Murder in Belleville

demolir sign hung above the massive doors covered with graffiti.

“In the back courtyard of that building,” he said, “they run a makeover business.”

She rubbed her arms again in the biting chill. What did Elymani mean?

“Makeover?” she asked.

“Say your permis de conduire was revoked. You visit with a roll of francs, et voila, the Maghrebins furnish you with a new driver’s license,” he said. “At least they used to. They moved on.”

So Elymani fed her information, not current but true.

The warrens of old Belleville, honeycombed by courtyards, passages, and stone cellars in deserted buildings held the Maghrebins network. At least that’s what she figured from Elymani’s conversational pirouette. And that could be how Sylvie had gotten ID as Eugenie. To open a bank account, she needed ID.

“So would you say they live in the housing projects?” she asked, lifting her eyes toward the tall concrete buildings a block away. “But run their business where they won’t be disturbed?”

He nodded. “They find a place, maybe a building ready to be torn down or renovated. The rent’s cheap. Full of Yugoslavs, Hindus, or retired people who don’t ask questions. The tenants ignore who goes in and out, until problems erupt over turf or money. Things get noisy. Then the Maghrebins move on.”

“So you’re saying Eugenie was involved in this?”

A tidy hypothesis, even plausible, but how would it fit Sylvie’s murder—even if they’d furnished her with a new identity?

“For good reasons, I keep my nose out of it,” he said. “Those hittistes want easy money, a nice life. But in the end life reckons with them.”

Elymani had his own survival code.

“You better be careful,” he said. “You’re being watched.”

“By whom?”

“Look, my jobs are on the street. All I do is listen and keep my eyes down. I don’t want to know what goes on.” His eyes darted down the street. “What I really want to do is sleep for a week. Ahrs, the foyer is noisy, my mattress is lumpy, and I miss my wife.” He shrugged. “When my papers come through I’ll bring her over.”

“What did you hear about Eugenie?” Aimee said, stamping her feet in the cold, wishing she had a cigarette.

“My next job starts in a few hours,” Elymani said, turning to walk away. “Mercf for the cafeV’

“Are you a lookout or do they pay you to keep your mouth shut?”

He stiffened.

“My family would be here if I did that,” he said his voice low with anger. “But dirty money brings no honor or peace.”

“My friend’s in danger, and now they’re after me,” she said. “Don’t you understand? Tell me what you saw, Elymani, then I’ll leave you alone.”

“All I know is that Eugenie used the place. She lived somewhere else. Sometimes Dede dropped by.”

“Who’s Dede?” Aimee asked, forgetting how ice-like the air had become.

“An old-fashioned mec who’s got a finger in every pot,” he said. “Like a giclee, a fine ink spray coating the surface—know what I mean?”

She wasn’t sure but figured Dede bent with the wind.

“Where can I find him?”

“Cafe la Vielleuse.” He turned toward the streetlight. “Now, leave me alone.”

Saturday Evening

YOUSSEFA BOUGHT HAIR DYE at the Casino market around the corner from the apartment. Behind her chador it was as if she were invisible. But she had to be careful; few women in chadors frequented this kind of shop.

In the twenty-franc bargain bin on boulevard Belleville she found a black denim coat. Back at the apartment, she mended the broken crutches she’d found discarded in the trash.

At the bathroom sink, she read the instructions. But when her scalp started burning, she realized the chemicals had been on too long: Her hair had turned orange. Bleach was bleach, she’d thought. She did it again. In the end, when she looked in the mirror, she’d done a good job by accident. She’d fit in with the trendy crowd at Cafe Charbon, who sported the same white-hair, black-roots look.

Youssefa felt a measure of relief. No one paid attention to a woman in a chador or a fashionable type with a broken leg. Then the sobering thought hit her that if Eugenie’d had another identity, it hadn’t helped her.

In the church Zdanine had agreed to help her. But first, he’d said, he wanted to see the photos. He’d seemed eager when she told him why she had to speak with Hamid. After Zdanine saw them, he’d acted uninterested but promised to try and get her five minutes with Hamid.

Youssefa finished her prayers, rolled up her prayer mat, and felt ready. She headed toward the church, hoping Zdanine had paved the way.

Saturday Night

AIMEE STARED AT THE mirror to the left of the bar, cracked in four or five places, in crowded Cafe la Vielleuse. Painted on the mirror was a faded image of a woman holding a vielleuse, an old-fashioned hurdy-gurdy. The woman’s blue puff-sleeved blouse and white tie bespoke turn-of-the-century fashion. The timeworn burnished wood, mosaic floor, and stumpy bar competed with seventies modernizations in the front. Cafe la Vielleuse straddled the broad boulevard de Belleville and the uphill, two-lane rue de Belleville, choked with buses, cars, and hurrying pedestrians.

“There must be a story behind that,” she said in a conversational tone, smiling to the busy waiter behind the counter.

He nodded and stuck his pencil behind his ear, then flicked the milk steamer into high gear, filling the cafe with a muffled whining. Then a slow hiss as the milk frothed.

“The manager, Dede, would know,” he said.

“Have I missed Dede?”

“He’s in back. Dede!” the waiter yelled over the noise.

A stocky man sat behind a large adding machine at the rear, picking his nose. The machine droned continuously, spitting out a roll of adding tape. “Merde!” he barked, giving the machine a shove and switching it off.

“The mademoiselle has questions about La Vielleuse,” the waiter said, jerking his thumb at Aimee.

Dede, a squat fireplug of a man who was a head shorter than Aimee, fluffed his thinning hair as he walked toward her. His cropped suit jacket didn’t meet his checked trousers. He wore pointed-toed heeled boots.

“Tiens, there’s quite a story to that,” he said, then extended his hand to shake hers.

Aimee dropped her purse on the floor, “Je m’excuse,” she said, quickly stooping to pick it up. The linoleum was littered with sugar-cube wrappers, cigarette butts, and lottery stubs. But anything was better than shaking Dude’s hand!

When she stood up, Dede lit a cigarette, set down his gold lighter, and leaned on the zinc counter. She smelled wine on his breath. “In 1914 les Aliemands encamped at Fontainebleu. Their