Cara Black - Murder in Belleville

She wished she understood Arabic because, from above her, the conversation was clear. They stood right over the wooden door, which creaked and groaned with their weight. To her the clunk and scraping from above sounded as if they were pulling tiles or bricks from the fireplace. Then she realized they might look down in the coal cellar. She scooted as far back in the blackness as she could. As far back as her knotted legs would push her. She wished her hands wouldn’t tremble so much; she was afraid to drop her penlight. More footsteps entered the room.

She recognized the words “Dédé” “rue Piat,” and realized they spoke verlan, too. The only word she recognized was erutiov, the inverse for voiture, car. At least she thought it was.

Every breath she took filled her lungs with a chalky powder. Her throat ached with holding back her cough. She inched her foot out, then leaned her back against the wall. Laboriously she stretched her other leg out into the cramped space. She managed to push her body in the opposite direction along the cold, uneven stones.

The space opened up to a larger cellar. She saw dim outlines of a chute. Above that a rotted metal grille came into view. She hoped it fronted the backstreet.

The conversational pitch carried, but she couldn’t make out any meanings. The tone seemed angry, almost confrontational. One voice kept saying “lnsh’allah-hent al haram, insh’allah!”

And then she remembered that voice. The voice hissing “bent al haram” in her ear before her head got whacked into orbit at the cirque.

“René,” she whispered into her headset. “Take the stairs toward Maison de l’Air in Pare de Belleville. These mecs plan to meet Dédé on rue Piat.”

“See you there,” he said.

A welcome channel of fresh air came from the grille.

If she could just keep going! Sweat beaded her forehead and her knees weakened. She heard the footsteps again.

Above her pinpricks of light fanned from the street. She clutched for something along the slippery wall. The smooth metal chute led up. She climbed, searching for footholds with one foot while bracing the other against the wall.

And then her toe slipped, and she fell onto something hard and wooden, banging her knee. Above her the footsteps stopped. Had they heard?

She had to get out of there.

Trying again, perspiring and pulling herself up, she reached the grille. She straddled the chute’s entrance, but the grille was rusted shut. At least more air came through.

Frustrated, she didn’t know what to do; shuffling noises came from the apartment.

She kicked the metal latch with her heel. Nothing budged. She heard a scraping, as if the wooden door was being opened.

She kicked harder until the latch moved.

After two more kicks, she tried the grille. It grated noisily, then fell forward. Welcome fresh air filled her lungs. She grabbed the edge and shimmied through.

Outside she blinked in the light and got to her knees. She realized she’d emerged through an oval window into a crumbling courtyard.

A dark, rotund woman in a multicolored African robe, one shoulder bare, was hanging wash on a line. She stared at Aimée.

“Je m’excuse,” Aimée smiled, dusting herself off.

The woman returned the smile and resumed hanging clothes.

“You haven’t seen me,” Aimée said, placing a hundred francs in her hand. “D’accord?”

The woman winked, then waved, as Aimée slipped into rue Julian Lacroix. She headed to open-spaced Pare de Belleville.

Aimée paused inside the entrance by the Resistance Mimorial aux morts. Blue, white, and red flowers lay on the engraved slab. Memories didn’t die with the victims, she thought, heartened by the fresh bouquet. She scanned the park. A few gardeners tended the beds of tulips on her left.

No mecs. No Dédé.

“Where are you, René?” she spoke into her headset, turning up the volume.

René’s panting came from the other end.

“Near Terrasse Belvedere,” René’said. “My binoculars find them heading toward the vineyard, midway between us.”

“How many?”

“Two mecs, heavy-set,” Rend said.

She inhaled the rain-freshened air scented by damp grassy smells. Except for the gardeners and two women with strollers headed down the hill, no one else came into view. Before the highest point, Terrasse Belvedere, were benches under catalpa trees, near spreading beds of pink and yellow tulips. Vestiges of old Belleville, once dotted by vineyards and waterfalls sourced from subterranean tunnels, were evidenced by fountains and struggling rows of vines.

“Did you get dipped in charcoal?”

“Close enough,” she said, brushing her shoulders and rubbing her face. Her fingers came back black. “Still up on your martial arts?”

“At the top of my dojo,” he said, pride in his voice. “Got a plan?”

“Something quick and dirty should work.”

“You can do the dirty,” Rend said. “I’ll do the quick.”

“What are they carrying?”

“Gym bags, dark blue,” René said.

Of course, she thought. Simple and inconspicuous. Everyone carried them. It gave her pause, thinking of all the foot traffic carrying gym bags along rue de Belleville.

“What are they wearing?”

“Gray tracksuits, not very color coordinated. Let’s meet halfway,” René said. “I’ve got an idea, remember those mecs in Canal de 1’Ourcq?”

“Alors, René be careful!” She remembered how creative he’d gotten with his feet.

“Follow my lead,” he said.

By the time she reached the second segment of trellised stairs, arched with trailing jasmine, the mecs had stopped just ahead of her.

René stood at the top of the stairs blocking the way, his short legs apart. Budding pink-and-white jasmine released a sweet fragrance.

“Fashion police,” René said. “I’ve had a trend alert. Hand over those bags.”

The two Algerian mecs paused and laughed.

“Mon petit,” the bigger mec said, looking up at René at the top of the stairs. “Are you lost? Dwarf land is that way.”

“Your colors clash,” René said, his tone serious.

The mec stepped up to swat René. His diamond ring sparkled in the weak sunlight.

Aimée went cold. She recognized that ring, in the shape of a star and half moon, and the hairy paw that went with it, from Cirque d’Hiver.

“Hey, Muktar!” she shouted.

He spun around as René shot a fancy kick to his chin. She heard a loud crack. Then another, as René’s boot landed on his shoulder. Muktar twirled, struck the railing, and landed, bumping down the steps. His face etched in permanent surprise.

Aimée settled for some hard rib chops to his partner from behind. Startled, the partner crumpled, then began flailing wildly at Aimée and the jasmine trellis. Aimée ducked. René crosscut a series of punches to his kidneys, causing the mec to wail in pain. René’ stepped forward, then pushed him over.

It was easy after that to roll him down the stairs to midway in the path. At that point neither one of the them felt a thing and wouldn’t for a while. Aimée and René tugged them both behind the dark green bench, covering them over with vines.

“Sorry,” René grinned, moving the gravel aside with his shoe. “I had to improvise the first part.”

She looked up. “We’ve got new company.” Her heart raced. “Dédé’s brought more gorillas.”

Sunday

MUSTAFA HAMID WIPED AT the spittle on his chin. But there was none. He must have closed his eyes. They burned, and his nose felt dry, his mouth parched. Thoughts blurred, and he felt so weak. So tired.