A fifteen-minute cab ride took Simon to the Marais. He got out at the église Saint-Paul-Saint-Louis and walked a block to the Rue des Rosiers. Le Marais was an historical district popular with tourists. The streets were lined by old government buildings, maisons de villes, and churches dating from the fourteenth century. At night, when traffic quieted and the sidewalks grew deserted, it was easy to lose one’s place in time. Even now, Simon could imagine the wheels of a tumbrel cart clattering over the cobblestones, delivering its unfortunate charge to the Place de la Concorde for his date with the guillotine.
He spotted the sign for Le Galleon Rouge. In ten steps, he was miles away from the quaint, clean streets. Garbage bags lined the sidewalk. Pools of grease sullied the road. Urban music blared from an open window. The side street was like any other gritty alley in the wrong part of town.
Nearing the bar, Simon slipped the StingRay from his pocket and dropped it behind one of the garbage bags. A man stood near the entry, leaning unsteadily against the wall. He looked at Simon, then pushed open the door with one arm. “Salut.”
“Salut.” Simon stepped inside, pausing to allow his eyes to adjust to the low light. It was a small room, choked with cigarette smoke, tables to one side, video poker games on the wall, and a foosball table in the corner. At 10:30, the place was half full but lively, a few couples dancing to Italian disco music. He walked to the bar and propped his elbows on the counter, aware that all eyes were on him. He might look like one of them, but he was an outsider, and outsiders were not to be trusted.
He ordered a beer and remained standing, facing straight ahead. The bartender set the glass on the counter. “Visiting?”
“Quick trip.”
“Know anyone in town?”
“I’ve been away for a while.”
The bartender’s eyes gave him the once-over. He saw the tattoo and the penny dropped. “This one’s on the house.”
Simon raised his glass.
The bartender left and Simon gave a look over his shoulder. The place was filling up, mostly men in their thirties and forties and their dates. The women ranged from brassy blondes showing too much flesh to dark-haired matrons who looked like they’d come straight from Mass. From the corner of his eye, he noticed the bartender speaking to an older man at the end of the counter. The man’s eyes turned to Simon. He smiled faintly and made his way over. “Mind?” he asked, pointing at an empty stool.
“All yours.”
“Luca Falconi,” he said.
“Simon Ledoux.” If he was visiting the old gang, he might as well use his old name.
Falconi offered a meaty hand. He was pushing sixty, wavy hair dyed black as oil, an extra thirty pounds hanging from his gut. “Laurent told me you’d been away. Where were you, on vacation?”
“Down south.”
“Les Baums?”
Simon nodded and sipped his beer. “It was a while ago. I’ve been out of the country a few years.”
“What brings you here?”
“Looking for a friend.”
“Maybe I can help.”
“His name is Tino Coluzzi. We go way back.”
“Coluzzi, eh?” Falconi made a show of searching for the name, eyes moving here and there, mouth twisted in puzzlement. To Simon’s eye, it was a poor performance. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”
“He’s a little taller than me. Better looking. I heard he liked this place.”
“Really? Where’d you hear that?”
“Nowhere special. In fact, we did some work together back in the day.”
“Can’t help you. Not a name to me.”
“Too bad. I wanted to give him a message. You see, he has something I’m looking for. He might have found it by accident, but he needs to give it back. Otherwise, he could get into a lot of trouble. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to him.”
“Sounds serious.”
“It is what it is.”
Falconi considered this, his eyes never leaving Simon’s. “What did you say your name was again?”
“Ledoux. Simon Ledoux.”
“Well, Mr. Ledoux, like I said, I can’t help you.”
“Tell him there’s still time. No hard feelings. Just in case you remember.”
Falconi raised his glass. “Stay out of trouble.”
“I’ll try.” Simon went back to minding his own business. Falconi disappeared into the back office. Simon had a good idea what he was up to. It looked like Nikki Perez was right about this being Coluzzi’s hangout.
Chapter 30
Tino Coluzzi was asleep when the phone rang. He sat up and checked the number before answering.
“Yeah, Luca,” he said. “What is it?”
“Something’s up. A guy’s in here asking about you.”
“A cop?”
“It’s not about Sunday. All the boys are keeping their mouths shut.”
“Then why are you bothering me?”
“The guy’s one of us.”
“La Brise?”
“Yeah.”
Coluzzi rubbed his eyes, still half-asleep. “Recognize him?”
“Never seen him before, but he says he knows you.”
“Who is he, then?”
“Ledoux.”
The name rocked him like a swift kick in the nuts. “Say again.”
“Ledoux. Says he’d heard you liked to hang out here. And he wanted to give you a message.”
“What’s that?”
“He thinks that you might have something he wants. Something you found by accident but that you need to give back. You know what he’s talking about?”
Coluzzi was fully awake now and on edge. Still, he needed time to put everything together. He rose and stalked through the small, low-ceilinged house, throwing open the doors to the terrace and stepping outside.
He called the place Le Coual, and it was situated far off the beaten path on a promontory overlooking the sea twenty kilometers outside Marseille. He’d built the place himself over the course of two summers not long after he’d gotten out of prison. He’d learned at a young age that he needed a place to lay up from time to time. A place where no one could find him, friend or foe. The line between the two could be razor thin, and subject to change without notice.
“You there?” asked Falconi.
“Yeah, I’m here.” Coluzzi put a foot on the retaining wall and breathed in the sea air. A thousand feet below him the ocean crashed against the rocky shoreline. “I got no idea what he means. I don’t have anything that belongs to him.”
“He said there’s still time. No hard feelings. Mean anything to you?”
“Nah. Nothing.”
“You think he’s talking about the other day?”
“Of course not. Anyway, it’s impossible. It can’t be Ledoux.”
“You sure? He said you two did some work together a while back.”
“What’s he look like?”
“Black hair, not too big, green eyes. About forty. Just a regular guy. Oh yeah…and a scar on his forehead.”
“A scar?”
“A nasty one. Like a fishhook.”
Coluzzi remembered delivering the blow, swinging the sharpened stick of iron, putting all of his weight into it, all of his anger, all of his fear. “No, no,” he said. “That can’t be. No way.”
“I almost forgot. His first name is Simon.”
Coluzzi felt the wind against his scalp, heard the breakers crashing on the rocks far below. But in his mind, he was back in the prison yard, standing over Ledoux’s unmoving body, the sun beating down, thinking he’d never seen so much blood in his life. “Listen to me, Luca. There’s no way Simon Ledoux can be in Paris.”
“So you do know him?” said Falconi with relief. “I thought something was up.”
“Know him?” said Coluzzi. “I killed him.”
Chapter 31
A voluptuous brunette with cunning dark eyes and ruby-red lipstick took Falconi’s place next to Simon. She set her purse on the counter, then arranged her hair, giving him a look he was too experienced to misinterpret. Her name was Raquel. He bought her a few drinks and listened to her hard-luck story. She was just what he needed to keep an eye on the place.
Luca Falconi had installed himself at a table in the far corner. He was seated with a fidgety man with sideburns and a thick mustache, and a svelte blonde who looked too sophisticated for the place. Simon allowed his gaze to linger, letting the restless guy see him, guessing that this might be the Giacomo Nikki had mentioned.
Raquel was getting drunk quickly and laid a hand on Simon’s thigh. “Hey,” she said huskily. “Why don’t you take me to someplace nice?”
“Any ideas?”
“I’ll bet you live someplace nice.”