The Take(104)

Leaving the lot, Tino Coluzzi skirted the northern boundaries of the city in an effort to avoid the worst of the traffic before joining the highway and continuing to his home in Aubagne. So far he’d managed to keep away from his local haunts—Jojo’s notwithstanding. He’d known that sooner or later he would have to stop by the old place. It wasn’t just the uniform he needed. If he wasn’t going to take a crew with him, he was at least going to make sure that he himself was well protected. His pistol and stiletto weren’t going to cut it in case anything went south. He was going in heavy. Just like the old days.

He reached Aubagne a little past five. He drove leisurely through the town, eyes darting here and there, looking for anything out of place. He’d bought the home ten years earlier. Tile roof, two bedrooms, two baths, a quiet garden with a birdbath that attracted every hummingbird in the area. He knew his neighbors. He knew which cars belonged and which didn’t.

Coluzzi’s home was on a small, leafy road a ways outside town. He turned down the lane and slowed, windows lowered, eyes and ears open. A year had passed since his last visit. He was pleased to see the Clercs’ motorboat in their driveway, as much dirt covering the tarpaulin as ever. Their cat, a very large tabby, sat nearby. The Guillo family had not taken in their trash barrels yet. One day late. Shame, shame. The Guillos were Basque and loved their wine. He recognized their Simca parked in the drive.

He dropped the speed further as his home came into view. The shades were down. The driveway was clear of leaves and pine needles, and the lawn was neatly mowed. He paid a gardener to come twice a month to keep things neat and tidy. A check in the rearview revealed nothing of interest, other than the Clercs’ tabby, which was following him down the street. He wished he’d had men as brave on some of the jobs he’d pulled.

Coluzzi opened the electric garage door and parked his car, closing the door behind him immediately. The last thing he needed was a chat with his neighbors. He went to the window cut high in the door and peered out. You could never be too safe.

Satisfied that he had not been followed and that he had no reason for concern, he unlocked the door and entered his home. He went immediately to the bathroom and turned on the shower. The tank was old and needed five minutes to get lukewarm. He took off his jacket and shirt and laid them on the bed, along with his pistol and stiletto. He left the master bedroom and went down the hall to the guest room. Inside was a single bed and an imposing chestnut armoire that had belonged to his grandfather. He opened the armoire and rummaged through the clothing hung inside until he found what he was looking for. Pale gray short-sleeved shirt. Black trousers with an officer’s stripe running down the outer leg. His Brink’s uniform. He tried on the trousers and shirt and was pleased that they both still fit.

He needed one more thing. Something every bit as important as the uniform. He opened a door to a small closet at the back corner of the room. Inside was a large black safe, half the size of a refrigerator. It was his gun safe. He spun the combination—right, left, then right again—and the door eased open. He didn’t intend on meeting Vassily Borodin empty-handed. He had a Russian friend of his own to bring to the party. His cherished Kalashnikov, which he’d owned for as long as he could remember.

He kneeled and looked inside.

His stomach turned, worry overcoming him.

The safe was empty.

He activated his phone’s flashlight and peered inside.

Nothing.

And then he knew.

Coluzzi stood, turning around slowly, raising his hands in the air. “Ledoux,” he said. “You really are alive.”





Chapter 62



You never changed the combination.”

“You remembered it,” said Coluzzi.

“One, twenty-three, forty-five.” Simon recited the digits one at a time. “And put your hands down. Or I will shoot you.”

“You were always the smart one,” said Coluzzi.

“Not smart enough. I didn’t figure you to be a snitch.”

Simon studied his old friend. What else to call him? Traitor? Murderer? Since taking the assignment, he’d imagined this moment countless times. All the scenarios involved a spate of heated recriminations followed by some form of violent retribution and lots and lots of blood—Coluzzi’s, not his. Now here he was looking at Tino Coluzzi, face-to-face with the man who’d done his best to kill him…and had, in fact, to his own mind, succeeded. Yet somehow he couldn’t summon those long-simmering reserves of anger. It would be easy enough to shoot him and be done with it. And then? What would be solved? He wouldn’t even have retrieved the letter.

In the end, he always came back to how it was between them before everything went south.

“I can’t believe I’m looking at you,” said Coluzzi.

“Not bad for a dead man.”

“A little less hair, a few more pounds, but otherwise…” Coluzzi craned his neck to have a look at the scar on Simon’s forehead. “I knew I was holding back. Just a little harder.” He made a motion as if he were hitting Simon again, bringing down the iron bar, putting his weight into it. “Bam.”

Simon smiled. It was the old Tino, always trying to impress, to explain away his failures. “Hard to kill a man face-to-face. Or, in your case, from behind.”

“Is that what you think? I was scared?” Coluzzi considered this. “Maybe. Maybe not. Word was you didn’t have much problem doing it. Killing Al-Faris, I mean. The Egyptian. Word was that you were his shower boy. You were a pretty kid back then. Long hair, ponytail, those elephant hair bracelets you thought were so cool. Guess he liked them, too. I heard all about it after you were dead. Or whatever. Easy to kill someone when they’re on their knees—”