To start from the beginning go here.
I nodded, my brain feeling the smoke and tendrils that crossed each other until I was here, with Sartre asking me to investigate a murder I’d committed. So I looked him in the eye and did what I do best. I played dumb.
“Where was this fire? I may need to check it out.”
“In L’Ariane, near Gairut, between Cimetière Hill and the canal. You cannot miss it.” At Sartre’s last statement I wondered how out of control the fire had gotten. I was suddenly very grateful to Ears that he had frightened off the attendant rather than beating him unconscious.
“I’ll need a car to get out that far.”
With another puff of smoke, Sartre considered this. Then he nodded, saying, “Speak with Thibalt. He will arrange something.”
I nodded again, walking down a mental checklist of all the things someone in my shoes shouldn’t know. Which brought me to, “How long have the police been on the scene?”
“Only since last night.”
I considered this, trying to appear grateful that only so little time had passed. “Do you know who’s in charge of the investigation?”
“It is an inspecteur named Rotella.”
“Do you have any pull with him?”
“Non.” Sartre made a face as if his cigarette had left a bad taste in his mouth. “He is his own man.”
“OK. Maybe I can point him at Mitnick. If Rotella knows he was involved somehow it might keep him busy and cause trouble for Mitnick.” Sartre grinned wickedly at this, in such a simple and evil way I might have thought he was considering having one of the rooks sap me in the back of the head. I found in the matrix of that moment that I was pretty indifferent.
“D’accord. C’est bon,” was his only reply. Still smiling impishly, he rose from his chair. Behind me, I heard the utility door open.
I stopped the room’s movements with, “What about the other thing we talked about?” Understandable for a man with so much on his mind, Sartre gave me his own blank stare. I prompted him with, “With Lanzo’s friends and Nika?”
Sartre’s smile dropped away and he stared at me like a sphinx. “Why would you ask about this? I said no.”
“You said the time wasn’t right,” I countered, holding my wrists together like I was handcuffed, gesturing to Sartre with fingers splayed. “It’s just that Mitnick keeps fucking with you, despite what you did at the casino.” Or because of it, I thought. “It might be a good way to fuck with him back.”
Sartre’s grin returned in a flash, boiling into a sadistic laugh that he was barely able to contain, a minor tremor compared to the earthquake in his car earlier. When he had that under control he said, “Tell them they may proceed.”
Bubbling with more chuckles, Sartre moved past the table and towards the utility door. By my chair, he stopped and placed a hand on my shoulder. This surprised me, causing me to look up at him. I found he was staring at me as if I were a crystal ball. He repeated, “You are very smart, American.”
Not sure what else to say I slowly pronounced a, “Thanks.”
“Don’t be too smart. Get to work.” Veiled threats were stock-in-trade amongst men of violence, but I found myself watching Sartre very carefully, certain somehow that I wasn’t completely cleared of his suspicions.
Ignoring that, I moved to stand. “Right. I’ll go finish my shift.”
Sartre chuckled, grinding out his cigarette on the concrete floor. “No one is expecting you.”
I watched him twist his small foot into the butt, his meaning slowly coming to me. “Right.”
Sensing this, he grinned down at me. “Come and go from the casino as you please. Talk with Atwell. Cause trouble for Mitnick. These are the things required of you now, not watching fools throw away their money.” I nodded minutely, but didn’t say anything. My brain was too preoccupied with the math of how many people thought they had me on a hook.
Sartre and his rooks disappeared back through the utility door, folding themselves into it. They sealed it with a click, leaving nothing but the smoke and cigarette butt as indicators they had been there.
I sat there for a time, thinking. Despite Sartre’s words, I found a part of me, trained and ingrained to fulfill my obligations, wanted to head back into the casino. The idea that no one was expecting me only added to that. Now that the danger from Sartre had passed, at least for now, I would be safe in the casino, and I needed time to think. All of that combined into me heading out onto the casino floor and passing a few early morning hours watching the mostly empty slot machines.
The only pleasantry was a brief exchange with Thibalt who, to his credit, appeared only mildly surprised to see me. Instead of asking about the car, I asked to borrow the house phone, using it to check to see if there were any messages on the mobile. Learning there weren’t, I called Alon and asked him to meet me at L’Orange, my next destination, in a few hours. He complained, in a friendly French manner, that that would be near the end of his shift, but he agreed to meet me there.
When I finished up, I headed back to the locker room. I wasn’t even out of my jacket when Jasper appeared, his unctuous tone behind me as I groaned out of my blazer. “You are leaving?”
Sartre’s appearance guaranteed that management knew I was working with him, and I wondered how much protection that would project. If I bashed Jasper’s head into the locker, would there be any repercussions? Or would they assume I was doing it on orders from the Night Governor?
Instead of that, though, I closed the locker door. “Yeah.”
“Twice now Sartre has been to see you.” Jasper grinned at me as if he were amused, but then I realized it was whatever passed for happiness in him. He had confirmation he was closer to the center of power and it pleased him.
While this made me reconsider putting his head into the locker I just replied with, “Yep.” I pivoted on my heel like he wasn’t there, forcing him to step back or risk a collision with my much larger frame.
He followed behind me as I headed for the door. “Is there anything I can do for you?” The pronoun carried with it the plural form.
For whatever reason I found my inclination towards committing violence on Jasper was transformed by the question. Instead I found myself laying another potential bomb. I turned to him and said, “Yeah. Do you have a pen?”
I was at least marginally amused at Jasper scrambling across his person to locate a pen. I captured the hand he gave it to me with and wrote down a number, feeling a bit like a lover promising a tryst. “If you see anything out of the ordinary, call this number and leave a message.”
Jasper examined the number as I wrote it, but I managed to leave without any questions. He wouldn’t have any idea that the number was to the cell Mitnick gave me.
To read the next chapter, go here.
To read the previous chapter, go here.
To read a polished and published prequel to this story go here.
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