parked at the curb. It wasn’t a French car, Luca saw, but an English one. A Rolls-Royce, a very ancient one with brass headlamps up front and a single violet carriage lamp mounted on the roof above the windshield. Like a hearse, he thought. Luca could see the black shape of his father seated in the rear between two large men.
The bony man opened the driver’s side door. There was another man on the passenger side, big, the collar of his black raincoat turned up. Luca could make out a shaved head, a bashed-in boxer’s face, and a close-cropped beard. The yellow-haired skeleton slid behind the big wheel, started the car, and turned on the headlights.
Outside, all was blurred white.
“I’m sorry, Father,” Luca said, turning to his father in the rear.
“Shut your piehole, kid,” one of the two men sitting in the rear on either side of Emile said. It was New York English, the kind you often heard in movies but seldom in Paris. They were wearing very colorful sport coats and Luca remembered seeing them on the platform at the station. His father nodded his head, staring at Luca, telling him to obey. Yes, he would be quiet all right. That would be best. In fact, no one spoke as the big car slid through the snowy streets and crossed the river at the Pont Neuf, some of the turns very tight in the great long car.
“Hey, Joe Bones,” the big man next to the window said in the thick accent of a movie gangster. “What’s wrong with this right here?” He spoke without looking over at the driver, pointing out the side window.
“I ain’t Joe Bones yet, boss. Just Mama Bonanno’s boy Joey.”
“You will be after tonight, kid, I’m telling ya. Make your frigging bones at last.”
“So, whaddya want me to do?” the skeleton behind the wheel said out of the side of his mouth.
“Pull over, for chrissakes. I want you should park it here. Nice and close. It’s fuckin’ freezin’ out there. Christ, snow in Paris? Who knew? Right here. Awright, Joey?”
“Whatever blows your hair back,” Joey said, and pulled the big wheel over to the right. The black Rolls skidded to a stop next to a massive nineteenth-century cannon in the southwest corner of the cobblestone courtyard.
“Well, kid, this is us,” the big man said, sucking in his gut and looking at Luca through a haze of cigarette smoke. He said, “Napoleon’s Tomb. I’m lookin’ forward to seein’ it. I hear it’s even bigger than my friggin’ mausoleum at Mount Olivet in Queens. Hey, how you doing, kid?”
“Who are you?” Luca said.
“Who, me?” The man stuck out his big meaty hand. There was a massive gold nugget on the small finger.
“Greetings from Gangland, U.S.A., kid,” the big bald man said, grabbing Luca’s hand and pumping it. Luca whipped his hand away, rubbing it on his trousers, and stared into the man’s eyes until the American gangster averted them.
“What did you say?” Luca said coldly.
“Name is Benny,” the man said, and shrank back from Luca’s gaze. “Benny Sangster.”
Chapter Six
Cannes
HAWKE SLID HIS GREEN AMERICAN EXPRESS CARD UNDER the hotel cashier’s grate and waited for the clerk to raise the dreaded issue of whether one had raided the bloody honor bar. It was a universal travel wrinkle he loathed. He found it unbearable, in the process of checking out of a hotel, that one must stand there trying to recall if one had eaten any peanuts or opened a bloody Perrier before turning in.
Having paid, he strode across the lobby and informed the concierge that he was leaving, discreetly slipping the mustachioed man a sealed hotel envelope containing one hundred Euros, informing him that the lady, his—guest—might be staying in his rooms until next morning.
“Mais oui, monsieur. Pas de problème.”
Hawke emerged under the hotel’s porte-cochere entrance, pausing for a moment. On assignment abroad, one expects to be watched. He saw no quickly averted head, or raised newspaper, however, so he turned right,
The bony man opened the driver’s side door. There was another man on the passenger side, big, the collar of his black raincoat turned up. Luca could make out a shaved head, a bashed-in boxer’s face, and a close-cropped beard. The yellow-haired skeleton slid behind the big wheel, started the car, and turned on the headlights.
Outside, all was blurred white.
“I’m sorry, Father,” Luca said, turning to his father in the rear.
“Shut your piehole, kid,” one of the two men sitting in the rear on either side of Emile said. It was New York English, the kind you often heard in movies but seldom in Paris. They were wearing very colorful sport coats and Luca remembered seeing them on the platform at the station. His father nodded his head, staring at Luca, telling him to obey. Yes, he would be quiet all right. That would be best. In fact, no one spoke as the big car slid through the snowy streets and crossed the river at the Pont Neuf, some of the turns very tight in the great long car.
“Hey, Joe Bones,” the big man next to the window said in the thick accent of a movie gangster. “What’s wrong with this right here?” He spoke without looking over at the driver, pointing out the side window.
“I ain’t Joe Bones yet, boss. Just Mama Bonanno’s boy Joey.”
“You will be after tonight, kid, I’m telling ya. Make your frigging bones at last.”
“So, whaddya want me to do?” the skeleton behind the wheel said out of the side of his mouth.
“Pull over, for chrissakes. I want you should park it here. Nice and close. It’s fuckin’ freezin’ out there. Christ, snow in Paris? Who knew? Right here. Awright, Joey?”
“Whatever blows your hair back,” Joey said, and pulled the big wheel over to the right. The black Rolls skidded to a stop next to a massive nineteenth-century cannon in the southwest corner of the cobblestone courtyard.
“Well, kid, this is us,” the big man said, sucking in his gut and looking at Luca through a haze of cigarette smoke. He said, “Napoleon’s Tomb. I’m lookin’ forward to seein’ it. I hear it’s even bigger than my friggin’ mausoleum at Mount Olivet in Queens. Hey, how you doing, kid?”
“Who are you?” Luca said.
“Who, me?” The man stuck out his big meaty hand. There was a massive gold nugget on the small finger.
“Greetings from Gangland, U.S.A., kid,” the big bald man said, grabbing Luca’s hand and pumping it. Luca whipped his hand away, rubbing it on his trousers, and stared into the man’s eyes until the American gangster averted them.
“What did you say?” Luca said coldly.
“Name is Benny,” the man said, and shrank back from Luca’s gaze. “Benny Sangster.”
Chapter Six
Cannes
HAWKE SLID HIS GREEN AMERICAN EXPRESS CARD UNDER the hotel cashier’s grate and waited for the clerk to raise the dreaded issue of whether one had raided the bloody honor bar. It was a universal travel wrinkle he loathed. He found it unbearable, in the process of checking out of a hotel, that one must stand there trying to recall if one had eaten any peanuts or opened a bloody Perrier before turning in.
Having paid, he strode across the lobby and informed the concierge that he was leaving, discreetly slipping the mustachioed man a sealed hotel envelope containing one hundred Euros, informing him that the lady, his—guest—might be staying in his rooms until next morning.
“Mais oui, monsieur. Pas de problème.”
Hawke emerged under the hotel’s porte-cochere entrance, pausing for a moment. On assignment abroad, one expects to be watched. He saw no quickly averted head, or raised newspaper, however, so he turned right,
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