During one of my breaks I checked on Thibalt to make sure he was OK after getting slugged by the Brick. While his paunch and receding hairline didn’t suggest it, the middle-aged Frenchman was a sturdy sort. He just smiled around the chipped tooth and broken nose like the professional he was and said it was nothing. 

I finished up my shift. Checking out at the security station a sullen Jasper ignored me, upset that Sartre’s arrival had overshadowed anyone possibly caring about me leaving my sector. I would have thought the excitement surrounding the crime boss’ arrival would have given him something to focus on other than petty blackmail, but he barely glanced my way as I signed out. Nobody does haughty quite like the French. 

In the pre-dawn dark of the city I paid more attention to the reflection of the streetlamps in the sidewalk puddles than I did to what was going on around me.  Mitnick and Sartre occupied most of my brain, so I didn’t see the old Citroën BX pull up, riding along the bollards beside me.  I only noticed it when another car honked its horn, urging the Citroën to speed up. Knowing who it was, I pretended not to notice.

I was a few blocks from the casino but not quite to the tram station when the BX’s tinny horn made it impossible to ignore. With the hook of the umbrella’s handle resting on the crook of my arm I stuffed my hands into the peacoat and turned, trying very much to appear as if I might have picked up Sartre’s Tokarev. With cars whipping past in the outside lane the BX idled there.

I walked over and bent down as the driver finished cranking down the passenger side window.  His black hair, thin face, and aquiline nose were lit by the headlights of passing cars. He leaned back into the driver’s seat and smiled at me as if inviting me into a limousine instead of a beat-up old hatchback. “Get in.”

With the regret of a tired streetwalker I gave him a doleful smirk and reached for the car door handle. I thought about making some excuse, but I decided it would only delay the inevitable. I climbed in as another automobile blared its horn.

Ignoring the anger of the other car, the driver waited until I got in before pulling away from the Promenade’s pedestrian walkway and getting up to speed. “How have ya been?”

I stared at the oncoming lights. “I’ve been fine Atwell. How are you?”

Read the next chapter here.

Read the previous chapter here.

See the author’s published work here.

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