"Not ready." She panicked. What were they expecting? What if the real messenger arrived while she was talking?
The phone rang on the desk behind him and he picked it up. He turned away from her, scribbling on a note pad.
If that was someone calling about her supposed item she was in big trouble. She began studying the pamphlets in the racks along the wall, edging towards the door, as he spoke into the phone. She was almost at the door when he slammed the phone down.
"Not so fast," he said. "Take these with you," he said, handing her a bunch of videos. He seemed more relaxed. "It's been rearranged. Bring them to our Saturday meeting. At Montgallet, upstairs from the ClicClac video."
"D'accord," she agreed. She pulled out her card. "This is my real job."
He appeared almost amiable now. Her card read "Luna of Soundgarden, Events Producer/Performance Sound, Les Halles." It was one she had picked from her alias file.
Theatrically he dusted his hands off, then reached for his. As they exchanged cards she noticed his hands were ice cold. His card read "Thierry Rambuteau, DocuProductions" with a short list of phone/fax/E-mail addresses and numbers.
Loud shouts erupted from the hallway. At the sounds of breaking glass and scuffling she gripped the brass knuckles deep in her leather jacket pocket. Thierry's face remained masklike as raucous laughter echoed in the outer hallway. He herded her towards the door.
"Stay and talk after our meeting, Luna," he said, his tone changed. Warmth shone from his blue eyes. "Our cause will change your life. It changed mine."
Fat chance, she wanted to say. Outside the door, shards of glass sprinkled the parquet hallway flooring. There was no trace of anyone, but the bathroom door opposite stood slightly ajar.
She emerged into the sunlight on Avenue Jean Jaurès, curious to know what had happened but glad to leave. What was going on?
She waited ten minutes then retraced her steps into the building. Silence. A citrus scent lingered in the hallway. The glass had been swept up and the door to Les Blancs Nationaux had been padlocked.
Had Thierry Rambuteau discovered Aimee wasn't who the skinny woman with the wandering eye took her to be? What if he'd played along? She could find out if Morbier helped her.
She'd left Lili Stein's cedar-smelling coat in a locker at the station, intending to drop in at the cleaner's. Now she put it on, tired of the reactions of others in the Metro.
She thought about Lili Stein and her own mother. The mother whose face remained blurry, hovering dimly on the outskirts of memory. She put her arms around the coat that covered her tattoos and black leather. "Maman," she whispered quietly, hugging the coat to her body.
Friday Noon
"SARAH!" A HIGH-PITCHED GIGGLING voice came from behind her.
The old woman stopped, half smiling, and turned around. Too late she realized a group of young girls were talking to each other, not to her. No one had called her that for fifty years. Why had she turned after all this time?
She reached the corner and stood in front of reflecting shop windows. And for the first time in a long time, she took a good look at the way she appeared to the world. Staring back at her was a sixty-five-year-old woman, a thin, lined face with strong cheekbones, and full shopping bags between her feet. She didn't see any sign of the Sarah she used to be.
She stopped for a cafe au lait on Boulevard Voltaire across from Tati, the cut-rate store. Above the espresso machine hung a gilt mirror framed by smudged business cards and old lotto stubs.
Marie, the pudgy, aproned proprietress, sucked in her breath and asked her, "You made it to Monoprix's big sale, eh?"
Sarah nodded. "Oui." She pulled strands of hair over her ears, careful not to disturb her wig.
Marie shook her head approvingly as she wiped the counter. "I want to go before it's too late; it's only once a year. Much left?"
Sarah managed a tired smile as she adjusted the scarf over her forehead. "I couldn't make it up to the fourth floor, too jammed, but housewares still had quite a bit, people hadn't started fighting yet."
"Ah," Marie sighed, "that's a good sign." She moved to wash some glasses near the end of the counter.
Sarah pulled a newspaper from the rack. Her bursitis ached and she knew that it would be too hard to get up again if she sat down. She'd enjoy her coffee standing, not to mention the francs she'd save by not sitting at a table.
She glanced at Aujourd'hui, scanning the photos of models and celebrities caught in various scandals. Rarely, if ever, did she read the pulpy, skimpy articles below them.
Suddenly, her cup fell from her fingers and cafe au lait splashed all over the zinc counter. Staring at her was a face she knew.
How could it be? She pulled her reading glasses from her purse and stared at the photo. The nose was different but the eyes were the same. Then, taking a pen from her purse, she colored the white hair black. She couldn't believe it. Wasn't he long dead? Unconsciously, she began to shake and gasped shallowly for air.
"Ça va? You don't look well," Marie said as she appeared with a cloth to wipe the counter. "Feeling sick, eh?"
She just nodded, afraid to tell the truth. The awful truth.
"Come sit down," Marie said as she guided her to a booth.
The normal movements of walking and sitting didn't calm her. She laid her head down on the sticky table littered with cups and saucers, took deep breaths, and closed her eyes. She'd been so sure he was dead. When she'd stopped shaking and her breathing was normal, she stood up and retrieved the paper.
It read like any other glossy name-dropping article. Below the photo the caption identified the man as Hartmuth Griffe. She used the pen again and drew epaulets and a swastika on the black jacket he was wearing and she knew. It was Helmut.
Friday Noon
"GET A TAXI!" RENÉ yelled. "Our tax extension appointment got moved up."
"Wait a minute." Aimee clutched the cell phone in front of the locker in the Metro station. "Our appointment is-"
"I'm at La Double Morte," he interrupted. "Tomorrow, the tax board goes on a monthlong recess. If we don't meet now, our case goes in default and we'll be liable for an eighty-thousand-franc fine. We're scheduled for arbitration in five minutes!"
That ate up Soli Hecht's retainer and more. They wouldn't have enough left in the business account for the rent check. She grabbed a taxi.
As she ran up the marble staircase of La Double Morte, the clink of the metal chains from her leather jacket brought a low wolf whistle from the janitor. He eyed her suggestively and wiggled his tongue as he wet-mopped the steps. She just missed tripping on the slippery marble and clomped heavily up the staircase. The leering janitor approached as if to talk with her.
Aimee growled, "Watch out, I bite!"
"Good!" he said. "I like that."
She hissed, "Get a rabies shot."
Trapped in her skinhead attire, she wrapped Lili Stein's coat tightly around her. A murdered woman's couture coat, from the fifties and smelling of mothballs, was not the outfit for a meeting with number crunchers.
Her dressed-to-kill look should have been more along the lines of a gray pinstripe suit. She smoothed down her hair, rubbed off the black lipstick, and trudged carefully up the rest of the stairs. When in doubt, brazen it out!
Quite a few heads arose from their desks as she darted to the room marked ARBITRATION.
Rene Friant's perspiring face held a mixture of relief and horror as she entered. His short legs dangled from the seat. Every centimeter of him recoiled as she sat down beside him.
Eight pairs of eyes, all male, stared at her from across the long wooden table. A glass of water sat at each place. Computer toner cartridges were piled on the table near her, next to an ancient copy machine. Most of the men wore gray suits. One wore a yarmulke.