To start at the beginning of the story go here.
Lanzo blinked sweat out of his eyes, staring down the barrel of the pistol at me. “Why do you care?”
I felt my hands lower under the weight of the question. How was I to explain the strange obsessions that had led me to this place? That the men who ruled over Lanzo and Nika’s tiny lives weren’t any different than the other monsters I had seen walking the earth? That maybe they deserved something more than to be bargaining chips between men who would never have enough to satisfy them? That if I shook this town hard enough, maybe it’d blow like a bottle of nitroglycerin?
Instead of trying to explain any of that I replied, “I know what it’s like to be in love.” Twice, in fact, which made me half as lucky as most.
Lanzo shifted his weight in a way that made me worry he was going to buckle, but he only lowered the pistol a bit and wondered at me. After a few moments he asked an exploratory, “What would you have us do?”
Hands still up, I held them forward in entreatment. “Let’s go talk to them. Your boys, Max and the rest. They already approached me about Nika, so you’ll see they know me. You and me, we pretend that we’ve already talked about the ransom and you’re OK with it.” I pointed at Lanzo, “You’ll hear from them what they planned all along.”
“And when we learn you are wrong?”
“Then I fix up your foot and I go the fuck home.” Lanzo had let the pistol drift entirely away from me, so I risked, “But you’ve got to ask yourself what you’re going to do when you learn I’m right?”
Lanzo’s expression froze into the angry glare, making me wonder if he had his own suspicions about his friends all along.
He gestured down the alley with the pistol, indicating the direction he had been going. “You go first.”
“Sure,” I nodded. I headed that way, not looking back. I listened to Lanzo limp along, though, trying to keep an ear open for the sound of a pistol being cocked, not entirely certain he wouldn’t change his mind about shooting me.
It was a short distance to where the alley let out, opening up onto a perpendicular cobblestone street. I stopped, hearing Lanzo continue to walk for a few steps beyond that, a sure sign that the pain of his foot was distracting him. I rotated slightly, so Lanzo could see both my face and the street ahead. I pointed to the pistol that he still held in his hand. “You’re not going to keep that out the entire time are you?” I flew my finger back and forth, indicating the weapon and the public thoroughfare.
I was glad to see that Lanzo wasn’t leaving an overtly bloody trail of footprints behind, but he still seemed paler than before. His dogged expression broke with relief at seeing the cobblestones of the road. He didn’t smile, but slipped the revolver into his jacket, tucking it into the back of his waistband.
Next, my eyes dropped to his still bare feet. I stared down at his foot long enough to make sure he saw it, then asked, “You sure we don’t need a cab or something?”
He shook his head. “It is not far.”
I knew that at our current, wounded pace it would take a very long time to get anywhere. With than in mind, I sat down on a nearby stoop and took off one of my own shoes. Lanzo darted his eyes between the street and the alley, uncertain of what I was doing and uncomfortable with my odd behavior. I ignored him and removed a sock and held it out to him. “Staunch the bleeding,” I waved it at his foot, “then put on your boots.”
He glared at the sock as if, finally, my dastardly plan was coming to fruition. Feeling tired as the adrenaline of nearly being shot drained away, I just waved the fabric at him some more and added, “It’s that or I carry you.”
Lanzo snorted, but snatched the sock, then sat down on the stoop several feet away from me. I stood and used my width to block the view of anyone who might be curious about what this unlikely pair was doing out on a beautiful Mediterranean day. While we weren’t doing anything illegal, I preferred not to have anyone notice the blood or give any reason to remember us.
Lanzo wrapped the fabric around his foot, then put on his boots. I nodded encouragingly and stepped out of the alley. The stones of the road had been laid long before the fast cars that sometimes used them were made so, like a good boy scout, I glanced up and down the street.
Satisfied there wasn’t anything, vehicular or otherwise, that might be a surprise, I stepped out and I waited for Lanzo. Keeping as much distance as the narrow road allowed, he hopped up next to me and performed the same perfunctory scanning of our environment.
Confident that I hadn’t laid out some elaborate ambush for him, he indicated a direction with a hand that I was relieved didn’t have the revolver in it. He was still limping, but we made better time than we were before. Eventually, we walked down the street side-by-side as if we weren’t strangers.
I was glad to see we weren’t headed back in the direction of Grenoble Station, but I wasn’t sure of anything beyond that. We were definitely headed towards the river and away from whatever vestiges of civilization that the fringe neighborhood contained. I kept moving, slowing my pace to match Lanzo’s, but never asking about our destination.
When the river came in sight I judged we must be south of the The Factory, closer to the ocean. Between us and the gorge was the same north-south road that Sartre had parked on to show me where Sergei was and the road I had driven down after leaving the burning Russian behind.
Walking over to the bollard and chain border I could see we were high enough that the sidewalk offered a view of the river placidly letting out into the blue Mediterranean sea far below, the stones of the embankment the only gray in the warm sun. The rest was covered in the green spring vegetation and the wind carried the scent of honeysuckle and eucalyptus.
Despite his wounded foot, Lanzo went over the chain one leg after another with the ease of habit. I found my curiosity overrode my good sense and I followed. Here, there was a narrow, smooth path leveled into the embankment and it led down in long switchbacks. Fortunately, the warm afternoon sun had dried the stones, so the chances of slipping were less, but I still moved along in careful steps, not wanting to take the long slide down to the river.
The trickiest part was moving past the storm drains; nearly big enough to let a man walk in without hunching, their cement lips projected out of the embankment like massive cannons. Each led into the darkness under the city and, as we passed, I couldn’t help but seeing the specter of Sergei linger in those shadows. I just gripped the hard rim like it was a ladder rung and swung past, trying to ignore his secrets. With the smell of street trash and human waste washing out of each tunnel, I was oddly grateful that Lanzo had put his boots back on. Every drain was probably a wonderful source for infection.
We didn’t pass too many of those barriers before I spotted a small gray hutch that jutted out from the slope, the same gray as the stones of the embankment. It hung onto the cliff like a venerable lighthouse keeper, alone and happy to be ignored. It was flat-topped, with no windows, a piece of utility construction that was probably a part of the original flood controls. A door faced out onto the path, rusted red with age, nothing more than a broken padlock hanging off its staple. This far down, I doubt the building was visible from the road even if you knew to look for it.
Lanzo hopped towards the door and popped off the lock, didn’t bother with the secret knock I half expected. He swerved his head, indicating for me to follow. I hesitated, but decided to show the same faith in him that he was showing in me and followed.
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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