First, though, I had to meet Atwell for breakfast. After my shift I headed away from the ocean and the Promenade, deeper into the city. Old Town was mostly empty at that hour, a few late night revelers still walking the narrow, cobblestoned streets that criss-crossed amongst the high and narrow old buildings. Occasionally those streets collided to form a nexus, a small public space, this one around a pin-and-ball fountain of white marble, emblazoned at its base with a long forgotten coat-of-arms, its water no longer running. The small square was lined with mostly unopened shops and stray cats. Off one of these squares through a tall and ornate gate and under an ogive arch was a bistro that, as far as I could tell, never closed.
The inside was an odd combination of the city’s grand architecture and what resembled a public school cafeteria. Fluted columns rose to the ceiling at the corners, with the walls painted a subdued shade that matched the pastel exterior. The floor was a cheap linoleum that my shoes squeaked on and the furniture was molded plastic and metal piping. You could sit and be waited on or you could go over the counter and order any of the pastels or dishes that sat underneath the sneeze-guard. Fake plants were placed at seemingly random intervals, trying to give the impression that this was some kind of garden in the city.
The building itself, like much of Old Town, had once been a residence or some kind of single purpose unit, but had since been cordoned off into sections for renters. Sometimes this gave the new subdivisions odd shapes and the bistro was no exception. Through the gate it was barely wide enough to hold a table on either side with room to walk between them, then it T’d at the back, but at such an odd angle the wings were offset from one another. Which made the rear of the restaurant a good place to meet as you couldn’t be seen from the street or the restaurant’s other branches.
I strolled in passed the wait staff, only two at such an early hour. Both of them just nodded, clearly tired from being out all night or tending to the drunk rush that accompanied the night life winding down. I grabbed a cup of coffee from the counter, mostly to guarantee the waiter wouldn’t bother me, then headed to the back.
Atwell was there, already sat, playing with a lighter and pack of cigarettes. I had never seen him smoke. He smiled as he always did, but the circles under his eyes made him look like a lost brother to the dark-haired prostitute, wary and a bit frazzled.
I stood next to the table, blocking his view of the entrance and gave him a poke. “I don’t understand why we bother with a dead drop if we’re just going to meet in public like this.” I spoke quickly and quietly, minimizing the chances the wait staff would overhear or be able to understand.
There was a tightening around Atwell’s eyes and they darted as if they were trying to find a way around me. That passed quickly, though, and he waved my objection away, pulling the blanket of his false geniality over whatever anxiety he had been sharing his bed with. “Relax.” As usual when I didn’t immediately respond to his command he hardened with an imperiousness. “Sit down.”
I sat. “How have you been, Atwell? You look a little tired.”
“No rest for the wicked. Judging by your appearance, you know that.”
My erratic schedule had been keeping me from a good night’s sleep, but unlike Atwell I didn’t think of his comment as some kind of personal attack. People doing dangerous work sometimes couldn’t sleep at all. “True. I’ve been busy.”
“With what?” As usual, his attempts at nonchalance fell away quickly. I had been giving some thought on how much to share with Atwell during the walk here, so I did.
“I got in touch with Mitnick. Or rather he got in touch with me. He asked me to keep an eye out in the casino for him.”
“Why?” The flatness of his question suggested that he had known or suspected this.
“He wants to know if anything changes – new faces, old faces that disappear, anything out of the ordinary. I suspect that he just wants an excuse to have a casino employee on his payroll.”
“So you may not be the only one.”
I thought about Jasper but only replied with, “Yeah.”
Atwell leaned back in his chair, pleasantly surprised. “I’m shocked he would take Sartre’s beating so lightly.”
“He’s not as established here as he wants to be. He wants the casino but he’s not in a hurry, so he doesn’t want any trouble right now.” I decided to slip something in. “Plus, one of his guys has gone missing.”
Atwell narrowed his eyes and leaned forward. “Who?”
I took out one of the Belarusian’s picture and slid it across to Atwell. “Sergei Molotov.” I thought about it and mixed things up a bit. “I’ve been asked to find him.”
“By Mitnick?”
“By Sartre.” It was hard not to enjoy the reaction of Atwell learning something he hadn’t anticipated. It happened frequently enough, but the discomfort it gave him was always fun for me.
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