The Take(42)

Coluzzi handed his ticket to the worker, doing his best to keep his head down, his face away from the cameras. The police paid him no mind and he proceeded into the stadium without incident, taking an escalator to the mezzanine concourse.

Years had passed since he’d attended a game. The old wooden benches were gone. Everything looked new and much too shiny. Beer came from polished taps behind neon-lit logos for Heineken and Kronenbourg and was sold by men and women in pressed uniforms. He missed the colorful vendors tossing out insults along with the cups of lukewarm brew.

The players were on the field warming up. He spotted Alexei Ren standing at midfield, kicking a ball back and forth with a few players. Despite the heat, he was wearing a long-sleeved shirt buttoned at the collar.

The scoreboard ticked down the time until kickoff. Ren retreated to the sideline. The game began and still he stood with his players. Coluzzi kept his eyes on the Russian, worried he’d remain on the field the entire game. At five minutes, the visiting team scored. Ren hung his head in dismay and walked into the stadium, Coluzzi assumed to the elevator that would take him to his luxury box.

Coluzzi looked to his right, where an escalator took ticket holders to the club level and to Ren’s luxury box. Two security guards examined tickets and waved a metal detector over each guest’s torso. A pair of Marseille policemen stood nearby, checking IDs. Jojo’s ticket was good enough to get him into the stadium, but that was it.

Coluzzi continued down the concourse, stopping to buy a beer. Hand in his pocket, he sipped the beer, all the while examining the comings and goings of the stadium personnel. He’d spent his life studying an organization’s security arrangements. Be it an armored car company, a bank, or a jewelry store, all had one thing in common. A schedule.

By now, the concourse was more or less empty. He was able to observe the stadium staff at work. Passing the next escalator he noted that with the game under way, security to the luxury level had slackened. Only one guard and one policeman remained in place. Still, that was enough. The escalator was out of the question.

Farther along, he dumped his beer and purchased a frozen pi?a colada. The drink was perfect cover, he decided. What kind of a man in his profession drank a sweet icy drink with a maraschino cherry on top? He prayed he didn’t run into someone he knew. Some things you couldn’t explain.

A team of two workers dressed in canary-yellow shorts and shirts stopped at an elevator a few steps past the escalator. Sipping from his curlicue straw, he watched as they summoned the elevator, then used a key to unlock the door when it arrived. Coluzzi stayed in position. Ten minutes later, the two returned, carrying several trash bags. They crossed the concourse to an unmarked door, entered, deposited the trash, and returned to continue their rounds.

After the third pickup, he followed them to the trash room. He waited until they were inside, then opened the door and entered, stumbling purposely.

“Excuse me, sir,” one of them said, dark-skinned, maybe twenty-five, Algerian or Libyan. “Can I help you?”

“I’m looking for the men’s room,” said Coluzzi, feigning drunkenness. “I can’t wait another second.”

The workers exchanged a look, then approached him. “This is not the men’s room, sir.”

“Isn’t it?” Coluzzi threw the frozen drink into the dark-skinned worker’s face, then turned and punched his colleague, two knuckles to the cheek with brio. The man fell to the ground, grabbing at his busted face. The Algerian recoiled, wiping the drink from his face. Coluzzi slugged him in the stomach. The man doubled over. Coluzzi delivered a blow to his exposed neck. Second man down.

The other man tried to get to his feet. Coluzzi took a length of hair in his fist and slammed his forehead against the concrete floor. Once. Twice. Again and again until the man went limp.

Standing, Coluzzi kicked the Algerian in the face and ribs until he was sure the man was incapacitated. Then he kicked him some more because he hated immigrants.

He found the key to the elevator and yanked it free from the fob.

A minute later he was standing at the work elevator below Alexei Ren’s luxury box. And a minute after that he was alone in the box’s service kitchen. He passed through a door and found himself in a large air-conditioned lounge with a serve-yourself bar, a counter piled high with sandwiches, a popcorn machine, and a lovely young blonde pouring champagne.

He asked for a flute, and when he received it, there was Alexei Ren, walking past him. A pretty Asian woman followed him, an iPad clutched in one hand.

The box was nearly empty and no one seemed to pay any attention to the new arrival. Coluzzi watched the game, speaking to no one. A few minutes later the Asian woman returned. He approached her, a smile on his face.

“Yes?”

“I’m an old friend of Mr. Ren’s. Could you ask him if he has a minute?”

The woman regarded him askance. “Your name?”

“Jojo.”

“Jojo what?”

“Just Jojo. He’ll know me.”



“Mr. Ren will see you now.”

The Asian woman led the way to a private suite and showed Coluzzi in. The room was empty, a magnum of Dom Pérignon on ice next to a tureen of caviar.

Coluzzi paced the room, unsure of how to broach the reason for his urgent appointment. It would be the truth. There was simply no way around it.

Ten minutes passed. Finally, the door opened. Alexei Ren entered, followed by two bodyguards. Ren eyed him, then whispered something to the bodyguards. The men retreated to a far corner. Ren approached him. “You’re not Jojo Matta. Actually, how the hell did you get in here?”