shame to waste it, just saying—”
March glared at him as he toasted us with his coffee cup, and I realized that Ilan had used me as payback for the worst affront a man can endure: having to be friends with a guy who you know banged your wife, and not only once. Heeding his advice, I closed my mouth and grinned at March. “He’s right. I’ll tell you as soon as we’re both on a plane heading for Tokyo.”
A bright smile lit Ilan’s face, the smile of a man savoring the sweet tang of revenge. “See, Island, that’s how mediation works. Now go get ready. He’s got an order to pick up, and I’m taking you two to the airport afterward.” With this, he grabbed my dear Monoprix bag, which they had retrieved from the Bristol’s suite, and threw it across the room into my waiting hands.
March watched me silently as I retreated to the bedroom. Seemed like Mr. Clean wasn’t used to getting owned.
TWENTY-ONE
The Burgers
“Yael sighed. Jake was perfect in every way, rich, kind, and sexy. But he wasn’t Jewish. They were never meant to be.”
—Ruth Joseph, Caged Heart in Brooklyn
In the end, I wasn’t able to get dressed without waking up Kalahari. An emotionally charged good-bye ensued, during which she called me her little cupcake and hugged me tenderly. When we finally left rue Saint-Dominique, it was still early, and while Ilan and March had treated themselves to some coffee before leaving, I hadn’t eaten breakfast. My stomach was growling pitifully as we drove down Boulevard des Capucines. Looking at the Opéra Garnier’s monumental facade on my left, I tugged on March’s sleeve. “Have you ever tried that gourmet restaurant, the one that’s inside the Opéra?”
He shook his head.
Ilan glanced at me in the mirror. “Don’t worry, we’re going to one of the best restaurants in Paris!”
Ignoring March’s sneer, I grinned. “Really?”
“Yes!”
“No.”
My gaze traveled back and forth between them. They had spoken at the same time, and I couldn’t decide whom to trust. Ilan looked pretty relaxed, happy even. March, on the opposite, seemed a little queasy, as if they had served him a rat casserole the last time he had been there. Choosing to trust Ilan’s confident smile, I rubbed my palms together in anticipation.
By the time we reached Boulevard Poissonière’s legendary theater, the Grand Rex, it was past eight, and Paris had awoken. Cars struggled in the morning traffic, workers hurried down the stairs of Bonne Nouvelle’s métro station to catch their train, and food trucks opened one after another on both sides of the boulevard. Ilan skillfully passed other cars until we were in a smaller, less crowded street and stopped on rue de Trévise, in front of a restaurant that boldly advertised itself as M.O.B. Heaven. I looked up at March.
“Minas’s Organic Burgers Heaven,” he clarified with a sour smile.
It was still closed at that hour of the day, but the bright red storefront was covered with large pictures of luscious, juicy burgers and menu information in various languages, certai
nly to attract tourists. As soon as we pushed the door, a loud, gravelly voice roared in our direction. “On sert pas les juifs ici!” Ain’t serving no Jews here!
I recoiled, shaken to the core from being outed in public, and wondering just how he had guessed. “But I’m a non-practitioner! I eat bacon!”
March and Ilan cast me surprised looks, and the burly man cleaning glasses behind a long wooden counter dissolved into raucous laughter. “Ah vieux salaud! Ça te suffisait plus de venir, maintenant tu me ramène toute la tribu!” Old bastard! It wasn’t enough that you came here, had to bring the entire tribe with you!
I looked up at Ilan, who was grinning from ear to ear, and realized that his name should have been a hint. “You’re Jewish too?”
He patted me on the back. “Never one to turn down a ham sandwich, though.”
“I never knew my grandparents, but my mom told me they took these things very seriously. I guess that makes us bad Jews.” I smiled.
“The worst kind, my friend!” We all turned our attention back to the giant who had greeted us so fiercely. He was almost as tall as Ilan, a bit older, and his shaven skull shone bright under a series of colorful bohemian lamps decorating the small dining room’s ceiling. With his thick gray beard he reminded me of an ogre straight from a children’s book, and I stared at his forearms for a while, examining the various tattoos covering them: Jesus’s face, Jesus with a gun, skulls, more guns, and a colorful little piece that seemed completely at odds with the other designs. “Why the Smurfette?”
He wiped his hands on his black T-shirt and laughed again. “Had it done for my granddaughter!”
I thought it was cute and that maybe he wasn’t a bad person, just a guy who liked gun-toting Jesuses and sold burgers. I gave him my warmest smile as he leaned forward and planted his gaze on March’s, black eyes burning with a disturbing intensity. “Your baby arrived an hour ago. I won’t ask what you plan on doing with it, but I’ll tell you this. You’re one sick, sick man . . . and I like that.”
Okay, maybe he wasn’t a nice guy after all. March smiled, visibly flattered, and adjusted his black gloves. “Good. Has it been tested?”
“Yeah, saw to it myself. The Ukrainians updated the firmware a couple of weeks ago. Great new features, you’re gonna love this. You sure you don’t want DU ammo?” our host asked.
“Thank you, Minas, tungsten will be fine,” March confirmed.
I had a feeling I wasn’t supposed to interfere, but some questions have to be asked. “Exactly what kind of DU are we talking about?”
March’s hand crept between my shoulder blades, a silent invitation to drop the issue, but Minas was perfectly at ease with this question and focused his bad-guy eyes on me instead, making my knees grow a little weak. “What kind do you think, little Jew?”
More anti-Semitic digs, really? Pricked, I treated him to a tough glare of my own and wiggled a finger at his broad chest. “I think you’re selling depleted uranium ammo, and you’re gonna get cancer!”
Minas’s hand flew to his mouth in a gesture of consternation, but it was obvious he was trying hard not to laugh again. “Man, you need to talk to her about the birds and the bees.”
“I’ll think about it.” March sighed. “Can someone serve Island breakfast while we finish this conversation downstairs?”
A female voice rose behind us. “Je m’en occupe. Va faire ton business avec Minas.” I’ll take care of it. Go do your business with Minas.
I hadn’t noticed that curvy woman entering the dining room. She seemed about the same age as Minas, but her long tresses were dyed a bluish-black, perhaps to conceal gray hair. Her eyes were much softer than his, and inspecting her oval face, I gathered she had been a striking beauty in her youth. Her full red lips curved into a welcoming smile as she spoke again. “No one leaves Anouch’s table hungry!”
I did see March wince, but I thought nothing of it and watched as Ilan, Minas, and he disappeared down a narrow staircase.
In the end, I didn’t eat much in Minas’s Organic Burger Heaven, but Anouch and I chatted pleasantly while we waited for the men to return. She showed me pictures of their baby granddaughter and confirmed to me that Minas shared his time between the restaurant and a second shop in the basement, where he sold weapons. I couldn’t tell if the weapon shop was a good one—March seemed to be pleased with his purchase—but the restaurant made decent french fries, and their waffles were okay too.
I didn’t try any of the burgers because Anouch explained to me that they had this awesome business model where they would purchase 50 percent lean horse and badger trimmings from Romania, only to grind them, relabel the final product as organic beef burger, and serve it to “retarded hippies.” The profit margins were nothing short of amazing, and trendy young Parisians waited in line to try Anouch’s cilantro and rosemary double goat cheese. It wasn’t goat cheese either, but rather a mix of various fermented dairy specialties compacted together and subsequently cut into thin slices. Here again, great margins.
I was sipping a glass of water—I wasn’t too sure about the “homemade” milk shakes—when all three men emerged from the tiny flight of stairs that led to the basement. I found myself hoping that Minas’s business ethics were a little stronger when it came to weapons than burgers, because I didn’t want March to get killed by his own weapon upon firing it or anything ridiculous like that. This particular concern was soon overshadowed by another more immediate one, though.
“What the . . . March, what the hell did you buy from him?”
I’m sure you’ve already heard the idiomatic “boys and their toys” before. Well, I was currently witnessing a typical case of acute boywithtoysitis. March was smiling smugly as he carried a long and large black metal case, which seemed heavy even for him, and Ilan had a look on his face that said, “Will you let me play with it?”
We were about to leave when Minas looked at the three of us before slamming a big fist against his palm. “Putain, j’ai failli oublier!” Fuck, almost forgot!
I won’t lie. As I watched him rush down the little staircase again, my first thought was that Minas, indeed, sold weapons the same way he sold burgers, and he had forgotten the little screw that held the weapon’s barrel in place—or it looked like a real screw, but it was only plastic. To my astonishment, I was wrong. When he came back, he was carrying a bunch of black T-shirts wrapped in transparent plastic and a few key chains. He gave one to each of us, and I stared for a few seconds at the T-shirt in my hands. I wasn’t sure I would wear it since it was XXL and depicted a blood-covered skull in front of an AK-47 bearing Minas’s burger shop logo. The key chain, however, was pretty nice. A small and heavy steel tube engraved with a Jesus. I was starting to understand that Minas liked Jesus very much.
Taking the object from my hands, he gave me a fatherly smile. “Check this out. Ain’t no man gonna rape a Minas girl!”
My eyebrows rose in curiosity as he pressed the sides of the little tube, and a short, razor-sharp blade shot out. “This is so cool—”
Less impressed than I was, March gave our hosts a curt bow. “Thank you both. Minas, it’s always a pleasure to do business with you.”
Ilan helped March put the giant case in the car, but it was so big we had to fold a seat down for it to fit inside. Once everything was in place, I opened the passenger door, but before I could sit, I was stopped by March’s extended hand. I stared at his upturned palm in confusion. “What?”
“I’m sorry, Island. Our arrangement specified that you are not to touch any weapons. I can’t allow you to keep it.”
I gave him the big, sad eyes. “But it was a gift . . . and it’s not like I’m ever gonna use it on you.”
Sad eyes didn’t work—perhaps because he still had to digest Ilan’s little stunt. His hand remained where it was, waiting expectantly. I dropped Minas’s key chain with a sigh and climbed into the car, clutching the T-shirt against me. At least I had that.
TWENTY-TWO
The Bottle<
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“When it comes to kissing, less is more: if you have no idea what you’re doing, better not do anything at all. Be a starfish. Starfish get laid. Except the asexual ones. But this section will be written under the assumption that you are a sexual starfish.”
—Aurelia Nichols & Jillie Bean, 101 Tips to Lose Your Virginity after 25
I wouldn’t go so far as to say that I was getting jaded, but when we reached the tarmac of Coulommiers one hour later, I found it almost natural for us to fly private and depart from some obscure aerodrome in the middle of nowhere. Those were undeniably a safer choice for us, since I couldn’t picture March passing airport security with the huge case he had acquired from Minas: whatever was in there seemed like the sort of paraphernalia even well-bribed customs officers would find difficult to ignore.
I was a little sad to say good-bye to Ilan: I had gotten used to his tranquil presence and the way I always felt so safe around him. I allowed myself to hug him, inhaling his delicious smell of spicy vetiver cologne and tobacco. To my surprise—and perhaps even more March’s—he returned the embrace, squeezing me with his large hands. I never told March what Ilan whispered in my ear that day, but I’ve always wondered if he could read lips and knew anyway. At the time, I didn’t realize the full meaning of Ilan’s words; I thought he was just teasing me.
“C’est pas à moi qu’il faut que tu t’accroches, ma belle . . .” It’s not me you should be holding on to, sweetie . . .
After he was gone, we strolled toward a white jet that was a bit longer than the one we had taken to come to France. My review of the paintwork will have to be a little harsher this time: I didn’t like it at all. I mean, what paintwork? Do a couple of black lines drawn along the hull even count? Sorry, G650, you leave me no choice but to fail you.
March noticed my critical gaze. “You seem displeased.”
“Legacy’s paint looked better. This one is too plain,” I observed, stroking my chin like some aeronautics expert.