To start at the beginning of the story go here.
I took Lanzo to Simon’s cafe. Any cafe would do, I suppose, but I suspected that Simon might know how to write a love letter.
It didn’t appear like he’d be interested in the job, though. While the Corsican hadn’t been with the voyous when they had threatened us, Simon stared at Lanzo in the same guarded way. Fortunately, there was still enough of a lunch crowd that I didn’t have to make immediate introductions.
I steered Lanzo through the few occupied tables, happy to see no one paid us any mind. The diners finishing meals were so wrapped in their own plans that they wouldn’t suspect we were up to nefarious ones. I was grateful to find my usual table empty. I sat with back against the wall. Lanzo glanced around, then snorted before taking a seat, the entire scene too bourgeois for him, I suppose. My friendship with Simon made it hard to ignore this, but I did.
I was pleasantly surprised, though, that when Simon came over Lanzo asked permission to smoke. He didn’t say anything to the older Frenchman, only took out his cigarettes and held them up with a monosyllabic query. Ambivalent at first, Simon took stock of his remaining lunch crowd and then nodded. Addicts are always happy to have company. Lanzo actually smiled in return, grateful to have landed on a friendly shore.
“Unusual to see you twice in one day,” Simon noted to me.
“I love this place. I’m showing it to all my friends.” I waved at Lanzo as he lit up.
It was Simon’s turn to snort. He said no more, though, and I ordered two coffees. I asked, “Do you have a pen and paper?” I waved a finger between me and Lanzo, “We need to write a letter.”
Knowing that younger generations had abandoned written correspondence, Simon cocked his head at me as if he misunderstood. Knowing it would make him happy to hear it, I clarified with, “A love letter.”
Simon smiled like the sun had come out. Maybe he thought I was constructing an ode to Sophie and had pulled some starving poet in from the street to help me. Within moments he was back with two cups of coffee, a pen, and a pad of stationery. He set these down, then moved off into the cafe to tend to his remaining customers so this Cyrano and I could work.
Lanzo sipped his coffee and then picked up the pen, skewing the pad for a left-handed writer. To encourage him, I said, “Keep it simple.”
Lanzo gave a short, bitter chuckle, eliciting the same tacit sympathy that I had felt when we met at the casino. Yes, he was a punk, but he was also about the same age I had been when I had fallen in love with Cheryl. What had started out as something so promising had laid down a path that was so full of pain and joy that the two were hardly distinguishable. A part of me, then, wanted to warn Lanzo, to wave him away from his current course, to tell him to flee from the heartbreak that would surely be his if he pursued the girl.
Instead I reminded him of the critical information that the letter needed to contain – the warehouse, tomorrow night. He only dismissed this with a wave of his hand.
I watched him smoke nervously, drinking his coffee, trying to figure out what to write to a woman I suspect he was beginning to realize he didn’t know very well. There were perfunctory pen scratches that ended in him pulling pages off the pad and tossing them aside. I tried to think of something that I might say to Sophie in a similar situation, decided that it hardly applied.
As his lunch crowd dwindled, Simon made circles between us and them. He kept an eye on Lanzo as the younger man became increasingly frustrated. Eventually, the old waiter began to pick up bits of discarded paper as he swung by, quietly unfolding the crumbled balls. Because it was more entertaining than watching Lanzo, I observed Simon’s expression as he read these. In general, his raised eyebrows and distended cheeks indicated he agreed with Lanzo’s appraisement, although once or twice he pursed his lips and cupped his chin, nodding thoughtfully.
When the cafe emptied, Simon sat down with us and lit one of his cigarillos, staring at Lanzo. The younger man eventually noticed this and came up from the depths of the notepad to ask Simon, “What?”
Simon leaned forward and, with a finger, pinned the paper in front of Lanzo to the table. “If you want something,” he said, looking the youngster directly in the eye, “you must ask for it.”
Lanzo returned Simon’s stare, his eyes shaded with hostility. However, Simon held the younger man’s gaze, a growing intensity between them. Time passed until an understanding flickered there. Lanzo’s enmity remitted and he nodded. Simon released the paper. He returned to his duties and Lanzo to his scribbling.
Lanzo scratched out something, ripped off that sheet of paper, and tossed it to the ground to join its mutilated cousins. He then wrote out a few lines with a quickness like they’d burn him if he didn’t get them out. These completed, he slapped down the pen and pushed it away. He picked up his cigarette, sucking on it as if it contained the oxygen he needed after too long underwater.
I slid the pad over to me. The message was in English, their shared language I supposed. It read:
“I am leaving. In our time together, I sensed you are unhappy here in much the same way that I am unhappy. Come with me and perhaps we can find happiness together.”
I read over it again. It was brief, direct, and had the compelling element of what I suspected was the truth.
Not knowing what else to say, I decided on, “Very good.” If Lanzo took any pleasure from the compliment, it didn’t show.
I instructed him to add the time and meeting place. He did so, scattering cigarette ash over the paper like he was drying the ink with sand. The addition complete, I gave a final inspection, nodded when satisfied. The paper was small and light enough that I could fold it up into a square that would fit into the palm of my hand.
I got up and took out money to pay. Simon stopped me with a wave of his dishcloth towards the bar. “No need. I will put it on your tab.” Remembering the wad of Mitnick’s cash I had left with him, I nodded. At least if something happened to me, Simon would have reimbursement for his trouble.
I walked Lanzo out of the cafe. On the street, I realized I wasn’t sure where I was heading, but decided it was better if Lanzo and I weren’t together. I escorted him away from Simon’s then said, “If I don’t see you before, be at the Distributeur International warehouse tomorrow after dark.” Being there that early almost guaranteed we’d be waiting a good long time for Nika, but that was better than missing her.
I pivoted to a direction that would take me to the nearest tram station when Lanzo said, “Wait.”
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.
Related Posts
Cat-Shaped Heart Next Post:
The Persuader
