John Goldbach - The Devil and the Detective

‘Do you have a plan to intervene?’

‘No. We’ll see what goes down.’

‘You two are crazy! You’ll end up in prison or dead.’

‘I really hope not, Julie.’

En route to the Old Port, I thought about what to do and didn’t really have many ideas. Julie said if she didn’t hear from Darren and me in a couple of hours she’d call the police.

We explained to her that the police are potentially our main problem at the moment. She seemed to understand but nevertheless said she’d contact the authorities if she hadn’t heard from us in a couple of hours. Darren promised to call, at the very least, and told her to hold tight. ‘We’ll be okay,’ he told her. I was nervous for Darren’s safety, however; after all, I thought, he was a student and a flower-delivery driver who’d done me a whole host of favours, not a law enforcement officer or a criminal (when there’s a difference) or a private detective — this really wasn’t his problem or his case, though his help had been invaluable, I thought, even though I still wasn’t sure what was going on or what was about to go down. Still, thanks to Darren, we knew about the payoff, I thought, if the payoff was still going down. Darren had brought the nail gun along and had grabbed a baseball bat and a couple of golf clubs from his apartment. Even with our armament, I thought, we were dead if things got violent, so probably best to stay out of the way, and I told Darren what I’d been thinking, emphasizing that I wanted him to stay out of harm’s way, watching but not intervening, no matter what. He just nodded.

‘I’m serious,’ I said.

‘I know.’

‘It’s not worth you getting hurt or killed over a bunch of rich assholes’ bullshit.’

‘I know.’

We drove on in silence. Darren had looked up Diavolo Cucina’s address back at the boutique. He said the restaurant was right down by the water, far off from the touristy section, where you can buy fudge and watch jugglers and unicyclists and men making balloon animals, sometimes making them disappear by eating them. It was in the corner of the old city, by the waterway, near an overpass. We pulled up to the old stone building, which looked like a tiny fortress, with black steel fencing, and knew it was the restaurant, even though there wasn’t a sign.

‘We should wait near that little park but under the overpass,’ I said, pointing to a small grassy strip across from the restaurant but before the wharf, with a few benches and picnic tables.

‘I know just what to do,’ said Darren, and he pulled the car up alongside a pillar under the overpass, from which we could see the restaurant’s entrance, the small park and the pier. ‘I’ve got a camera and binoculars in my knapsack.’

I turned around and unzipped the red-and-blue knapsack and took out the binoculars. I held them up to my eyes and looked over at Diavolo Cucina. It’d been a long time since I’d looked through a pair of binoculars, I thought, no longer owning a pair myself. I used to own a pair, a while back, but they got broken on a case: I’d dropped them from the rooftop of an apartment building, on a stakeout. C’est la vie , I thought, but it was nice to use binoculars again. I pointed them toward the wharf and the pier, where a couple of container ships were moored. I pointed them toward the park — nobody was in sight. I pointed them toward the restaurant and it seemed like the only place in the area with movement. It was dark but not too dark. The area was pretty lit up, with old-style streetlamps. They looked Victorian, I thought, but I really had no idea.

A black Mercedes pulled up to the restaurant — ‘It’s him,’ said Darren and grabbed the camera — and lo and behold, Bouvert got out and was greeted by a valet, who took his keys and parked his car. Darren snapped photos nonstop, since his camera was digital.

He’s not carrying anything , I thought.

‘Okay, on schedule. What time is it?’ I said.

‘Twenty to ten.’

‘So Bouvert probably doesn’t have time to eat first.’

‘Probably not, or not a whole meal. He’ll probably have a drink or two first, a vodka martini, maybe.’

‘Probably,’ I said.

Perhaps he has the money in an envelope, I thought, tucked into a pocket of his long black overcoat. Sixty grand, however, is a lot of dough to tuck away in your coat pocket.

‘Did you notice he wasn’t carrying anything?’ said Darren.

‘I did. I was thinking maybe the money’s in his coat pocket, in an envelope.’

‘That’s a lot of bread to keep in your pocket.’

‘I agree.’

‘Or maybe the money’s already at the restaurant.’

‘Sound thinking, Darren.’

I aimed the binoculars at the wharf, looking at the benches by the pier, looking for Michael O’Meara, but I didn’t see a soul. I pointed them toward the park and thought I saw a homeless man staggering in the distance.

‘No sign of Adamson,’ said Darren.

‘No sign of Adamson.’

‘Maybe he’s at the restaurant.’

‘Could be. Or possibly he’s sitting this one out.’

‘I highly doubt that.’

‘Me too.’

‘Look,’ said Darren, looking through the viewfinder of his camera, pointing it toward a bench on the wharf, extending the lens, zooming in on it, and applying pressure to the shutter release. On foot, O’Meara approached the bench — he looked to be alone.

‘It’s definitely O’Meara,’ I said, pointing my binoculars in the same direction. ‘Do you spot backup anywhere?’

‘I don’t,’ said Darren, looking around.

‘I think I saw a homeless guy way in the distance staggering around but I doubt he’s backup.’

‘So you think O’Meara’s solo?’

‘Hard to tell,’ I said, looking around.

O’Meara sat down on the bench near the pier and lit a cigarette. Looking out on the waterway, he had his back to the restaurant. He wasn’t checking his phone or making sure his gun was loaded; rather, he simply smoked his cigarette and stared out at the placid harbour water.

Despite the flower smell in the car, the area smelled of horse shit, I thought, from the tours they give of the port in horse-drawn carriages, the horses with their double bridles and blinders, and tourists in their carriages. Although I didn’t see any horses or hear the clopping of their hooves on the cobblestone streets, I did smell their shit, I thought, despite the lingering smell of flowers.

There appeared to be movement. Bouvert was exiting the restaurant and I shot my binoculars over to O’Meara as his head swung around, as if he could hear Bouvert exiting the restaurant, despite the distance between them. I shot the binoculars back to Bouvert, who stood in the open doorway, which glowed softly red behind him. His frame was large, though, and blocked and absorbed most of the light.

‘It’s happening,’ said Darren.

‘Yes. Be on the lookout for any surprises.’

‘I’m getting prepared right now,’ said Darren, securing the nail gun beside him.

‘He’s got something in his hands,’ I said, focusing in on Bouvert.

‘What?’

‘A small gym bag, it looks like … ’

‘So he’s got the money, it’s going down.’

‘Looks like it.’

Bouvert crossed the street and the small park and continued toward the wharf. He was alone, I thought, by the looks of it.

‘It’s too bad we won’t be able to hear them,’ I said.

‘I know. I was just thinking that, too. What can we do?’

‘Not much. They’ll spot us if we try and get any closer. This is a good vantage point. We just don’t have any sound.’

Bouvert crossed the park and was large and probably doesn’t walk much, I thought. O’Meara spotted him right away and made his way over to him. They talked. Darren took photos. They seemed to be getting along amicably, I thought, and it looked like O’Meara had made Bouvert laugh, the hearty laugh of a corpulent man. But it was hard to tell. O’Meara took the small gym bag and they shook hands. They talked a little more and then Bouvert turned toward the restaurant and O’Meara turned back toward the wharf.