He passed beneath a stand of Mediterranean pines and slowed to take advantage of the shade. There were others around him doing the same, and over the course of several minutes he picked up a gaggle of languages. Spanish, English, Arabic, Italian. A regular United Nations. The only language he was interested in, however, was Russian.
Coluzzi wiped the sweat from his forehead and continued down the hill. The problem of Russians—or, more precisely, how to contact one—had been first and foremost on his mind since opening the prince’s briefcase. On the surface, it shouldn’t present a challenge. The South of France was crawling with them, but most were thieves of one stripe or another. Even those he counted as friends he couldn’t trust. What he needed was an honest Russian, if there were such a thing. And not just an honest Russian, but one with contacts at the highest levels of his country’s government.
It was a tall order.
He’d come to the conclusion that there was only one place to start.
Jojo’s.
That’s where things got tough.
Reaching the bottom of the hill, he skirted the old opera house and cut down an alley toward the port. Ten years ago, the four square blocks adjacent to the waterfront had been the city’s toughest. Even at four in the afternoon, he would’ve been watching his back. Times had changed. The only thing to be afraid of today was choking to death on the perfume drifting out of all the froufrou boutiques and clothing stores. At least there weren’t so many Africans near the water.
He rounded the corner and saw the sign for Jojo’s. Officially it was called Le Nightclub, and it was the last of the old clubs standing. He ducked into a doorway, checking the knife strapped to his calf and adjusting the pistol in his waistband. It wasn’t his practice to carry when not working. Which brought him once again to Jojo.
A year back they’d pulled a job together in Cannes, a smash and grab at Harry Winston around the corner from the Carlton Hotel. The job went off like clockwork. Coluzzi drove a stolen van through the jewelry store’s front window. Jojo and his boys piled in, smashed the displays with hammers, filled their bags with loot, and were gone before anyone knew what was happening. Coluzzi fenced the jewels in Monaco. Everyone made out like bandits. It was months later, when he was back in Paris, that he heard rumblings that Jojo was unhappy, carping about how Coluzzi had shorted him and his crew, vowing to get even. Nothing more had come of it and Coluzzi had forgotten the whole thing.
Until now.
The weapons were a precaution…just in case.
Steeling himself, Coluzzi crossed the street to the nightclub. The front door was locked and he remembered the place didn’t open until six. He walked past the photos of the girls working, lowering his sunglasses to take a better look. No doubt about it. They’d gone upmarket along with everything else.
The alley door was unlocked. He stepped inside and waited for his eyes to adjust to the dark. Music was blaring from the bar. He made his way down the corridor, past the kitchen, and entered the main room. Jojo was sitting at the bar, smoking, head buried in the sports pages. On stage, a statuesque brunette was trying out some moves on the pole, throwing her head back while kicking up a leg. Beneath all her war paint, she was eighteen tops.
“You got teenagers working here now?” Coluzzi sat down on a stool and slapped his hands on the bar. “What next?”
Giovanni “Jojo” Matta looked up from his paper. He was sixty, deeply tanned, with wavy white hair and a gold chain hanging around his neck. “Thought we’d gotten rid of you for good,” he said sternly. “Mr. Big Time.”
Coluzzi felt the pistol digging into his back. He looked around the room. Apart from the dancer, there was only a busboy setting the tables. Even so, there was no way he wanted to shoot Jojo in front of a witness. “Me? Gone for good? Never. This is home.”
Jojo looked at him a second longer, then a smile cracked his face and he stood, arms stretched wide. “Of course it’s home. Good to see you,” he said loud enough for everyone to hear. “What’s it been? A year? Longer? Come here.”
Coluzzi accepted the hug, putting his arms around the older man. Jojo had owned Le Nightclub for as long as Coluzzi could remember. He was a pimp, a drug dealer, a fence, and a decent chef. Nothing went on in the city without his knowing. “Good to see you again, too. Get any tanner and people are going to think you’re one of them.”
“Stop it,” said Jojo. “How you been? We haven’t heard from you in forever.”
“I’m doing good. Real good.”
“You look different.”
“It’s the hair.”
“You’re dressed like a kid.”
The music stopped. Jojo clapped a few times and the girl left the stage. “Be back at eight,” he called to her. His smile disappeared the moment she left the room. He looked at Coluzzi. “When did you get back?”
“This morning.”
“How are things up north?”
“Okay.”
“Just okay?”
Coluzzi walked behind the bar and poured himself a Kronenbourg from the tap. “What do you mean?”
Jojo studied him out of the corner of his eye. “That you on the television?”
“On television? Where?”
“You’re still a shitty liar.”
“You talking about Paris?”
“You know what I’m talking about.”
Coluzzi took a long pull and wiped his mouth. “You think I’d be back here if I pulled off a job like that? I’ll tell you where I’d be. Out of the country. Some place like Ibiza. Get myself a casita in the hills. Go down to town every night for some sangria, a good piece of fish. Get laid.”
Jojo shrugged. “Thought the M.O. looked familiar. Brought back memories.”
“That was a long time ago. I gave up armored cars after I got out.”
“That wasn’t an armored car.”
“Give it a rest. It wasn’t me.”
“Okay, okay. Just curious.”
“You…you all right?”
“Sure. Why not?”
“Heard some things. I want everything to be good between us. We’re family. I want to keep it that way.”
“We’re family, Tino. Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Forget I brought it up.” Coluzzi returned to his stool and took his time drinking his beer. After a while, he said, “I need your help on something.”
“Oh?”
“Any Russians in here lately?”
“Russians?” said Jojo, as if he’d asked about aliens. “You mean, besides Svetlana and Olga?”
“Men. Clients. Maybe from the consulate. Remember, way back when, a few of them would come in here Saturday nights. We called them the Ivans. Joked around that they might be spies. Those shitty suits, smoking those lousy cigarettes. Seen anyone like that lately?”
“Couldn’t tell you,” said Jojo. “I’m in the kitchen.”
“You mind if I check receipts?”
“Credit cards?”
“Yeah.”
“Any Russians in here pay cash?”
“Not the ones I’m looking for.”
Jojo considered this. “You’re serious?”
Coluzzi nodded.
“And you’re not going to tell me what for?”
“First I need to find ’em.”
Jojo looked at him for another second, then folded the newspaper and led the way to his office. “We have a program that keeps track of all charges. You can check by date, name, transaction amount.”
Coluzzi sat down in Jojo’s chair and scooted close to the keyboard. “I’m good.”
“All yours.”
Jojo left the room and Coluzzi brought up all charges for the past six months, then looked at them by name, A to Z. There were quite a few customers with Russian last names. He concentrated on those who spent less than five hundred euros. Russian diplomats weren’t any better paid than any other state employee.
In five minutes, he had two names. Andrei Gromov and Boris Stevcek. Both men often came together. Usually Fridays. Gromov consistently spent more, but not much. Neither charged more than two hundred euros, which meant they never took a girl to the VIP room for a blow job or bought them out for the night. Lookers, not touchers.