Simon smiled. She smiled back. The woman’s eyes were glazed and her mouth had a sloppy habit of hanging open at one side. He leaned closer. “You’re right,” he said invitingly. “I do. But you’re not ever going to see it.”
The woman quaffed the rest of her drink before grabbing her purse and walking toward the ladies’ room. As Simon’s eyes followed her, he observed that Falconi and his nervous friend had been joined by two men, both of whom looked like they came from the enforcement side of the business.
“Another beer?” asked the bartender.
“No, thanks. Just the bill.”
“Didn’t find your friend?”
“Must be at the wrong place.” Simon paid the bill. When he turned to leave, Falconi and his cronies were blocking his path.
“Ledoux,” said the one with the mustache.
“Do I know you?”
“My name’s Jack,” said the man, not offering a handshake. “You were asking about Tino Coluzzi?”
“Jack” for Giacomo. No doubt now. Nikki had steered him to the right place.
“He’s an old friend,” said Simon. “Like I said to Luca.”
“Is that right?” said Jack. “Maybe we can talk about this outside.”
“I’m fine here.”
“It’s confidential,” said Falconi easily, buddy to buddy. “Just take a minute.”
“Sure thing.” Simon crossed the room in a leisurely manner, the four men close behind. He opened the door and stepped outside. At the end of the alley, a steady stream of pedestrians passed by on the well-lit street. Jack walked in the other direction, deeper into the shadows, before addressing Simon.
“So you are a friend of Tino?” he asked, more of an accusation than a question.
“I am.”
“Because I know all of Tino’s friends. I’ve never seen you or heard him mention you.”
“We worked for Signor Bonfanti.”
“Bonfanti,” said Jack, rising up onto his toes. “He’s done. No one cares about him anymore.”
“Giacomo,” said Falconi. “Show some respect.” The older man directed his attention to Simon. “When did you work for Il Padrone?”
“A long time ago. Almost twenty years. Don’t remember you.”
“You wouldn’t. I was away. In Italy. Cremona.”
“Making violins.” As well as the home of the finest violin manufacturers in Italy, Cremona housed one of Italy’s largest maximum-security prisons.
“Something like that,” said Falconi. “I need to ask you a couple of questions, then we can all get out of here. What do you say?”
“I’m listening.”
“What exactly is it that you think Tino Coluzzi took?”
“I’ll tell Tino when I see him.”
“He’d prefer that you tell me.”
“So you do know him?” Simon said. “You had me going back there. You’re very good, you know. Usually I can tell straight off if someone’s putting me on. But you? I was sure I’d come to the wrong place. The problem was that I was sure Jack had mentioned that he hung out here with Tino.”
“The hell I did.” Jack looked at Luca. “I’ve never seen this guy in my life.”
“You also said that Tino was getting a crew together. Mostly guys from back home.”
Luca Falconi gave Jack a withering glare, shaking his head. It was clearly not the first time Jack’s big mouth had betrayed him.
“Answer the question,” said Jack, growing more agitated.
“Tino knows what it is,” said Simon. “I don’t need to tell him. Where is he, by the way? Maybe we can meet up. It’d be good to see him again.”
“He would like to know who you’re working for,” said Falconi.
“Like I said, I’ll be more than happy to explain everything to him when I see him. If you want, give him a call. I’ll tell him over the phone.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Didn’t you call him already? I mean, why else are we out here? Bet you surprised him. Not the kind of news I’d want to get in the middle of the night.” Simon laughed. “How’d he take it?”
Luca Falconi said nothing,
“Don’t listen to this guy,” said Jack. “He’s not one of us. He’s a cop. Look at him. Why else does he show up now?”
“Shut up, Jack. Look at his arm.”
“It’s fake.”
“I’ll give you a chance to take that back,” said Simon.
“Whoever you are, Tino doesn’t like you asking questions,” said Falconi.
Jack took a knife from his pocket and flicked open the blade. Black carbon steel. Serrated along one edge. A gutting knife.
Instantly, Simon was back in the yard at Les Baums. Instinct took over. Reflexes fired before reason could control them. He slugged Jack in the jaw, dropping him to the ground.
“Kill him,” said Falconi.
The two enforcers moved in quickly, one from either side. Simon heard the click of a switchblade, caught a flash of steel. He threw out a foot and hooked the assailant’s leg, landing him on his back, the man’s head bouncing off the asphalt. The other threw a wild punch that struck Simon’s neck, stunning him. He rolled with the impact, taking two steps, then spinning, anchoring a foot, and putting a fist into the charging man’s sternum. The man stopped cold, mouth opened wide, all of his breath expelled. Simon finished him with an uppercut to the jaw, feeling a knuckle break, grabbing the man by his lapels and tossing him against the wall.
Two down.
Jack scrambled to his feet, knife in hand, coming at him, eyes crazed. He lunged at Simon, and Simon retreated. He lunged again, quick as a cat, and Simon felt the blade nick his ribs. He danced to his right, away from the hand brandishing the switchblade. He could feel the blood rolling down his torso. One more scar to brag about.
To his left, he was aware of Falconi digging into his jacket, but he knew better than to chance a look. He kept his eyes fixed on Jack, on the blade carving tight circles. Simon stumbled, catching his toe on a cobblestone. Jack jumped at once. Simon was ready, his ploy working as expected. He reached for the outstretched hand, finding the wrist, twisting it violently as he dropped to a knee, the bone cracking like a dry branch. The knife fell to the ground. Simon kept hold of the ruined joint, rising as fast as he could, wrenching the arm and forcing Jack to the pavement. Still, Simon didn’t let go. He placed his boot on the man’s shoulder and twisted the arm again. Spiral fracture of the humerus. Shearing of the rotator cuff. Jack screamed. Simon released him.
Falconi stood a few feet away, arm extended, a compact, nickel-plated pistol glimmering in the darkness. He advanced on Simon, raising the weapon, thumb cocking the hammer.
“Vaffanculo,” he said. “You are no friend of Tino’s, whoever you are. Simon Ledoux is dead.”
Simon backed up a step, knowing that no matter how fast he might be, he couldn’t outmaneuver a bullet. “Tell Tino to hit me harder next time.”
“There won’t be a next time,” said Falconi. “Tino thinks Simon Ledoux is dead. I’m not going to tell him otherwise.”
The arm extended. The grip on the pistol firmed.
“Hold on,” said Simon. “Don’t do it. There’s a cop behind you.”
“Really?” said Falconi, too old and too wise to fall for it.
“Really,” said Simon, his eyes locked on the fast-moving figure behind Falconi.
There was a sudden motion. A raised voice. The scuff of a boot. The older man reacted too slowly, turning his head as Nikki Perez brought down the butt of her pistol on his skull.
Falconi collapsed to the ground, his gun clattering across the bricks.
Nikki picked up the pistol, then gave him a nudge with her boot. Falconi didn’t move. “You okay?”
“I think so,” said Simon. “How long have you been here?”
“Long enough.”
A small group stood outside the bar, watching them. A man ran inside, sounding the alarm.
“Let’s go,” said Nikki. “Now.”
She ran down the alley toward the Rue des Rosiers.
Simon ran after her.
“What was that back there?”
Nikki was bent at the waist, hands on her thighs, catching her breath after the mad dash from Le Galleon Rouge.
“What?”
“Those moves. I thought you were going to kill him.”
“Nothing,” said Simon, eyes trained for pursuers. “Just some stuff I picked up a while back.”
“Another story you’ll have to tell me.”
“Yeah,” said Simon. “One day.”
“This is how you dress when you hit the town?”