Reeve had few feelings about drug use and abuse. But he knew Tommy Halliday might have something he could use.
The phone rang for a while, but that was normaclass="underline" everyone who knew Tommy knew he let it ring and ring. That way he only ended up speaking to people who knew him… and maybe a few utterly desperate souls who’d let a phone ring and ring and ring.
“Yeah.” The voice was alert and laid-back at the same time.
“It’s Gordie.” All Tommy’s callers used first names or nicknames, just in case the drug squad was listening.
“Hey, Gordie, long time.” Halliday sounded like he was light-ing a cigarette. “You know a guy called Waxie? Came to see you for one of your long weekends.”
Henry Waxman. “I remember him,” Reeve said. This was typical of Halliday. You phoned him for a favor from a pay phone and spent half your money listening to his stories. Through the terminal’s windows, Reeve saw a greasy sky illuminated by so-dium, a blustery wind buffeting the few brave gulls up there.
“He’s become a good friend,” Halliday was saying. Which meant Waxman had become a serious user of some narcotic. It was a kind of warning. Halliday was just letting Reeve know that Waxman might not be as reliable as he once was. Halliday was under the misapprehension that Gordon Reeve trained mercenaries. Reeve had done nothing to correct this; it seemed to impress the dealer.
“Sorry to ring you so early. Or do I mean late?”
“Hey, you know me. I never sleep. I’m right in the middle of Mean Streets, trying to figure out what’s so great about it. Looks like a home movie. I dunno.” He paused to suck on his cigarette and Reeve leapt into the breach.
“Tommy, I’d like you to get Birdy for me.”
“Birdy?”
“Can you do that?”
“Well, I haven’t seen him in a while…” This was part of the Drug Squad game, too. Birdy wasn’t a person. Birdy was something very specialized, very rare.
“I’ve got something for him.” Meaning, I can pay whatever it takes.
“I dunno, like I say, he’s not been around much. Is it urgent?”
“No, I’m going to be away for a few days. Maybe I’ll call you when I get back.”
“You do that. I’ll see if I bump into him, maybe ask around. Okay, Gordie?”
“Thanks.”
“Sure, and hey, do me a favor. Rent out Mean Streets, tell me what’s so great about it.”
“Three words, Tommy.”
“What?” The voice sounded urgent, like it mattered.
“De Niro and Keitel.”
He slept for three-quarters of an hour on the ferry crossing. As soon as the boat came into Calais and drivers were asked to return to their vehicles, Reeve washed down some caffeine pills with the last of his strong black coffee. He’d made one purchase onboard-a hard-rock compilation tape-and he’d changed some money. The boat was nearly empty. They took the trucks off first, but within five minutes of returning to his car, he was driving out onto French soil. Back at a garage outside Dover, he’d bought a headlight kit, so he could switch beam direction to the other side of the road. Driving on the right hadn’t been a problem to him in the USA, so he didn’t think it would be a problem here. He’d jotted down directions so he wouldn’t have to keep looking at the map book he’d added to his purchases at the garage.
He headed straight for Paris, looking to take one of the beltways farther out, but ended up on the périphérique, the inner ring. It was like one of the circles of Dante’s Hell; he only thanked God they were all traveling the same direction. Cars came onto the road from both sides, and left again the same way. People were cutting across lanes, trusting to providence or some spirit of the internal combustion engine. It was a vast game of “Chicken”: he who applied the brakes was lost.
Still hyped from the caffeine and loud music, and a bit dazed from lack of sleep, Reeve hung on grimly and took what looked like the right exit. The names meant nothing to him, and seemed to change from sign to sign, so he concentrated on road numbers. He took the A6 off the périphérique and had no trouble finding the A10, which called itself l’Aquitaine. That was the direction he wanted. He celebrated with a short stop for refueling-both the car and himself. Another two shots of espresso and a croissant.
When he started hallucinating-starbursts in his eyes-still north of Poitiers, he stopped to sleep. A cheap motorway motel looked tempting, but he stayed with his car. He didn’t want to get too comfortable, but it didn’t make sense to turn up for his meeting with Marie Villambard unable to concentrate or focus. He wound the passenger seat as far back as it would go and slid over into it, so the steering wheel wouldn’t dig into him. His eyes felt gritty, grateful when he closed them. The cars speeding past the service area might as well have been serried waves crashing on the shore, the rumble of trucks a heartbeat. He was asleep inside a minute.
He slept for forty deep minutes, then got out of the car and did some stretching exercises, using the car’s hood as his bench. He took his toothbrush to the toilets, scrubbed his teeth, and splashed water on his face. Then back to the car. He was a hundred miles from his destination, maybe a little less. Despite his stops, he’d made good time. At the back of his map book there was a plan of Limoges. It had two railway stations: the one he wanted-gare des Bénédictins-was to the east, the other to the west. He headed south on the N147 and came into Limoges from the north. Almost at once the streets started to hem him in. They either bore no signposts or identifiers, or else were one way. He found himself shunted onto street after street, twisting right and left and right… until he was lost. At one point he saw a sign pointing to gare SNCF, but after following it didn’t see another sign, and soon was lost again. Finally he pulled over, double-parking on a narrow shopping street, and asked a pedestrian for directions. It was as if he’d asked the man to talk him through open-heart surgery: Bénédictins was difficult from here, he’d have to retrace his steps, the one-way system was very complicated…
Reeve thanked the man and started driving again, waving at the complaining line of drivers who’d been waiting to pass him.
Eventually he crossed a bridge and saw railway lines beneath him, and followed those as best he could. Then he saw it, a huge domed building with an even higher clock tower to one side. Bénédictins. It looked more like an art gallery or museum than a city’s railway station. Reeve checked his watch. It was half past five. He found a parking space, locked the car, and took a few seconds to calm himself and do a few more exercises. His whole body was buzzing as though electricity was being passed through him. He walked on to the station concourse, looked over to the left and saw the restaurant and bar.
He paused again outside the bar itself, looking around him as though for a friend. Actually, he was seeking out the opposite, but it was hard to judge from the people milling around. There were down-and-outs and students, young men in military uniform and businesspeople clutching briefcases. Some stared anxiously at the departures board; others sat on benches and smoked, or browsed through a magazine. Any one of them could be put-ting on an act. It was impossible to tell.