ends,” she said into her phone. She pulled her collar up against the damp chill. “But I discovered Meizi’s
carte de séjour
has gone to another Meizi.”
“Sweatshops?” René said. “Start at the beginning, Aimée.”
She gave him a brief account, told him about Aram and Tso, the snakehead.
“Breaking bread with a dealer who sold drugs to your cousin?”
“He’s a source, René.” One of the reasons she hated criminal investigation. Yet, down and dirty resulted in leads and information, her father always told her. You just take a long, hot shower later. “Not that I’d do it again, though he does serve a mean couscous.”
“You believe this Aram?”
“I believe he dislikes paying Chinese protection money,” she said. “Let’s call it a mutual non-admiration society.”
“So he’d know this Tso,” he said. “We have to prove my Meizi’s innocent.”
Silver rivulets of rain snaked down the apartment windows overlooking Passage du Pont-aux-Biches. Aimée’s shoulders slumped. Why couldn’t René get it?
“But Chinatown’s a closed world,” she said, frustrated. “I’m getting nowhere.”
“Has that ever stopped you before, Aimée?”
Saturday, Noon
C LODO BURPED . H E was safe from the
flic
, celebrating down in the Métro on the bench of the line 9 platform at République station. He steadied his shaking hand around the bottle of red, trying to rid his mind of what happened last night, the
mec
’s cry for help.
Unsuccessful, he watched the surge of passengers. That poor
mec
didn’t deserve suffocating like that. Who did?
The burnt-rubber smell from the train brakes lingered in the fetid air. The
parfum
of his childhood, of the underground. A warning buzzer sounded and the doors shuddered closed. Then the train rumbled off, gathering speed.
Clodo swigged from his bottle on the deserted platform, watching the train’s red lights disappear in the dark tunnel. In the distance he heard the grating of a shutter being rolled down, closing off this section.
Now he could get some sleep.
Snatches of conversation heralded the crew who maintained the subterranean world—three hundred stations, more than two hundred kilometers of routes unseen by
flics
. The Métro workers were simple to avoid if one knew the station maintenance closure schedule via the homeless grapevine. And Clodo did, courtesy of a fellow clochard. On the weekends, no line work, apart from stock and service repair runs, would run on this route, which branched toward Strasbourg Saint-Denis.
Ever since the war, he’d dreamed of working in the Métro. It was a second home to him, in a way, after the nights taking shelter in the station. Always good with his hands, he’d applied at the Vincennes train repair center, but without a school certificate he had no chance.
He downed the dregs from his bottle, tossed it in the bin. Time for his stash in the Métro tunnel.
And to barter the cell phone he’d found on the steps near the body. Wouldn’t do the
mec
any good now. But Clodo would raise a bottle to his memory.
At the mouth of the tunnel, he ignored the yellow sign saying
Passage Interdit au Public—Danger
and the blinking signal-switch panel. He followed the narrow walkway hugging the curved wall of the Métro tunnel. The service walkway supported a small, green, illuminated track that stretched ahead in the darkness. Clodo inched his cold fingers along the grimy wall for several yards until his thumb caught on the flaking mortar. He wedged out the loose brick and reached into the niche for the bag.
His stash.
As he replaced it with the
mec
’s cell phone, the tunnel filled with blaring white light and a terrifying whoosh as a repair train thundered through like a luminous snake. He saw the momentary silhouette of a figure before the bright light passed. He closed his eyes, grabbed the wall. Wind blew grit in his nose and ears. The walkway vibrated beneath his feet.
Merde
. He moved faster. The walkway led
carte de séjour
has gone to another Meizi.”
“Sweatshops?” René said. “Start at the beginning, Aimée.”
She gave him a brief account, told him about Aram and Tso, the snakehead.
“Breaking bread with a dealer who sold drugs to your cousin?”
“He’s a source, René.” One of the reasons she hated criminal investigation. Yet, down and dirty resulted in leads and information, her father always told her. You just take a long, hot shower later. “Not that I’d do it again, though he does serve a mean couscous.”
“You believe this Aram?”
“I believe he dislikes paying Chinese protection money,” she said. “Let’s call it a mutual non-admiration society.”
“So he’d know this Tso,” he said. “We have to prove my Meizi’s innocent.”
Silver rivulets of rain snaked down the apartment windows overlooking Passage du Pont-aux-Biches. Aimée’s shoulders slumped. Why couldn’t René get it?
“But Chinatown’s a closed world,” she said, frustrated. “I’m getting nowhere.”
“Has that ever stopped you before, Aimée?”
Saturday, Noon
C LODO BURPED . H E was safe from the
flic
, celebrating down in the Métro on the bench of the line 9 platform at République station. He steadied his shaking hand around the bottle of red, trying to rid his mind of what happened last night, the
mec
’s cry for help.
Unsuccessful, he watched the surge of passengers. That poor
mec
didn’t deserve suffocating like that. Who did?
The burnt-rubber smell from the train brakes lingered in the fetid air. The
parfum
of his childhood, of the underground. A warning buzzer sounded and the doors shuddered closed. Then the train rumbled off, gathering speed.
Clodo swigged from his bottle on the deserted platform, watching the train’s red lights disappear in the dark tunnel. In the distance he heard the grating of a shutter being rolled down, closing off this section.
Now he could get some sleep.
Snatches of conversation heralded the crew who maintained the subterranean world—three hundred stations, more than two hundred kilometers of routes unseen by
flics
. The Métro workers were simple to avoid if one knew the station maintenance closure schedule via the homeless grapevine. And Clodo did, courtesy of a fellow clochard. On the weekends, no line work, apart from stock and service repair runs, would run on this route, which branched toward Strasbourg Saint-Denis.
Ever since the war, he’d dreamed of working in the Métro. It was a second home to him, in a way, after the nights taking shelter in the station. Always good with his hands, he’d applied at the Vincennes train repair center, but without a school certificate he had no chance.
He downed the dregs from his bottle, tossed it in the bin. Time for his stash in the Métro tunnel.
And to barter the cell phone he’d found on the steps near the body. Wouldn’t do the
mec
any good now. But Clodo would raise a bottle to his memory.
At the mouth of the tunnel, he ignored the yellow sign saying
Passage Interdit au Public—Danger
and the blinking signal-switch panel. He followed the narrow walkway hugging the curved wall of the Métro tunnel. The service walkway supported a small, green, illuminated track that stretched ahead in the darkness. Clodo inched his cold fingers along the grimy wall for several yards until his thumb caught on the flaking mortar. He wedged out the loose brick and reached into the niche for the bag.
His stash.
As he replaced it with the
mec
’s cell phone, the tunnel filled with blaring white light and a terrifying whoosh as a repair train thundered through like a luminous snake. He saw the momentary silhouette of a figure before the bright light passed. He closed his eyes, grabbed the wall. Wind blew grit in his nose and ears. The walkway vibrated beneath his feet.
Merde
. He moved faster. The walkway led
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