“We’d love to let you in, but the benefit is reservation only. Sold out.” Lola gestured with an orange-lacquered nail, which matched his eye shadow, to the poster announcing “Afternoon Tea Dance! HIV caregivers support benefit competition.”
Where were her sequins when she needed them? But Michou, Rene’s transvestite neighbor, entered these contests all the time.
Aimee opened her coat, revealing the white butcher’s smock. “I’m a health inspector.”
“
“I know you passed inspection, Lola.” Aimee gave a little sigh. “But I’m inspecting the toilets in the rear courtyard. Some complaints, you know.”
A couple, tottering on high heels and wrapped together in a feather boa, passed her.
“We don’t want any trouble,” Lola said.
“Of course you don’t, that’s why you’ll let me do my job,” she said, slipping a fifty-franc note in the donation box.
“We’re all about cooperating.” Lola swept his arm at the ushers. “Let this girl in. She’s in a hurry.”
Out on the dance floor, couples gyrated under a flashing disco ball to “I Will Survive” as a large-shouldered blond, in a skintight red velour jumpsuit with the highest heeled boots Aimee had ever seen, lip-synched along.
She felt a tap on her shoulder. “Don’t tell me your dance card’s filled.”
She turned to face a person wearing a white Courreges tunic with the signature geometric design. Vintage and delicious. But those cheekbones looked familiar.
“Where’s Rene?” He pecked her on both cheeks. “Careful, I just powdered.”
Viard. The police crime lab head on rue de Dantzig. And Michou’s partner. “It’s complicated, Viard. Where did you get that Courreges?”
“If you’re a good girl, I’ll let you borrow it,” he said, his hips swaying to the music. He gestured to the lip- syncher. “Michou’s on next.”
“Right now I need to get to the back.”
“She’s not that bad. She’s a professional, you know.”
She and Rene had seen Michou’s show in Les Halles many times. “I know, stunning. But there’s a clandestine sweatshop only accessible—”
Viard put his arm up, pearl bracelet sliding. “Like we can help those poor people?”
“But I can. So you’ve seen them, Viard?”
A moue of distaste showed on his crimson mouth. “How can you miss those grinding machines?” Viard said. “It’s in the courtyard behind the men’s. As sisters under the skin, we let them use them, you know. There’s Michou!” And he danced off.
She found the door marked Exit near the men’s, pushed it open to a damp alley narrowing between the buildings. Cracked concrete and crumbling stone walls led to a thin courtyard surrounded by bricked-up windows, already dark in the fading afternoon light. Behind her sounded the distant strains of “I Will Survive”; before her the
She entered the door at her left. Inside, Chinese men in sweat-stained T-shirts fed plastic sheets into twenty or so cutting machines. She recognized the plastic, which matched the luggage she’d seen. The hot oil and synthetic odors choked her. Good God, how could the factory owner let human beings work in this air? In this noise?
An older woman peered down at her from a stairway. Coiffed black hair, jade bracelets on both wrists, red silk scarf trailing from her neck, and thin painted eyebrows. Aimee sucked in a breath as Madame Wu pointed a bamboo back scratcher at her like a weapon.
“You lost? Bathroom that way.”
“We meet again, Madame Wu. Seems there’s quite an extended Wu clan in the quartier.”
Aimee recognized the girl behind her—it was the girl who had been packing hoodies at the luggage shop, who’d warned Aimee off. The girl’s eyes widened in fear, then flicked upward. She caught Aimee’s eye and shook her head.
“How many Madame Wus are there?” The humming of sewing machines spilled down the rotted hallway.
“This building’s private property.
“You’re the owner then, Madame?”
The small eyes narrowed. “Manager. You go now.”
“But we’re old friends,” Aimee said. “Call this a health inspection. Lots of complaints. Just think of the unsafe working conditions for your employees.”
“I call
“But this isn’t up to code, Madame.” Aimee pointed to the fuse box with rusted wires trailing from it. Telltale signs of illegally tapping into the electricity source. “Dangerous.” She wagged her finger. “Where’s Meizi?”
The woman whipped out her cell phone, hit a number on her speed dial.
“Not cooperating, Madame?” Aimee reached for the fuse box switch. “Then I’ll need to shut you down.”
The woman jabbed the bamboo back scratcher at Aimee, just missing her eye. Aimee pulled the bamboo from her hand, knocked the cell phone to the floor, and grabbed the woman’s wrists.
“Get Meizi,” she said to the girl. The girl backed up, frightened.
“Now.”
“Tso!” the woman shouted, struggling. Tough and wiry, like an old hen.
Aimee twisted the woman’s arms behind her and, in a flash of inspiration, stuck the bamboo between her jade bracelets, which trapped her like handcuffs. She looked around, but the girl had disappeared. With a deft movement she twisted the bamboo between banister posts and stuffed the woman’s red silk scarf in her mouth. That should keep Madame Wu quiet for a while.
Footsteps pounded on the stairs. Aimee looked up to see a man, hooded eyes, a cigarette between his crooked teeth.
“If you’re security, then I’m the electrician,” she said.
“
She yanked the fuse box handle. A sputtering fizz, earsplitting grinding sounds. The light from the bare bulb flickered before the building plunged into darkness, machines grumbling to a painful halt. In the sudden quiet, Aimee could catch the soft conversations of workers, the drumming of Madame Wu’s feet. And that persistent humming, which came from somewhere above.
She had the advantage now; the man would have to come down the steps. She pulled out her penlight, set it on the last step, flicked it on, and stepped away.
Cold air gusted past her face. In the dim light she made out the flash of his knife. She gave a quick kick upward, contacting what she hoped were his ribs. A crunch, and a yelp of pain.
She didn’t have much time. Who knew how many of his cohorts waited upstairs? Her fingers found the penlight on the dusty floor, then his knife. She shone the beam in his eyes, put the knife tip to his throat, and stuck her hand in his back pocket. Thick wads of hundred-franc bills, a cell phone.
“Bonus time for your employees,” she whispered in his ear. “Number five on the list of secrets of successful bosses.”
He yelled.
She silenced him with another kick, this time to the temple, and his eyes rolled up in his head. Out for the count, but for how long? She had to hurry. She ran up the stairs, shining her penlight over each rotted step. The humming grew louder, and she followed it up to the third floor. She needed to find Meizi. And a way out. She hoped to God the frightened girl hadn’t sounded the alarm. She hit 1-6 on the man’s cell phone.
“Police,” the voice answered. “
“Rue du Bourg L’Abbe,” Aimee said, “in the courtyard behind Les Bains, there’s a man with a knife attacking—”
“I’ll transfer you.”
“Listen, he destroyed the fuse box,” Aimee interrupted. “It’s dark, we can’t … he’s coming …”
She clicked off, hopeful for a quick response time, since the
