the vehicles drive past, I went through the extra routine of filling up with a plastic glove on, to stop the horrible gasoline smell on my delicate skin. I messed about with the gas cap, making mental notes of passing cars, their plates, make, and color, and number of passengers, hoping that I’d never see them again. French license plates comprised a group of numbers, then two or three letters, then another group of numbers. The easiest way to try to register them was just to take note of the letters and the last set of numbers.
As the unleaded flowed, I continued moving my eyes about to see if there were any cars parked with people inside, looking, waiting for me to move out of the station. But it was just the normal evening commuter crowd, trying their hardest to get home to whatever French people did in the evening — which, as far as I knew, was just eat.
Filling up with exactly fifty francs’ worth, and with my hat and head down for the security cameras, I paid cash and didn’t have to wait for change. Then, driving over to the air and water section with a new batch of gloves, I checked for any devices that might have been placed while I was at the safe house.
I hit the coast road toward Cannes, and was nearly blinded by oncoming headlights and flashing neon as I drove along the Promenade des Anglais. Near the airport, the first of the happy-hour hookers had started her shift, complete with leopard skin bomber jacket, sparkly silver skin-tight pants, and the world’s highest white platform boots. At least, I thought they were the world’s highest until I saw one of her colleagues, leaning against the wall in a long black coat and huge black vinyl platforms. She was chatting away on her cell phone, maybe taking a booking from someone in one of the business hotels that satellited the airport. A couple of days earlier, Riviera Radio had reported that the French girls had complained to the police about East Europeans taking all their trade, when they had no visas and no right to be here. The police had responded by rounding everyone up, and the commissioner said he was embarrassed as a Frenchman to have to report that the East European girls were considerably better- looking than their French counterparts, and that was probably the reason there’d been complaints.
Leaving the airport behind me, I hit more neon at Cap 3000 and carried on along the coast toward Juan-les- Pins, deciding to pick up a pizza on the way to Cannes. The place was a seasonal beach town, living off its past glory from the sixties and seventies, when Brigitte Bardot and the jet set used to come down on the weekend for a cappuccino and a pose. It still had its moments, but right now three-quarters of the shops were closed until Easter or whenever the season started again. Restaurants were being refurbished and bars were getting repainted.
Chapter 19
I cruised around the sleepy town. Strings of Christmas lights twinkled across the streets, but there was nobody at home to enjoy them. A few bars and cafes were still serving a small number of customers, but the majority of the hotels looked dead. Several stores had whitewashed windows, like bandages across next season’s facelift.
I drove down a tree-lined main street, looking for a takeout pizza place that was open, and did a double-take at the two men walking toward me. For a moment I even wondered if I was hallucinating, but there was no doubting who it was in the long leather coat, smoking and chatting as he went.
I jerked my head down instinctively so that the brim of my cap hid my face. I didn’t know if Greaseball had seen me, and I didn’t want to check. There was no reason why he should have: my headlights should have blinded him temporarily anyway.
I took the next right and threw the Megane up onto the curb, then made my way quickly back to the main road on foot. I looked up to my left and they were still in sight, walking away from me. They were the only other people around; cigarette smoke drifted behind them in a cloud. Greaseball’s pal was taller than him, maybe six foot, and had a bush of dark curly hair, cut just above the shoulder. He was wearing a dark, three-quarter-length coat over what looked like jeans. I couldn’t see that much of him from behind, but would have bet good money on him being the man I’d spotted in the Polaroids back at Greaseball’s flat. They talked quietly and earnestly to each other as they moved up the road.
They stopped and Greaseball turned toward the curb; I could see the glow of his cigarette. He took one last drag as he nodded to his companion, then threw the stub into the gutter. The other man was definitely Curly from the Polaroid. He took something from his coat pocket, checking around him as he did so. It must have been small, because I couldn’t see a thing. They shook hands and quickly hugged before parting; whatever it was, it was being mailed. Maybe this was who gave Greaseball his fixes. Curly turned immediately left, down a side road, while Greaseball continued another few yards up the street, before disappearing into what looked like a restaurant or bar. A sign hung on the wall outside, but it wasn’t illuminated.
I crossed the street, to get a better view of the place, and checked the road Curly had gone down. As I closed in, I could see that the sign showed a belly-dancer with a veil and low-cut bikini top. There was no sign of Curly, and it looked as though Greaseball was now being entertained by the “Fiancee of the Desert.”
The outside of the building looked as if someone had gone berserk with a truckload of plaster, flinging handfuls at the wall to make it look ethnic. Ornate grilles covered two small windows on each side of the door, through which I could just make out shadows bobbing about in the glow.
I went back across the street, head down, checking left and right. There was no traffic, just a mass of tightly parked cars. I tried to see what was going on inside, but couldn’t make out much through the small, square window. I couldn’t see Greaseball anywhere.
Continuing on past the solid wood door, I peeped inside the next window as casually as I could. I still couldn’t see anything but low light and tablecloths.
It looked as if a pizza would have to be shelved for a few hours. I went to the top of the street, and stopped in a doorway on the opposite side. Three motor scooters screamed past with their engines at bursting point. The riders looked about fourteen.
The streetlights and decorations cast a haphazard pattern of shadows, so it was easy to find a corner to lurk in, in the doorway of a lingerie shop. It was probably the best place not to arouse any suspicion in this country; if Greaseball could get away with wearing a pashmina shawl, I could probably wear this stuff without anyone batting an eye.
Diners finished their meals. Groups and couples kissed, laughed, and went their separate ways, but still no sign of Greaseball.
After two hours I was quite an expert on bustiers and garters. The only people on the street now were old men and women taking their dogs out for a last dump before bedtime. Only the odd vehicle came in either direction.
A Lexus glided up the road from my left and stopped outside the restaurant. The chrome wheels and bodywork were so highly polished you could see the Christmas decorations in them. The driver stayed put with the engine running as his passenger finished off a telephone call. When he finally got out, I could see he looked like a dark-skinned version of George Michael, with a goatee and flat, short hair. As he slid into the restaurant, the car moved farther along the road and parked. The driver, also dark, had a shaved head that gleamed as impressively as the Lexus. I could tell that he was already bored with waiting.
Fifteen minutes later, the door opened and Greaseball emerged into the glow of the Christmas lights. He turned toward me and I moved back into the shadows. If he got level with me, I’d have to sit down, hide my face, and pretend to be drunk. But it would be difficult for him to see me over the parked cars from the other side of the road.
I waited for him to pass, then came out onto the sidewalk and followed. The Lexus was still there, waiting for George Michael to stop stuffing his face. The driver had the interior light on, trying to read a paper; this probably wasn’t his idea of the perfect night out. Greaseball turned left, heading for the taxi stand at the train station.
I watched as he got into the back of one and moved out onto the main, toward Cannes. I checked traser: nine-thirty-seven, not long to go before the meet. He must be going home. It was pointless rushing back to my car since I was pretty certain where he’d be at eleven. Besides, I didn’t want to scream around after him and get stopped by the police for jumping a red.
I headed back in the direction of the Fiancee of the Desert.
At ten-forty-five, having finally grabbed something to eat, I turned the Megane up Boulevard Carnot and made my way past Greaseball’s apartment building.
