The Take(100)

Memories of those days overtook him. A reckless spirit seized him. He punched the accelerator and raced down the hill, propelled by the untamed, violent zest of his youth. It came to him that he’d felt this way before, here on these same streets. Then, as now, he was on his way to doing something improper, something to benefit himself at the expense of others, something that might hurt others.

It was September and the sirocco was blowing.

It was the day he was going to rob an armored car with Tino Coluzzi.



The door to Le Nightclub was locked. Simon banged his fist several times against it. Finally he heard the lock turn and a man ask in a raspy, choked voice, “Who the hell’s there?”

“An old friend,” said Simon.

The door opened. Jojo Matta, dark as a chestnut, a little less hair, and a lot more wrinkles, looked at him. “Yeah?”

Simon stared back, saying nothing. Then a light came on in Jojo’s eyes and he rushed to slam the door. Simon stopped it with his foot and threw his shoulder against it, sending Jojo toppling onto the floor. “Hello, Jojo.”

“You’re dead.”

Simon closed the door and locked it. “Who told you that?”

“You ratted out our crew. Tino took care of you back in prison.”

“He told you that?”

“Not just him. Everyone in the yard saw you.”

“Yeah, well, guess he messed up.”

Simon put out a hand and hauled Jojo to his feet. Simon told him to turn around, and when he did, Simon frisked him, finding a Walther nine millimeter in his ankle holster. “Mind if I hold this while we talk?”

“Be my guest.”

“Let’s have a seat.”

Jojo led the way into the main lounge. Simon walked behind the bar and turned on the music. He couldn’t count the number of nights he’d tended bar in the place and, when necessary, kept the peace. “I see things haven’t changed much.”

“Customers don’t come here for the décor.”

“That’s for damned sure.” Simon made himself an espresso. “What happened to your hand?”

Jojo held up his bandaged mitt. “This? Cooking injury. Knife slipped.”

“You? You’re a pro. Must have been some knife.”

Jojo shrugged, not even trying to hide the fact that he was lying. “Simon Ledoux. In the flesh after all these years. What are you here for?”

“Where’s Tino?”

“How should I know?”

“You know everything,” said Simon. “Coluzzi’s in town. I figure this is the first stop he’d make.”

“’Cause you did?”

“Something like that.”

Jojo perked up. “Where you been all these years?”

“Here and there. I’m not in the game anymore.”

Jojo gave him a dubious look. “Then why do you want Tino?”

“He has something that belongs to me.”

“Sounds like him.”

“You know that thing in Paris? That was him.”

“Oh?” Jojo didn’t look surprised. Clearly, he’d considered the possibility himself. “You a cop?”

Simon shook his head. “Coluzzi stole something besides the money that I need to get back.”

“That sonuvabitch. I asked him if he was behind that. That was our M.O. all over again. He said I was crazy.”

“What did he want?”

“Came in here asking if I knew any Russians.”

“Russians? That’s odd. Do you?”

“One. Alexei Ren.”

“And?”

“He wanted my seats to the game so he could meet him.”

“Did he?”

“Don’t know. We didn’t part on the best of terms. We had an argument about some things in the past. That job in Paris wasn’t all that he was bullshitting me about.”

“Your hand?”

Jojo frowned. “He’s always been good with a blade.”

“Know where he is?”

“If he’s not at his place, he’s probably shacked up in that rat hole of his down the coast.”

“You ever been?”

Jojo shook his head. “Luca Falconi helped him build it. He said he liked the place because it was near his favorite bar. That one on the beach. Le Bilboquet.”

Simon remembered the picture of Coluzzi and Falconi in front of the beach bar. He’d left it in his briefcase. “Thanks, Jojo. And by the way, it wasn’t me who ratted out our guys. It was Tino.”

“How do you know?”

“Who’s the one took three bullets that day? Who’s the one got sentenced to six years at Les Baums?”

“Tino went to Perpignan.”

“For two months.”

“So you say.”

Simon smiled to himself. No one liked to admit they’d been betrayed or taken advantage of, for fear it made them look stupid or somehow deserving of it. This went double for crooks. He took out his cellphone and brought up the photos of the documents showing that Coluzzi was a confidential informant for the Marseille police.

“These for real?”

“Do they look real?” Simon took back the phone. “Where’s Tino been living these last few years?”