I was following him. What that would mean to me, I didn’t know — maybe a reception as I turned a corner. But I had no option, really. I had to follow and contact him once we were somewhere safer and less exposed.
The old terra-cotta roofs that overlapped the walls here and there on each side of me would have been there for ages before the dull cream apartment buildings that had sprung up on every available patch of land since the sixties. They were no more than five or six stories high; quite a few of the balconies had towels, comforters, or laundry hanging from them; one or two had barbecues. I could hear the drone of the traffic from the main drag off to my right.
Greaseball took off the pashmina to reveal a blue checked shirt. He wasn’t the only one getting hot; I was starting to leak around my face and down my spine as I made my way uphill. We passed some more apartment buildings, which seemed a little the worse for wear, and Greaseball stopped for a car to squeeze past. He rummaged in his fag-bag. There was a not-too-good-looking building opposite, with a line of cars parked bumper- to-bumper in front.
I carried on toward him, head down, not making eye contact. He might be spotting me this very moment, waiting for me to betray myself. The car accelerated past me and I had to stop to let him through as Greaseball disappeared into the covered, mosaic-tiled entryway.
There was no time to be subtle. I only had one chance. I ran toward him and got there just as he turned the key in the glass-and-brass-effect main door. He had his back to me but he could see me in the reflection of the glass.
“Beautiful, isn’t she?”
He spun around, leaving the key in place. His eyes were bulging and his arms fell to his sides as he moved back against the glass. My left hand grabbed the hem of my sweatshirt, ready to pull it up and draw down the Browning. His eyes darted after it. He had a good idea of what that was all about. For several moments he just stared at me in horror, then he stammered, “You? You?”
I wasn’t surprised he’d remembered me. Some things stay with you forever.
Even from a couple of feet away I could smell his heavy aftershave, mixed with the odor of heavily lacquered hair. I said again, “Beautiful, isn’t she?” and nodded at the magazine in his hand. There was still no reply.
“Answer me. Beautiful, isn’t she?”
At last I got something. “Yes, but Katharine Hepburn…” His face wobbled. He realized he’d messed up. “No, no, no, please. Wait, wait. She is, yes, she is, but not as much as Katharine Hepburn, don’t you think?”
It was good enough. “Where are you going?”
He half-turned and pointed. He’d shaved this morning, but already had shadow.
“Is there anybody in there with you?”
“Non.”
“Let’s go in, then. Come on.”
“But…”
I shoved him through the door, and into the dark foyer. The rubber soles of my Timberlands squeaked on the gray fake-marble floor. A baby was crying in one of the ground-floor apartments and I could smell frying as we headed for the elevator. He was still stressing out big-time. There was some heavy erratic breathing going on in front of me as he cradled his pashmina in his arms. I was going to reassure him about my intentions, but then thought, fuck it, why bother? I wanted to keep him off balance.
The small, boxlike elevator arrived and we got in. The smell changed. Now it was like the tabac. He pressed for the fourth floor and the thing started to shudder. I was standing behind him, and could see the sweat trickle down from his neck hair onto his shirt collar as I tapped him on the shoulder. “Show me what’s in the bag.” He was only too eager to comply, and held it up for inspection over his shoulder. There was nothing in there that I hadn’t seen already: a pack of Camel Lights, a gold lighter, and a small leather money pouch. The keys were still in his hand.
The elevator climbed so slowly it was hard to tell if it was moving at all. Looking at him from the rear, I could see that his jeans were a bit too tight around his gut. His love handles flopped out on each side, straining against his shirt, and folding over his waistband. A gold Rolex and a couple of thin gold bracelets dangled from his left wrist onto his perfectly manicured hand. He also had a matching pair of bracelets on his right wrist, and a signet ring on his little finger. All in all, he looked like an over-the-hill gigolo who thought he was still twenty-one.
He zipped up the bag and wiped the sweat from his neck. “There’s no one here,” he assured me. “I promise you.”
The elevator doors opened and I gave him a shove into a semidark landing. “Good. What number?”
“This way. Forty-nine.”
I squeezed behind him, my right hand ready to draw down on my 9mm again as he placed the key into the cylinder lock in a dark brown varnished door. It opened into a small room, maybe ten-by-ten. The sun was trying hard to penetrate the net curtains covering the glass sliding doors of the balcony, and not quite succeeding. He walked in while I waited where I was, hand on my pistol grip. He turned back toward me, arms sweeping around the room, “Look, you see, everything is okay.”
That was his opinion. He might be Mr. Gucci out on the boulevards, but this place was a tipoff. To my left was a door into the kitchen. It was fitted with 1970s faded blue-and-white Formica units that had been worn down in places to the chipboard. An ashtray overflowed onto a half-eaten baguette. The sink was piled high with dirty pans and dishes.
I closed the front door with my heel as I walked in and motioned to him with my head. “Bolt it.”
I moved aside as he obeyed, breathing heavily.
There was another door to the left. “Where does that go?”
“The bedroom and bathroom.”
He started to walk toward it, eager to please. “Let me go and—”
“Stop, we go together. I want to see every move you make. Got it?”
I followed a few steps behind him as his loafers squeaked over the light gray fake marble. Both of the other rooms were in a similar state. The bedroom just fitted the bed, and the rest of the floor was covered with newspapers, dirty underwear, and a couple of Slazenger tennis bags still in their Decathlon shopping bag. He didn’t look the tennis type, but the two used syringes that lay on top of the bags were very much his style, which was why he tried to kick it all under the bed without me seeing. He was obviously contributing energetically to al-Qaeda’s heroin profits.
A pair of wardrobes were packed with brightly colored clothes and shoes, all looking new. The bedroom stank of aftershave and cigarettes, but not as badly as the tiny bathroom did. It had a faded yellow sink, toilet, and a typical French half-bath with a handheld shower. Every surface was covered with bottles of shampoo, cologne, and hair color. The bath had enough pubic hairs around the drain to stuff a mattress.
“You see everything is correct. It is safe.”
I didn’t even bother to check if he was embarrassed as we walked back into the living room. I squeezed around the furniture and went over to the patio-style window that led onto the balcony overlooking the road we had just walked up. A couple of tennis rackets leaned against the railings, and a pair of scrunched-up beach towels hung over the balustrade.
By now he was sitting nervously on a green couch, which had probably been installed at the same time as the kitchen. It was against the left-hand wall, facing a dirty wood-veneer wall unit that was dominated by a huge TV and video. Everything was covered in so much dust I could even see his fingermarks around the controls. VHS tapes and all manner of shit was scattered around the shelves. A small boom box-type CD player stood on a shelf above the TV, surrounded by a sea of discs lying out of their boxes. The videotapes had no titles, but I could guess the sort of thing he was into watching.
The rectangular waxed-pine coffee table at the center of the room was covered with more old newspapers, a half-empty bottle of red wine, and a food plate that had doubled as an ashtray. I was beginning to feel greasy as well as grubby in this guy’s company.
I got to the point, so I didn’t have to spend too much more time around him. “When will the boat be here?”
He crossed his legs and placed both hands around his knees, feeling a little more comfortable now that it seemed I wasn’t going to take his head off. “Tomorrow night, at Beaulieu-sur-Mer, it’s toward Monaco.”
“Write it down.” I knew where it was, but wanted to make sure I had the right place. He leaned forward,
