Marcel was a wise leader.
As he filed his tabulation sheets away, two of Marcel’s guards sprang to their feet, grasping a customer by the arms. Marcel hadn’t been paying attention, but it appeared the man had tried to approach from the main dining area. This wasn’t entirely uncommon, but it certainly caused Marcel to eyeball the man.
It took a few seconds before Marcel reconciled who he was looking at.
Mon Dieu…
“I just want to chat with him,” the man said in English.
Marcel made a low, throaty sound to his guards, not unlike a father to a child. It was a quick warning note. They immediately unhanded the man.
The fine man…
His name was Gage Hartline, and Marcel hadn’t seen him in six years, the night Nicky Arnaud’s reign ended. The night so many lives were made better.
Marcel had this man to thank for Nicky’s absence—Nicky’s most welcome absence.
Standing, Marcel surprised his men when he skipped the handshake and bear-hugged the stranger, affectionately kissing him on both cheeks.
“Welcome, my friend, welcome…I am surprised but happy. Please, sit. Bordel de merde, what a shock this is.”
“Good to see you, Marcel.”
“Something to drink?”
“Mineral water, please.”
Marcel spoke French to his nearest guard who scurried away. After Marcel crushed out his remaining cigarette, he tucked away his papers and used a napkin to wipe all ash from the table. By this time, the owner was on the scene with a glass of ice adorned with lemon, and a large bottle of Volvic mineral water. She asked if she should pour it but Gage politely waved her off.
“Are you hungry?” Marcel asked.
Gage looked at the owner and told her he was fine with water. She scurried away.
When everyone had settled down, Marcel leaned forward and spoke in a low voice. “How did you find me?”
“I remember you preferred Metz over Paris. I drove into town and spoke to the first flic I ran across. He told me you’d probably be here until two.”
Marcel chuckled. “The local police and I have a strained but familial relationship. We actually collaborate on a number of issues. Metz is my home, too, so I assist them in many ways.”
Gage poured his water. “You look well.”
“Ah, please don’t be untruthful,” Marcel dismissed. He patted his belly. “Too much food, too many cigarettes. I’ll be lucky to see seventy.”
“That makes two of us.”
They caught up for several minutes before Marcel brought the discussion back to Gage’s surprise appearance.
“Not to sound rude, but what the hell brings you here?”
“I’m in Europe for a while.”
“Where?”
“Friedberg,” Gage answered.
Marcel shrugged as if the name meant nothing to him.
“It’s in Germany, just north of Frankfurt.”
“Hmmm,” Marcel mused. “I’ll wager you didn’t drive three hours just to say hello, did you?”
“No, Marcel, I didn’t.”
“I didn’t think so.” The Frenchman tapped out a cigarette and offered one to Gage. When Gage declined, Marcel asked if he minded.
“Not at all.”
Marcel lit up, angling his exhalation away from Gage. “So, mon vieil ami, you drove three hours to ask me something, or ask me for something—so, please, proceed.”
“Have you ever heard of a German named Karl Vogel?”
After a few seconds’ thought, narrowed eyes and all, Marcel shook his head. “The name sounds familiar, but I can’t recall why.”
“Vogel recently died. He owned a substantial amount of real estate and was based out of Friedberg. I’ve learned that he might have had business connections to organized crime.”
“Oh? So, you figured, ask Marcel?”
“Immediately.”
The two men shared a laugh. Marcel then questioned Gage about Vogel and jotted down the information on his folder.
“The thing that strikes me is this, Marcel: during his last decade, significant money continued to come in, even though, by all unverified accounts, Vogel’s real estate business wasn’t doing well.”
“So, you think he might have been involved in something illicit?”
“I do.”
“Anything else? Any other associates?”
“None that I know of.”
“Fair enough. How long will you be here?” Marcel asked.
Gage motioned north. “I need to head back today.”
“Let me make a few calls, talk to a few people I know in Allemagne. Perhaps I can find something. Can I convince you to stay for a late lunch?”
“That would be good.”
“L’Imaginiarium at three o’clock—the finest restaurant in all of Metz.” Marcel gestured in the direction of the river. “It’s just over the bridge on the Parc de la Cavalerie. I’ll have you on your way before five. Will that suit?”
“The timing is fine, but…” Gage looked down at his clothes. “I’m not really dressed for a place like that.”
Marcel beamed. “They close at two and reopen at six. We’ll be the only diners. In the meantime, go enjoy the city but…” he lifted a warning finger, “…don’t eat anything. Come hungry. I’ll make some calls. If your Herr Vogel got his hands dirty in this part of the world, I’ll find out.”
* * *
For the next half hour, Gage Hartline wandered the streets of Metz, haunted by his personal memories of the river city that was once a Celtic oppidum. It was the little things that triggered his recollections, like the coarse painted railing over the river wall. He recalled gripping it as he spoke to his girlfriend, just days before her death. Now, gripping the same rail, feeling the same flaked paint, he felt hollow—emptied by her absence. Nearly overcome, Gage reached into the dark recesses of his mind, recalling something Monika had once said to him. She’d mentioned it after one of the migraine-like headaches he was once stricken with.
“There’s so much to enjoy about life, Gage,” she’d said, pushing his sweaty hair back from his forehead. “It breaks my heart to see you suffer.”
He
