It bothered me to leave her and Win alone to battle the madman. I was also worried sick about Katy. At least she knew we were working on a plan to get her out. After another huddle, we decided the delivery job had to be taken care of quickly, and it would be better for me to go with Luc to show the police what a lovely, sweet couple we were.
No one bothered us when we walked out. The police dog was nowhere to be seen and no one seemed to notice us. I ditched Bibi’s robe in the same spot as before and walked freely in the streets of Brussels.
“Are you sure he said pissing girl?” I said. “Not pissing boy?”
“That’s what he said.” Luc furrowed his brow as he tried to recollect the instructions the man had barked at him through the phone. “He said go three streets up to Delirium Café. But the GPS doesn’t show any statues over there.”
He stopped to fiddle with the map on his phone. It had taken us longer than we’d planned to get here, as we’d dived into side streets every time we saw anyone remotely resembling the authorities. By the time the GPS recalibrated and got us back on track again, we were late for our appointment.
While Luc fought with the GPS, cursing it in an impressive array of languages, I stood on the sidewalk gawking at the architecture around us. We were surrounded by thousand-year-old buildings, each adorned with intricate carvings and exquisite wrought-iron balconies. I’d seen these sights in Mrs. Rao’s fancy travel magazines, but I’d never dreamed I’d be lucky enough to see them in real life.
I wasn’t the only person mesmerized by what I saw. Every tourist had their camera trained on building facades, doorways, balconies, and statues. Despite everything that was going on, it felt good to be in this beautiful place, under the warm sun, taking in the happy sounds and smells around us.
“Merde! Why can’t this stupid phone work?” Luc muttered. “Okay, let’s cut across here to get to the other side.” He ushered me through a cobblestone alleyway. “It’s a shortcut, I think.”
My jaw dropped as we walked into the shortcut.
If I’d thought the streets outside had been opulent, this place was magnificent beyond belief. It was an immense square we’d walked into, a majestic cobblestone space flanked by stately buildings, clustered so close together it was difficult to spot the passageways out. I looked around in awe. Surrounding this football field-sized square were medieval structures with beautifully preserved gilded roofs pointing to the sky. If the modern light fixtures and tourists disappeared, I could easily imagine having time-traveled to a royal court of the seventeenth century.
We started crossing the square. Jotted here and there were street artists and vendors selling everything from paintings to flowers to figurines. The square was teeming with tourists from every part of the world, taking pictures and buying waffles and ice cream.
But I couldn’t afford to linger. We kept walking through the crowds, past the quaint lace boutiques, past the famous Belgian chocolate shops, past the outdoor cafés where people sat drinking coffee and beer and watching other people stroll by.
Luc checked his phone every few seconds to make sure we were heading the right way.
“Oh, no!” I said.
“What?”
I nudged him and nodded in the direction of two hefty men in uniform. They were walking through the crowd toward us and one of them had a hulking police dog on a leash.
“I guess this is going to be the sniff test,” I whispered.
If we lose this, we’re done.
“They’re here to stop pickpocketing,” Luc whispered.
“I’m worried about the dog,” I said.
The officers were now twenty feet away from us, casually scanning the crowd. From where I stood, the dog looked like an overgrown monster. I could almost imagine its bared fangs ripping at my throat.
All of a sudden, I felt exposed, like the entire square knew what I was carrying. It was like I was emanating a neon radiation light that declared, “Here! Check these babies out.”
I glanced around nervously, but no one was scrutinizing us, not even the cops. Yet they were our way, pulled by the Alsatian’s nose. I felt Luc’s hand squeeze mine. We slowed to a stroll and pretended to admire the chocolate shop nearby.
Should we slip inside?
The officers were only fifteen feet from us now. They were so close I could hear the dog panting as it pulled on the leash, its nose intensely on the ground.
I did the only thing I could think of. With a discreet twist of my hand, I pulled the dishcloth that had been covering the cupcakes I was carrying, and let it fall to the ground.
“Oh, no,” I cried out, putting my hand on my mouth. “My cakes! My beautiful cakes!”
A gust of wind whipped the dishcloth right in the direction of the cops. Luc ran after it.
Oh, god.
“Stop!”
I looked up, startled. The police officer had yanked at the dog’s chain so hard, it had almost flown back toward its master. The officer said something sharply to it. The second officer bent down, picked up the cloth and handed it to Luc.
“Merci, monsieur!” Luc said, giving his best smile to the men. “Dank u wel!” He came back with the dishcloth in hand, breathless, his cheeks bright pink.
I took my time covering the cakes. I wanted the world to see their fluffy swirls. With one woeful look at us, the dog followed its human colleagues. We watched with half-frozen smiles as the officers disappeared into the crowd.
I let out a breath. “Phew, that was close.”
“Good thinking,” Luc said. “Now how to get the hell out of here?”
“There can’t be that many exits out of this place, can there?” I glanced around but it was hard to see between the crowds and the crowded rows of buildings.
Luc didn’t answer. His nose was on his phone, trying to zoom into the map.
“Maybe we should ask someone?”
“No,” Luc said, his fingers busily tapping on the map.
That was when I saw her right in front of us. It was a slightly hunched woman, with perfectly done-up white hair, a designer tote in one hand and a smart-looking umbrella in the other. She was alone, carried no camera, and was walking toward a chocolatier, using the umbrella as a walking stick.
“Bonjour, madame,” I said, turning to her. “Good afternoon,” I added, remembering Luc’s language tip earlier.
She looked me over from head to toe and sniffed.
“Excusez moi,” I said. “Are you from Brussels?”
“Absolument,” she said, without a smile.
“We’re looking for the pissing girl. Do you know where she is?”
“Pissing girl?” she said, giving me a look of severe disapproval.
“Er,” I said, “I meant to say the girl version of the boy over there, going to the toilet. The one peeing, I mean urinating.” I felt my face go warm.
“Ah, you mean the Mannekin Pis? He’s our symbol.”
“Yes, but we’re looking for the girl.”
“Jeanneke Pis!” the woman said, tapping her umbrella on the ground impatiently. “The brother is named Mannekin Pis and his sister is called Jeanneke Pis. Do you not know this?”
“No, sorry,” I said. I felt like I’d touched a raw nerve.
“You have to get these things right, you know. And you must also refer to Zinneke Pis.”
“Zinneke?”
“Asha,” Luc said, in a warning voice. I felt his hand pull on my elbow.
“You did know there is a dog in the family, didn’t you?” the woman said, now standing close to me. “Brussels is not all about beer, as you young people think. There is culture here! You need to learn about the places you travel to!”
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to...,” I stammered, regretting starting the conversation.
“Well, you should be sorry.” Her gray eyes drilled into mine. “When you go to London you see street puppet shows. When you go to Paris, you visit Montmartre, and when you go to Copenhagen you learn about the Little
Mermaid, do you not?”
“Asha.” Luc pulled at me again.
“Er...thanks so much, madame, but I think I have to go—”
The woman raised her umbrella and pointed to an alleyway we hadn’t noticed earlier. “That way. Second exit. You will find your pissing girl there.” She said those last few words with more venom in her voice than I thought necessary.
Merci beaucoup, madame.” I almost curtsied. “Un grand merci.”
“Well, at least you speak some French.” she said, looking slightly satisfied. “Foreigners.” She shook her head and walked off, her umbrella clicking angrily on the cobblestones with every step.
“What are you doing?” Luc whispered in my ear as he pulled me away. “Talking to strangers!”
“She helped us, didn’t she?”
“We can’t go around talking to people with drugs in our hands.”
Shh. Don’t use that word.” I still hadn’t come to terms with what I was doing. It was one more thing to add to my growing rap sheet.
We hurried toward the alleyway the woman had pointed to. As soon as we stepped into the corridor, the air around us changed instantly.
We’d moved from the hustle and bustle of the large square full of tourists to a cooler, darker little street with almost no one around. A few pubs and small restaurants scattered the alleyway, but they were quiet, dark, brooding.
“There!” Luc said, pointing. “I see her!”
A roar of laughter startled us. We turned around to see three men shakily climb out of a narrow stairway coming from a sunken doorway. We were standing next to the entrance of an underground pub. The sign above the steps said, “Delirium, all five hundred Belgium beers on tap and more.” The men stumbled down the alleyway, barely keeping upright.
I squinted to where Luc had pointed. He’s right. She was here, in a secluded corner of the street, on a ledge in the wall, and secured behind a grill.
The “pissing girl” was a pigtailed three-year-old made of dark gray limestone, squatting naked on a high-placed mantel with a tiny stream of water flowing between her legs into the fountain. Her impish face looked up with an expression that said “What are you looking at?”
I smiled at her cheeky little face.
“She’s cute,” Luc said. “I like her better than the pissing boy.”
“Me too,” I said. “How come she’s hidden over here while her brother’s up there in front of all the tourists?”
“I don—”
“Bonjour Monsieur Luc,” a deep voice said inches from our ears.
Luc and I looked up so quickly, we bumped our heads.
Chapter Thirty-two
He was a skinny, clean-shaven man in a pinstriped suit and a Panama hat, looking like he’d just stepped out of the 1920s. He was leaning casually against the wall, hands in his pockets, in the shadows next to the fountain with the girl.
He’d been there all along watching us, I thought.
Even in the dim light, I could see he was smart and sharp, not at all what I’d expect from a small-time drug dealer. There was no comparison between him and the thugs I’d seen on the street earlier with their torn leather jackets and scruffy jeans.
“You must be Monsieur Fred,” Luc said, with a slight bow of his head.
“C’est correct.” The man beamed, showing tobacco-stained teeth. “Bonjour mon ami.”
“Bonjour,” Luc said, and softly nudged me. “This is Julie. I mentioned there’d be two of us.”
“Yes, yes. We were looking forward to seeing you. It is indeed a great pleasure to meet you, Mademoiselle Julie.”
“Moi aussi,” I stammered, trying to remember the high school French I’d learned back in Canada. “Ravi de vous rencontrer.” “Great to meet you too.”
“Americaine?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. Even my French accent betrayed me.
Fred bowed his head and for the second time that day, I felt I should curtsy. While he looked a bit like Zero—dark olive skin, brooding eyes, and short, curly hair—his manners were exquisite, and nothing like the crazed man back at the house.
“Sorry about the delay,” Luc said. “We’ve been walking all over the place looking for—” He cocked his head toward the little naked statue squatting behind the grille bar. “Looking for her.”
“Have you seen her esteemed brother on the other side of La Grand-Place?” Fred asked.
We nodded.
“He is indeed popular with the tourists and is one of Belgium’s national treasures.” Fred flashed a big smile. “Did you know that statue is more than three hundred and fifty years old?”
“Wow,” Luc and I said in unison.
“Legend tells us how Brussels was under attack and the enemy had set up a fire to burn the city down. But a little boy who saw the burning wick pulled down his pants, urinated on it and put the fire out. Imagine that.”
Luc nodded with a grave expression on his face.
I looked at Fred and then at Luc closely. Is all this code for something?
“That statue was built in the memory of that brave young boy,” Fred said, raising his arm so expansively, his jacket flapped open, showing the black gun on his belt. I looked at it startled. That wasn’t done accidentally.
Fred gave me a genial smile. “I should know all this. You see, if I may say so humbly myself, I do have a doctorate in world history.”
He bowed again.
“Bravo,” Luc said.
Fred straightened up and cleared his throat like he was about to give us another history lecture. I was at a loss for words. We’d just met the most educated and polite drug dealer in all of Europe. But we didn’t have time for this, not with Katy tied up in the attic.
I nudged Luc. “We need to get back home soon, no?”
“Monsieur Fred,” Luc said, his worried face returning, “May we talk business now?”
“Non! Absolument non!”
Fred looked so appalled, I drew back in surprise.
“You must never rush business. Why, we just met. One must have a good mint tea first and inquire about each other’s families at the least.” He shook a long, skinny finger at Luc. “You’ve been hanging out with our dear American friends too long. Haha!” He laughed at his own joke.
“Sure. Tea’s fine,” Luc said uncertainly. He pointed at the tray I was carrying. “We did bring your merchandise. It’s right in there.”
I lifted the dishcloth daintily to show what was underneath.
“Cakes?” Fred said, beaming. “They look beautiful.”
“Thank you,” I said automatically.
“This is The Delivery,” Luc explained, raising his eyebrows.
“Come now, mes chers amis,” Fred said ignoring Luc’s comment. He stepped out of the shadows. “I know of a very good coffeehouse where we may sit and enjoy some good Moroccan tea. I would be delighted to discuss your lovely cakes then.”
He led the way up the street and we stepped behind him, perplexed.
“Are you sure he’s the right guy?” I whispered to Luc. He shrugged.
“Monsieur Luc,” Fred said, casually turning back to us.
“Oui, Monsieur Fred,” Luc replied quickly.
“Your reputation from London precedes you, mon cher monsieur Luc, did you know that?”
Luc’s face went slightly pale.
On our long walk to this rendezvous, Luc had explained how these gangs worked across Europe. He’d told me about the intricate but dangerous alliances they formed, arrangements you didn’t want to mess with. They were stronger than the European police forces and INTERPOL combined, according to Luc, and they had their own free trade system, now that the borders were open within the EU. We had to tread carefully.
The three of us walked down the street, with me flanked by the two men. Luc remained silent, while Fred did all the talking.
“So you like sweets?” Fred asked. “Have you tried any Moroccan sweets yet, mademoiselle?”
“No,” I said. “Never
had any.”
“Well then, we must certainly try some date cake today. It’s from my homeland, Morocco,” he said, spreading his hands out. “How lovely it is to introduce new friends to good foods they’ve never tried before!”
I forced a smile.
“Do you know what a date cake is?”
I shook my head.
“It is indeed an exceptional dessert,” he said, kissing his fingertips. “Superb, but not difficult to make. I bake it for my mother’s birthday every year. Dates are very healthy for you, you know, and it is the oldest cultivated fruit in the history of mankind.”
I looked at Luc, puzzled. Who is this man? A drug dealer, a world historian, a foodie, or a nutcase?
Fred led us through the maze of cobblestone streets to a coffeehouse a few blocks from the pissing girl’s fountain.
Walking in, my mind flashed back to the café I’d stumbled into almost four days ago in London. A haze of smoke from the hookah pipes hung in the air. Red and gold tasseled cushions were laid out haphazardly on beautiful Persian carpets. Like last time, there were only men inside. Luc stepped in, looking distinctly uncomfortable. I guessed he hadn’t expected this. Neither had I.
Fred led us to a dark corner where a blue rug was strewn with piles of cushions.
“Please,” Fred said, bowing deeply to me. I removed my shoes, stepped onto the rug, and kneeled down. I placed the cake tray in the middle of the carpet and gave Luc a look that said, You take care of this. He’s your problem. We sat in a circle, fake smiles on our faces, nodding awkwardly at Fred’s history anecdotes until a waiter came to take our order.
The waiter, dressed in embroidered pants and shirt, looked like he’d just been whisked out of Aladdin’s magic lamp. On his head was a blue turban, and on his feet were Arabian slippers I’d seen before at the immigrant market. But what struck me most was the curved steel dagger on his belt.
The Girl Who Made Them Pay Page 15
