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Placidly examining the corpse, Sartre told me, “Someone wanted him found.”
It was my turn to shrug. It didn’t look like I was getting out of this. I gave it one last shot anyway. “You’ve got to have some pet detective on the payroll, someone better suited to the task.”
“You work at my casino. Everyone knows this. Atwell thinks you work for him. Mitnick pays you now as well.” Sartre’s light didn’t feel like it was pointed at the corpse anymore, but straight at me. I tried to squint passed it to see the man holding it, but over my now thundering heartbeat I could only hear the words, “You are a neutral party, yes?” He rolled his fingers as if he held a cigarette that he was examining with a keen interest. “Besides, you already told Jasper you work for me.”
Hanging there on the steep embankment there was no way out but up to Sartre’s men, down to the river, or through the tunnel with the dead man in it. So I said, “It looks that way.”
“Good. You will find who murdered this man and bring him to me.” It wasn’t a question. I nodded.
“Have your boys move the body to some place cold. We might need it later.” Looking at the ruination of what used to be a man I couldn’t imagine how it might be useful, but you never can tell. Sartre said he would and we started back up the embankment, me even slower than the caution of my descent.
At the top, I noticed one of Sartre’s rooks on a cell phone, probably calling for their ride. Knowing I didn’t have long and uncertain of where to begin I asked, “The Russians hang out at the Factory a lot?” The corpse’s proximity to the club made everyone in it a suspect. At least this might mean I’d have an excuse to speak to the Corsican and his boys.
“Belarusian,” Sartre corrected. I knew that, of course, but for some reason it felt silly saying it. I nodded and he continued, “They go there when they want to live dangerously.” Sartre gave a charitable nod of his head. “I allow it.” He shook the early morning damp off his hands and gestured to one of his men who fitted a cigarette to Sartre’s mouth and lit it. Another handed me back the umbrella.
“Anyone you know have a reason to do something like this? Maybe one of your men doesn’t like foreigners?” There had to be a dozen reasons that violence could erupt between Sartre and Mitnick’s men, even if neither man had ordered it. I was more worried about it being something truly random, which would make it almost impossible to track down.
“Non,” Sartre replied, puffing on his cigarette. I didn’t smoke, but having anything to get the smell of briny corpse out of my nose sounded like a good idea. Rather than ask for one, though, I let Sartre continue. “We make much of our living off foreigners. They spend their money at the casino, the girls come from the East, our friends from South America bring us gifts.” He smiled, a cynical joke of innocence, “We’re globalists.”
“Right,” I said. I’m sure Mitnick thought of himself the same way.
Driving up from the south I could see a set of headlights, the blue of their Xenon telling me it was probably Sartre’s ride. I considered asking for a lift, then thought better of it. It was the only place to start so I might as well climb back up the hill.
We waited in silence only interrupted by the rustle of Sartre’s rooks furtively glancing around at every shadow. Out of the confines of the club and without so many escorting from behind now I could count them – six in all, plus however many were with the cars. Sartre really was worried about Mitnick.
With that realization and the shock of finding the corpse fading from my mind I asked, “How long ago did you find the body?”
The lead car swiveled around another bend in the road, coming level with us from the steep climb, its powerful headlights bleaching Sartre’s skin until his color nearly matched the man down in the pipe. Cigarette held in front of his mouth, he replied, “A few hours ago. I was rounding up men to tend to it when I happened onto you.” Taking the cigarette from his mouth he let smoke drift away on a warm breeze drifting up from the ocean. “Luck, yes?”
I watched the cars instead of smiling back, two black, sleek sedans that purred to a slow stop a few feet from the group. “You think he’s been down there since before your confrontation with Mitnick at the casino?” While that wasn’t long ago, the water made it difficult to determine.
Sartre only shrugged, admitting the possibility. His rooks dispersed, moving around the cars while one held a car door open for Sartre. He moved to enter, stopping with one foot on the floorboard, telling me, “Find who did this. Keep the peace. You will do something good, yes?”
He didn’t bother to wait for my answer, slipping into the car. I stood there, watching them drive off, memorizing the plate numbers. I would have preferred to watch him and Mitnick tear each other apart like the animals they were, but they might take the whole city with them. So I started back up the hill, my feet taking me back towards the Factory.
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