It was late afternoon. The owner of the café fawned over him—her only customer at the moment—as she took his order and personally prepared his meal. People of African heritage weren’t all that uncommon in France, but in her café they obviously were. After a glass of gloriously tart Pouilly-Fumé with fresh-baked bread and salade verte, Ellis gorged himself on boeuf-bourguignon while enjoying half a bottle of perfectly matched 1996 burgundy. He almost offended the proprietor when he refused dessert, asking instead for a café au lait. She reluctantly relented, displaying a regretful smile at the naïve American as she placed the ghastly epilogue in front of him, watching him sip it as he nestled himself into the candle-lit booth with his novel.
Ellis was warm from the wine and coffee and, as the early evening flurries began again, the lines on his face lessened while the stress of his recent year began to float away. His mind, as it often did, turned to Rose. He thought about the way she used to playfully untie his tie, back when he had been on the force, nibbling on his ear as she told him how much she loved him. Sometimes, during her summer breaks from teaching, he would slip by their small house during his lunch hour, where they would make love as they listened to classical music or light jazz. She’d always liked it slowly, and traditional, just like the music she preferred. He missed their Sunday mornings, before church, when she would bring him his breakfast in bed with the Sunday paper. On Saturdays, it had always been her day to be pampered. He would tend to the house as she had her hair done with all the girls down at Jenny’s place. It was always an all-day affair, and Damien had been happy to welcome her home to a spotless house and a fine roast in the oven.
She’d readily agreed with his decision to join the Army, eager to see new places. And when he struggled at work, he’d come home to a glass of wine and she would rub his shoulders and listen to his troubles. They were truly one spirit, and now Damien Ellis was forced to relearn life without Rose.
Oh, Rose, my sweet love, I miss you so!
He placed the book on the table, pausing to stare out the window at the people bustling about as the ambient light of the short day gave way to twilight.
Then he saw her, standing the way she always would when she was trying to get his attention, one arm on her hip, the other arm waving. He couldn’t hear her, but her mouthed words were as clear to him as if she were whispering in his ear. The flurries were collecting on her heavy wool coat and striking cranberry beret. He watched as she spoke the words, laughing as she mimed them. She said: “Damien, you enjoy yourself, and that’s an order. Don’t worry about me. You just move along now, because I’m fine.”
She beamed at him, her large white teeth framed inside her trademark, full red lips. With a final, whimsical wave, Rose turned and sauntered away, glancing in the store windows before disappearing in the direction of the Moselle.
Ellis leaned back in his booth, wiping his eyes with his napkin but not at all sad. There were no other patrons, so he spoke in his full, bass voice as he stared down the street. “Thanks, Rose. I’m fine, too.”
After several deep breaths, and without a single care in the world, Damien Ellis resumed his reading with fervor. Old Stevie was in rare form in this one.
***
Bruno stiffened, one of his arms sliding over the table and rousting Leon. “There’s one of the fags, leaving. He’s locking the door.”
Leon had been dozing, his head resting on his palm. It was dark outside, the pedestrian street well lit by gas lamps. He rubbed his eyes, watching the employee, not the owner, as he hurried off down the street, holding the top of his jacket closed against the flurries and wind.
“Keep watching,” Leon muttered. “I gotta piss.” He walked to the bored-looking waitress, ordering a pot of coffee and listening to her instructions on how to find the WC, located down a flight of stairs.
When he returned, Bruno was animated, motioning with his large paw for Leon to move quickly.
“What is it?”
“Two people just went inside. The owner unlocked the door for them.”
“Who were they?” Leon asked. The waitress arrived with their coffee. He threw a ten euro bill at her.
“I dunno. A woman, real pretty, and a man, kind of a big guy.”
“Big as in fat?”
“No. Big as in strong-looking. Not as big as me, but he didn’t look like a pansy like that little store owner.”
Leon slid into the booth, removing his pistol from his jacket and concealing it to his side. He checked the chamber to make sure there was a round seated, instructing Bruno to do the same.
“Are we going in there?” Bruno asked.
“Damn right we are. That sonofabitch owes me money.” Leon reached over the table, tugging on Bruno’s jacket. “You follow my lead, and if you see any kind of trouble brewing, you shoot to kill. Do you understand?”
Bruno’s leaden eyes were coal black. “Do you think I’m stupid?”
“Just do as I say.” Leon stood. “Let’s go get this item of ‘immeasurable value’.”
***
Michel ushered Gage and Monika into the back room with great fanfare. One of the work tables was covered in red felt and in its center, sitting in a silver chiller, was a bottle of Alfred Gratien champagne. Next to the chiller, on a small platform, was the 1938 diary. Gage frowned. What is all this? Michel swept to the other side of the table, sliding fluted glasses in front of them.
“Champagne?” Monika asked.
Michel removed the bottle, wiping the cold water from the bottle with a towel. He untwisted the lead wire, turning the bottle, pressing with his thumbs until the cork blew out, landing after a few ricochets behind a stack of battered books.
“A celebration,” he answered after a considerable delay. He poured Monika’s first, then Gage’s, and then filled his own glass, lifting it.
“To the beginning of a beautiful, highly profitable partnership.” He touched both of their glasses and drank.
Gage held his glass in front of him, his brows lowered. “Excuse me, Michel, but what partnership do you speak of? And what happened to your face?” His radar was coming up, a few distant klaxons ringing in the back of his head. Something was amiss.
After finishing off half of his glass, Michel suppressed a burp, covering his smiling mouth with the back of his hand. “Well, Gregory, after you two retired for the afternoon, I was so excited by the diary that I bumped my head on a metal shelf. I’m such a klutz.” He lifted a solitary finger. “But, as I promised, I began to do some checking on the value of such a series of diaries. Truthfully, however, I was unable to determine even a broad range due to the fact that there is no precedent.”
“What do you mean?” Monika asked.
“These diaries, sweet cousin,” he said, tapping the 1938 diary, “are worth more than any of us can imagine. They won’t simply be hot sellers for a year or two; they will generate millions of sales for decades to come…maybe even centuries.”
Gage could hear his pulse in his ears. He concentrated to control his breathing, but could feel the migraine from earlier in the day, glowing faintly, painfully, like a smoldering ember in his brain. “Michel, what are you getting at?”
“Gregory,” Michel said, placing his hand on Gage’s, “do not be angry with me, but I went ahead and took the liberty of lining up some publishers, heavy-hitters, the biggest on the globe, to meet with us tomorrow.”
“You did what?” Gage nearly yelled, his left hand shooting up to press on his temple. Monika gripped Gage’s right arm, restraining him.
Michel held both palms up, placating him. “I didn’t tell them anything identifiable. I didn’t tell them about either of you, nor did I disclose the content of the diaries.”
Gage’s face was trembling. Monika looked from him back to her cousin. “Michel, you shouldn’t have done that. We’re not interested in selling, at least not right now. These diaries could be someone else’s property. There’s a human life that could possibly be upended by their contents.”<
br />
“Moni, listen to—”
“I’m not finished,” she hissed. “What you’ve done is very disrespectful, and I don’t appreciate it one bit. Now pick up your damned phone and cancel those meetings until we decide, as a group, what to do.”
Michel began to pout at the rebuke. He looked plaintively at Gage, his voice trembling. “We’re not talking about insignificant monies here, we’re talking about a veritable fortune…twenty, thirty million euros plus future royalties! We can find any additional possible rights holders or decedents later. Hell, we’ll let the lawyers do all that, but we must go to Paris tomorrow. It’s all set up!”
A loud knock on the glass door in the front silenced the three of them. Michel and Monika turned to the sound the way two normal people would. Gage, however, only glanced towards the sound—then whirled towards the back room, appraising it for escape routes and possible weapons.
“Stay right there,” he commanded Michel. “Don’t answer it.”
Michel blew him off, seemingly irritated by their not having accepted his proposal with open arms. He walked to the front. “Let me just see who it is.” He disappeared through the heavy curtains, muttering something about the clearly posted hours on the front door.
Monika squeezed Gage’s hand. “I’m so sorry he did this. He had no right to—”
“Be quiet,” he commanded.
“Oh my God,” came Michel’s muffled voice through the curtain.
Gage grabbed Monika’s hand. “Unlock that back door and stand in the shadow beside it. Be ready to run.”
He flipped the coverlet over the diary before scanning the room. His thoughts were sliced by the bell of the front door, then deep voices. The cold air rushed into the back of the shop, carrying the smell of burning wood and rustling the heavy curtain.
“Gage, what are you going—”
“Do it now,” he hissed. Gage’s face and eyes were as hard as tempered steel. The voices in the front grew louder; Michel was protesting and then a large man pushed through the curtain, followed by Michel and a shorter man in an expensive-looking leather jacket.
Gage stared at the three of them. He had moved behind the work table. Monika stood silently in the shadows by the back door.
The smaller man shoved Michel, muttering something in French Gage couldn’t make out. Michel wiped his forehead, his mouth twitching as if he was on the edge of tears. He addressed Gage. “They had a gun pointed at me through the glass. They’re here for the diary.”
Gage willed his face to remain impassive. He didn’t waste any time looking at Michel. Instead, his eyes darted between the two men. He couldn’t yet see the firearm Michel had mentioned. As he stared at the larger man with the heavy shadow of stubble, he spoke in German. “How could they know of such a diary?”
The small man obviously understood what Gage had said, giving a barely visible shove to Michel’s back, prompting him to speak. It told Gage all he needed to know. Michel was somehow complicit with their being here, whether or not he knew it.
“I owe them money. I…I told them we had something of great value. That’s why I wanted to go to Paris tomorrow.” Michel dipped his head and began to cry.
From where the two thugs stood, Gage’s left hand wasn’t visible. He edged it into his jacket pocket. These guys probably pegged him for an ordinary citizen, something Colonel Hunter had always preached about. “Any person—man, woman, or child—can kill you at any time. Don’t ever underestimate a soul.” This time, however, instead of being the one having to remember the rule, Gage realized he was “any person.”
He gripped the cold steel of the spring-loaded blackjack. It was the only weapon he had with him. The smaller man elbowed his way in front of Michel, pulling a gleaming chrome Colt .45 from his back and aiming it, two-handed, steadily at Gage’s head. Gage had to give the man credit for owning a nice piece, although he didn’t really care for the pearl grips. And judging by his aim and the way he held the pistol, the little man knew how to shoot. He spoke in broken German.
“Give me the book, kraut!”
Gage lifted his hands, concealing the blackjack in his left sleeve, using his thumb to hold onto it. He was about to speak when the short man hitched his head at the large one, telling him to get the girl. As the big man moved to the rear, and with the short one’s attention momentarily diverted, Gage sprung into action.
“Run, Monika!” he yelled, simultaneously using his right arm to pull himself laterally around the table. The move surprised the smaller man and, as he rotated the pistol to Gage’s approaching form, his right forearm snapped like a twig as the blackjack’s spring-loaded tip broke his ulna. He screamed in agony, falling to the floor and dropping the Colt. Michel flinched at the sound of the bone cracking. He flung himself into the corner by the door, his head in his hands.
As Gage was busy striking the shorter Frenchman, Monika bolted out the back door with the big brute on her heels. Gage hit the short man one more time before sprinting out the rear door and up the alley. He stopped on the cobblestone pedestrian street, looking each way, finally seeing the giant thug running several hundred meters down the hill, in the traffic area near the river. Gage raced down the hill and was surprised to see him slowing, so he slid into an alcove and watched as the large man doubled over, heavily winded. The man turned, coughing violently and spitting before lumbering back up the hill, mumbling filthy curses. Gage hid in the shadows as the man trudged by, removing a phone from his pocket. Gage listened to the man’s conversation, watching as he thumbed the phone off before making another call. He spoke only a few words and flicked the phone shut a second time. After he passed, Gage stepped from the alcove, moving behind a sheltered bus stop and watching through the glass. The man was again up in the pedestrian area, almost back to Michel’s shop, and it was then that Gage heard a distant sound that chilled him to the bone.
A gunshot.
The building muffled it well, but the sound was unmistakable to Gage: the cannon-like signature of the large caliber Colt.
The large Frenchman glanced around before walking into the alley. Gage was nearly sure the man with the broken wrist had killed Michel, and that he should simply go find Monika and disappear. But his concern was for Michel—foolhardy as he was—in the event he might still be alive. Even though his conscious brain wouldn’t admit it, his base psyche—the one untouched by the business in Crete—wanted desperately to unleash more violence against the two French hoods. He stealthily made his way up the hill and to the alley, peering in to make sure it was empty. Seeing no one, Gage crept to the rear entry of the rare book shop.
***
“How in the hell did you lose her?” Leon screamed, gripping his right forearm, perspiring profusely.
Bruno’s chest still heaved from the pursuit. He dipped his head in shame. “She had a big head start and when we got to the river I couldn’t tell which way she had gone.”
“What did Marcel say?” Leon grunted. He lifted his sleeve and grimaced as he peered at his throbbing forearm before turning his attention to the growing mess on the concrete floor, emanating from Michel’s lifeless body. The blood was still pooling around the corpse from the large hole in the rear of the slight man’s head.
Bruno frowned. “He wasn’t happy.”
“To hell with him!” Leon screamed as he tried to flex his hand, whimpering after several centimeters of movement. “And who the hell was that German? He moved like a damned commando.”
Bruno studied Michel’s fresh corpse like a normal person might view road kill. “Marcel said to clean the mess up and call him as soon as we get out of here.”
Leon spat on Michel, wincing from pain and frustration. “Nicky’s going to shit. He’s going to absolutely shit when he hears this. But the hell he brings down on me will be nothing compared to what I’m going to do to that German and his little twat when I find them.”
“Look!” Bruno leaned forward, pulling back the coverlet and removing the diary—the only book
on any of the work tables.
Leon stepped over Michel, careful not to step into the pool of crimson that had begun to coagulate on the concrete floor. With his left arm, he accepted the diary. “Well, I’ll be damned. Dumb kraut bastard left it here.” He opened it, struggling with his rough German to decipher the first page.
Bruno hitched his thumb to the front. “Shouldn’t we take everything else while we’re at it?”
“Books? Are you kidding? See if there’s some cash, but I have no use for musty fucking books.” Leon flipped the page, unable to discern why this boring journal held any value.
Just as Leon was about to give up on the slow-moving personal account, the back door opened with such force that he stumbled backward, tumbling over a stack of books, breaking his wrist further—it took on a grotesque z-shape—as he instinctively tried to break his fall.
Gage had the blackjack out, cracking Bruno twice as the two went over a table, clattering into a storage shelf. Cleaning supplies rained down as Gage determined that the larger man was quite unconscious. He glanced left, looking under the two large work tables, seeing Michel’s dead body.
The smaller man was scrambling frantically, his efforts impeded by his kinked right arm. He was trying with his left to spirit the pistol from his waist. Gage clawed underneath the table, striking the smaller man in the clavicle with the blackjack. He pulled himself over the howling man, grabbing his left arm as the Frenchman tried to wheel the Colt around. Using his right arm to control the man’s left, Gage realized he had dropped the blackjack. With just his fist, he punched downward at the man’s face, striking him twice with nuisance, hammer-fist blows.
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