Murder in Belleville (17 page)

Aimee popped the pills and took a big swig of pastis, not feeling convinced.

Ines stared at Aimee. “Trapeze artists swear by it,” she said. “Order steak tartare and I’ll throw in the
frites.”

Soon she had a horse steak on her temple and the cell phone in her other ear.

No answer at Samia’s. No Yves at her apartment.

She hobbled into the small bathroom, rolled down her jumpsuit, and assessed the damage. The Kevlar vest had absorbed most of the bullet, except for the painful shrapnel embedded a centimeter or so in her hip. The hollowed-out bullet had fractured on impact. Blood oozed stickily, making her feel faint in the close-quartered bathroom. She had to pull it out.

Her tweezers were history, lost at the yard getting the moped started. The only tool she could think of was the sugar tongs on the zinc counter. She had to do better than that.

Aimee stuck her head out.

“Would you have a first-aid kit?” she asked, her smile weak.

Ines took one look at Aimee and said, “Stay there.” She came back with a first-aid kit and a small shot glass.

“Drink this,” Ines said.

Aimee gulped and felt the malt whiskey burn down her throat, scalding and welcome.

“Would a doctor help—?”

Aimee reached for the kit. “I can handle this.”

Ines nodded, her expression unchanged as she took in Aimee’s bloody condition. “How about I catch you if you fall over?”

“Deal,” Aimee said. “But only if you give me another shot of whatever that was.”

Ines brought the bottle, another shot glass, and joined her. They stood in the small rest room, Aimee perched against the old marble sink and Ines leaning against the wall.

“During the battle for Paris, there was street-to-street fighting here,” Ines said, watching Aimee pull out the cotton and antiseptic, then dab the blood away. “The circus animals had been slaughtered for food long before, but my mother refused to kill our ferret.”

“Ferret?” Aimee asked, sticking the long-handled tweezers into alcohol. She liked hearing Ines talk; it helped keep her mind off what she had to do.

“Funny little thing,” she said. “But for my mother it was kind of a principle. She’d be damned if she’d let the
boches
eat it or tell her to get rid of it. That simple!”

“What happened?” Aimee asked, dabbing alcohol around the ugly chunk of shrapnel protruding from above her hip, where her Kevlar vest had stopped.

“Stupid thing got incinerated by a panzer with a flamethrower,” Ines winked. “Maman was mad for days. I think she’s never forgiven the
boches
for that.”

“Where was your father?” Aimee asked, gripping the chunk with her tweezers and taking as big a breath as she could. She pulled, and gasped at the searing pain.

“Never came back from the work camp near Dusseldorf,” Ines said. “We’re not really sure where he ended up. That had something to do with Maman’s anger.”

Aimee didn’t get it out on the first try. Or the second. The stubborn thing had lodged deep from the force of a Magnum. The searing pain would be nothing, she knew, compared to the infection if she couldn’t get the thing out in one piece.

“You’re feisty, I can tell,” Ines said. “And you act tough. Weren’t you watching your tail?”

Thanks for rubbing it in, Aimee wanted to say.

Determined this time, she caught the piece and pulled it out slow and straight, trying to last through the knife-edge pain.

Right away Ines slid a large gauze wrap around it. “Tape it closed, and you’ll be fine,” she said. “I only helped because you looked like you might topple.”

“Right.” Aimee leaned against the cold marble wall until she’d stopped shaking.

“All kinds come here; the
mecs,
the scammers, small-time hus; tiers,” Ines said. “For a smart-looking one, seems like you made a mistake.”

Ines had a wealth of information and advice.

“I trusted the wrong person,” Aimee said.

Samia had set her up, and she, a
stupide,
had walked right into it. Eagerly. She was supposed to protect Samia, but she was the one who got shot with a bullet in her hip.

Ines nodded. “See,” she said, pointing in the mirror. “No trace.”

The lump had gone down. And the pounding in her head had subsided to a reasonable ache. She’d taped her side tight, wrapping several strands of tape back and forth. She retired the glasses, pulled out her makeup, and did a repair job on her eyes. Kohl and lots of concealer.

Aimee noticed Ines watching her. Back in the cafe Aimee sat down and tried Samia on the cell phone again. No answer.

“Magnesium,” Ines said, slipping her a green salad. “You need it.”

“
Merci
,” Aimee said. She picked at the salad and
Frites
and kept trying Samia’s number. She was thinking of the elephants. One of whom could have crushed her into burlap pulp.

“How about the General?” Aimee asked. “Have you heard of him?”

“How about you’re out of your league?” Ines said, grinning.

Was the pastis clouding her perception or had Ines turned more smartass?

Not to mention the downright humiliation. First she got ambushed; then a woman old enough to be her mother reiterated how dumb she’d been.

“Make that out of your division,” Ines said, her eyes crinkling.

Now Ines was making fun of her.

Pathetic.

She closed her eyes and laughed.

“Speaking of the General, he’s way out of my universe,” she grinned. “But if I don’t find him, he’ll do this again.”

Ines brought her crossword and sat down next to her.

“Why didn’t you say so?” she said. “He comes in those cars with the special license plates—”

“Diplomatic plates?” Aimee interrupted.

“No one likes him,”
Ines
shrugged. “That’s all I know.”

Aimee wrote down her number on a napkin, then stood up to leave. “Call me if he comes again, please.”

“Watch your tail,” she replied.

A
IMEE WAS
feeling better. “Feeling better” was a relative term, but the painkiller was taking effect. She crossed the narrow street and entered the back of the
cirque.

In the circus ring she passed a fire-eater using his toes to adjust the blaze angle on a gasoline can pump. Heat emanated, and he sucked the air. She stood back in awe as the fire-eater blew billowing yellow-white flames over the sawdust. As he turned she saw a hose snaking up the back of his skinny T-shirt.

The rehearsal audience had thinned to technicians. Aimee searched for the licorice-chewing man and his crew but was disappointed. Gone. She walked amid the red velvet seats where they’d sat. Nothing. Not even a cigarette stub.

“I need an assistant,” said a deeply accented voice from the small stage.

She looked up to see the speaker’s lined face, caked with flesh-colored makeup. Tall and gaunt, he wore a turban with a gleaming cabochon in the center and a black satin cape. He cocked his large head, fixing his gaze on her. “Will you assist me?”

“I’ll try,” she said, aglow with the sudden sparkle of circus wonder. It was the same way she’d felt sitting with her grandfather, who’d whispered “Watch, Aimee … look at the magician’s sleeves… can you see how he does it?” But she never had, could never see the sleight-of-hand trick.

He brandished an iridescent scarf, waved it in the air, and balled it up. He clapped his hands and showed her. Empty.

“Smoke and mirrors, right?” she asked.

“I have no smoke,” he said. “And at my age—no mirrors, please!”

His black satin cape flashed as he pulled the scarf from behind her ears.

Her mouth fell open. How did he do that?

He grinned at her reaction.

“Stanislav the Stupendous?” she said.

He bowed. “The third wonder of Budapest is available for parties, business luncheons, or that special affair needing just the right touch.”

“You’re not part of the
cirque?”

“My act requires a more intimate surrounding,” he said, gesturing toward the tiered red velvet seats. “We close off part of the
cirque,
making a half circle, and I perform on that platform.”

A workman hammered ringside.

“Those men who sat over there,” she said, gesturing toward the spot where the military types had sat. “Know where they are? I’m supposed to meet them …” she trailed off, hoping Stanislav would finish it for her.

“The General?” he said.

Aimee nodded.

“Funny bird, that one,” Stanislav said. “My following is loyal.”

“The General’s a fan of yours?”

“I’m big with the Algerians.”

Algerian military? Aimee held her surprise in check.

The workman appeared and tapped his wrist, vying for the magician’s attention. “You’ve been a delightful assistant, Mademoiselle, but I must rehearse, if you’ll excuse me,” Stanislav said in a practiced breathless tone, indicating that he was too busy and rushed to have even a smidgen more time.

Aimee stepped from the sawdust over the raised ring, puzzling how to elicit information about the General.

“You’ll think me helpless, but the purse with my address book was stolen, and I’m at sea how to find him,” she said stepping back into the ring.

“I wish I could be more helpful,” Stanislav said, following the carpenter.

She sniffed around backstage, but no one knew of the General—or if they had, they wouldn’t tell her. Even the grinning horse trainer who said, “I keep my eyes on beautiful females.” He winked. “Like you.”

A
IMEE DROVE
to Samia’s apartment. No answer. The
ham-mam
was closed, and it began to rain. Her head ached, and her spirits matched the grey drizzle. She sat in Rene’s car near Place Jean Timbaud, the rain spattering on the windshield. People emerged from the Metro, turning up their collars, and running down the street. She must have nodded off, because the next thing she knew, there was a loud tap on the passenger window.

“Allez-y!”
A green-suited
egoutier
shouted, his dark face beaded with rain. “Move along. Quit blocking the truck.”

“Pardon,”
she said, turning on the ignition. The Citroen roared to life, and she hit the wipers.

That’s when she saw Samia, scurrying out of the dingy hotel on Impasse Ouestre. She shifted into first and cut Samia off before she could enter Jean Timbaud.

“Get in!” Aimee said, leaning over and pushing the door handle open.

Samia blinked, like a deer caught in the headlights. She tried to back up, but her heels slipped and she grabbed the door.

“I can’t—”

The garbage truck’s horn blared.

“Hurry up, we need to talk,” Aimee said.

Samia looked for an escape. The rain beat harder. Her only option was the passage she’d emerged from.

“Now!”
Aimee yelled.

Either the rain or Aimee’s voice convinced her to get in and slam the door. They took off down Jean Timbaud. Aimee reached Passage de la Fonderie, a narrow ivy-walled lane, and pulled in. She parked and turned off the ignition.

“You don’t look too good,” Samia said.

“Smart girl,” Aimee said, reaching for Samia’s bag. She turned the beaded pink bag upside down. “Considering I got shot, I don’t think I look half bad.”

Samia’s eyes widened.

“Smart girls don’t betray their friends.”

“You’re not my friend,” Samia said, but she winced when she spoke. She brushed her shoulders, sending a wet spray over the upholstery.

“Even for an acquaintance, that’s not very nice.”

Samia looked down, “I’m sorry. They just said … well, you weren’t supposed to get hurt.”

“Why do I have a hard time believing you?”

“Just warn you off, they said,” she said, her voice sullen.

“Who?”

“Let me out.”

The passage was quiet except for occasional footsteps. The fogged Citroen’s windows shielded them from prying eyes.

Aimee had to get Samia to talk.

“What does
bent al haram
mean?”

“Bent al haram?”
Samia said, closing her eyes as if in deep thought.” ‘Interfering slut’ comes pretty close.”

Great.

“Doesn’t the General like me?”

Samia reached for the door handle, but Aimee pulled out her Beretta.

“It’s been a rough afternoon, Samia,” she said. “Time for you to brighten my day.” With her other hand she poked around the strewn items from Samia’s bag. A package of pink condoms, hotel keys, an illustrated ten-franc pocket romance, and a pearl hair clip. Aimee shook the bag again, and a hand of Fat’ma tumbled out. Just like Eugenie/Sylvie’s.

“Where did you get this?”

“The Fat’ma?” Samia asked.

Aimee nodded.

“Belonged to my mother,” she said. “Lots of people have them.”

“Like who?” Aimee asked.

“You probably can’t even use that,” Samia said, looking in the visor mirror at the Beretta, and ignoring the question.

“Even if my aim was bad, it’d be hard to miss with you so close,” Aimee cocked the trigger. “Want to find out?”

Samia flinched.

“Some
flic
taped us talking,” Aimee lied. Anything to get Samia to talk. “He’s watching you on video surveillance. He wants my hide, but I think he’s nailed yours already. He’s just waiting, Samia.”

Samia’s bravado shriveled.

“Sergeant Martaud?”

Aimee nodded. The stale air inside the car and Samia’s perfume were getting to her.

“Is the General’s number in here?” Aimee asked, holding up a pink fur address book. “I’ll deal directly with him.”

Samia blinked in fear. “They’re big—”

“Who?”

“Leave it alone,” she said.

“Samia, don’t you see my finger’s still on the trigger?” she said.

“You don’t know about—” she stopped.

“About what?”

Samia’s lips tightened.

“Fine, I’ll let Martaud know Zdanine supplies the
plastique”
Aimee sighed, pocketing the address book. “That will get me off his hook.” She turned the ignition key. “Since Zdanine’s claiming sanctuary in the church, you’re the perfect connection.”