When Au Bon Pho, the hole-in-the-wall eatery down the street from the Shangri-La, ran out of the Malbec, Maggie thought of switching to white wine. It would be easier on her head come the morning.
Maybe a nice Chablis.
Enough, she told herself. And enough of the boisterous diners who kept arriving and didn’t seem to have a care in the world while Vietnamese pop music blasted from plastic loudspeakers.
Bellard was to have Dara’s phone. But once he did, that would be the end of Abraqa.
But there were always options, she told herself.
In the meantime she needed to get hold of Aunt Amina, see about making funeral arrangements for Dara. She couldn’t call her from inside this boom box. Maggie popped the last bite of a spring roll into her mouth, tossed euros on the plastic bill tray and left.
Outside, she glanced around. She’d let her guard down this afternoon. A growing throng of twentysomethings were hovering outside the restaurant, chatting, laughing, snapping photos of each other on their smartphones. Maggie turned the collar of her leather jacket up against the chilling night air, headed down rue Philibert Lucot.
She got her throwaway phone out and punched in Aunt Amina’s number from memory. But, just as she was about to dial, that prickly feeling crawled up the back of her neck.
She put the phone away, turned around. Slowly.
And saw a compact man, wearing a dark windbreaker, hands in pockets, shoulders hunched forward as he marched behind her. The glow of a cigarette in his mouth. His working-class swagger and silhouetted ball cap took her back to Café Lepic this afternoon. He must have been waiting in a doorway or hidden amongst the others outside the restaurant.
That sobered her right up.
At the corner she turned right, broke into an easy jog in her sneaks. But losing Bellard’s people would only be temporary. They knew where she was staying.
She’d have to switch hotels. Damn.
She ducked into an alley, pulling her house keys. If people ever wondered why she carried her keys on her person when she traveled, there was a reason. She worked the Yale key between her index and middle finger, made a fist and stood sideways, left shoulder facing the street, left fist up to parry. Legs apart, right fist back, ready to strike.
She heard him coming, footfalls soft and quick. Catching up.
Then his footsteps slowed. Not as dumb as he looked. He’d seen the entrance to the alley, had a good idea where’d she’d gone.
She waited, her right arm vibrating.
There was a second or two of tense anticipation. Down the street, a high-pitched horn honked.
He came lurking around the corner. The French SDAT punk, his windbreaker now open, his left hand inside, ready to pull a weapon. Still had his silly wraparound shades on.
“I can hit you before you pull that gun,” she said.
He stared at her.
“When someone tries to pull a gun on you at short range, you have a twenty-one foot advantage if you rush him,” she said. “That’s about seven meters.”
He stood there, hand in his coat, waiting.
“Why are you following me?” she said.
“Phone,” he said.
“Tell Bellard there are ways to get it besides having some punk try to pull a damn gun on me. Tell Bellard if he wants the phone, he has to work with me. Now, do you have all that or do I need to write it down?”
“Got it,” he said between clenched teeth.
“The gun goes on the ground,” she said. “Slowly.” Her hand was in the air, key out, ready to strike. “Anything funny, I let you have it.”
He stared at her through the wraparounds. Finally his hand came out of his coat, the gun loose and down.
“On the ground,” she said again.
He squatted, set the pistol on the sidewalk.
“Now stand back,” Maggie said.
He did.
She picked up the gun, ejected the clip, tossed it, just as a car screeched around the corner up the street off rue Philibert Lucot. Maggie stopped where she was, listened to an engine whine up to the alley. The small white Peugeot she’d seen that afternoon appeared, two people inside. The passenger door flew open and the tall woman got out, the one who had taken Maggie’s work phone earlier that day. She wore a car coat and a scowl. She came marching over, looking at the kid curiously, then at the gun in Maggie’s hand.
“I already gave your pal here a message for Bellard,” Maggie said. “And if I see either one of you outside my hotel, or following me, he’ll never see that phone. Ever.”
She handed the empty gun back by the barrel.
Back in her room, Maggie threw her belongings into her bag, no folding or planning, and headed downstairs. She told Madame Nguyen she’d be moving on. Maggie wasn’t going to risk SDAT making another appearance.
“I’m not worried about a refund,” she said. “Consider it a small apology for all the harassment.”
“I’m very sorry to hear it, mademoiselle.” Maggie heard the relief in her voice, though.
“I’ll be back some other time, madame. When I’m not so popular.” She got out her phone, pulled up a browser, typed in booking.com. Now for a real challenge—find a hotel in Paris at eleven o’clock at night.
“Going somewhere, darlin’?”
Maggie turned.
John Rae Hutchens. Wearing his tan pigskin jacket, snug blue jeans, cowboy boots and a smirk. He had his sandy hair pulled back in a short tail. His goatee was neatly trimmed.
“JR—what the hell?”
“Looks like I almost missed you.”
“Well, if you think you’re escorting me back to the US of A again, you’ve got another thing coming. This trip was paid for by me, myself and I. I’m calling it a vacation, for lack of a better word. Which means the only one who tells me when to leave is me, myself or I.”
“Same here,” John Rae said, jamming his hands in his jacket pockets. “Thought I’d take a little break too. Nothing going on in Berlin right now. Figured you could show me around Paris.” He grinned.
She squinted at him. “You’re not here to take me back?”
“Not in the slightest.”
“Then clue me in, if it’s not too much trouble.”
“Is that restaurant still open down the street? I just got off the plane and I’m famished. ”
Maggie looked down at her carry-on on wheels.
“Vinh can put that in the basement, mademoiselle,” Madame Nguyen said. “You won’t find another hotel at this time of night anyway. Not one you’d want to close your eyes in.”