Hugo closed the door behind him, then looked over and saw the owner behind the bar, the woman known simply as Maman. She was short and squat and unwilling to pour anything but beer, wine, and the occasional whisky — if you didn't mind being horribly overcharged. Sixty-something, maybe seventy, but always there, and no matter how crowded and smoky the place got she was visible, shuffling up and down behind the bar with her bright orange head of hair that was a slightly different shade every week. She laughed plenty but never for long — the bar's smoke had stained her lungs, too, and jocularity inevitably devolved into a rasping, hacking cough that her customers pretended not to hear. For those moments she kept a canister of fresh oxygen behind the bar, always within reach, and never far from the cigarette that burned in her fingers.
But her coffee was hot, strong, and served faster and cheaper than anywhere else in Paris. And, if she recognized your face, most of the time it came free when you ordered something stronger. It was a place for bouquinistes who needed a moment of warmth or shelter and for the men, and occasionally women, who worked nearby, sweeping the streets and emptying the tourists' trash cans. Hugo had been here at least once a month for the past two years, for the coffee and the atmosphere.
He'd been introduced to the place, and to Maman, by Max a couple of months after they became friends. Hugo wasn't the most avid book collector, but twenty years in law enforcement, mostly with the FBI, had meant a discerning and distrustful eye when it came to buying goods from the side of the road. He'd first met Max on a quick trip over from England, chancing across his stall and buying a book about late eighteenth-century serial killers. He'd reconnected with Max when he moved to Paris and soon found him to be one of the few sellers who derived joy not from the money he made from a sale, but from the very act of pressing a collector's item into the hands of an appreciative customer. Most of the time Hugo stopped by his stall to chat and bought something on a whim, often not paying until the next time he stopped by.
Once, Max had presented him with a set of first-edition books by Eric Ambler, Hugo's favorite author. Hugo had not found out until much later that the old man had squirreled them away one by one, seeking them out among his colleagues for months before presenting them with a flourish one summer morning.
There had always been something about the old man, his disinterest in money, a habit of deflecting conversation about himself with a wave of his hands, and the occasional far-off look that started in his eyes and quickly shut him off from the world. They were friends, Hugo knew, good friends, but whatever lurked within Max always had to be offered by the old man himself, not extracted. And, now that Hugo knew about his past, he understood why.
“L'Américain.” Maman said it every time he came in; a year ago with mistrust, but nowadays just to let him know she knew.
“Maman.” Hugo nodded and asked for a shot of her whisky. He'd soak it up with a sandwich later if he had to, but the burn of Maman's overpriced rot-gut was good for right now. He perched at the bar and slammed the first one, nodding at Maman for a second. He wrapped a hand around it and smiled his thanks as she shuffled over and slid a cup of coffee in front of him. He sipped from the glass, then stood to make way for two men who'd just entered the bar, rubbing warmth into their hands.
He found a table at the back of the room, sat down, and began to run Max's abduction back through his mind, step by step, trying to reduce it to a training-ground exercise to take the sting out of a real man's kidnapping, maybe his murder. He knew there was little more he could have done to save his old friend, but that didn't stop him from trying to think of something, or from finding fault with himself for letting it happen. At the very least he should have abided by the seven-foot rule: the minimum distance between an agent and a hostile, enough distance to draw a weapon before a man with a knife became dangerous. A rule he'd forgotten, or at least forgotten to observe. Too long out of the game, he thought.
He was staring into his coffee, watching the steam rise slowly over the black liquid, when a newspaper slapped down on the table and he heard a voice behind him.
“You like look a miserable bastard. Buy me a drink and I'll cheer you up.”
Hugo turned in his seat and a smile spread over his face. “Tom! What the hell are you doing here?”
“Tourist.” Tom grinned back, then looked around the bar. “Nice place you got here.”
“Isn't it? How the hell did you find me here?”
“Let's just say you have a lioness for a secretary.”
“A toothless one, apparently.” He'd told Emma about this place a long time ago; he couldn't even remember why. But she knew he came here with Max, must have guessed he'd be here now.
Hugo resisted the urge to put his friend in a bear hug. Chez Maman was a place where men nodded and shook hands with each other, then sat down. Hugs were reserved for after midnight when the orange-haired lady's hooch could be blamed.
Hugo gestured to the chair opposite him and stole a second look at Tom as he sat. Time had softened Hugo's own figure, but regular weight workouts and the occasional run had ensured that a core strength and fitness remained. Tom, on the other hand, had ballooned. The wiry figure of old had been obliterated by Tom's natural distaste for physical activity and his penchant for good food. And alcohol. Hugo knew better than to say anything, but seeing his friend huff his way into the chair, hearing the air whistle through his nose, was decidedly disappointing. He could probably get away with a comment on the thinning hair, but somehow his friend's shabby look and his watery, blood-shot eyes saddened Hugo and served to silence him.
“That's better.” Tom settled in and looked around again. “I don't see any cocktail waitresses.”
“You won't,” Hugo smiled. “And don't try ordering from back here, either. What are you having?”
“Same as you. Load us up.”
Hugo went to the bar and brought back two beers and two double shots of whisky. A moment later Maman herself dropped a cup of coffee onto the table in front of Tom.
“On the house,” she said with a wink.
Hugo nudged Tom's shin with his foot as their eyes followed Maman's weighty shuffle back to the bar. “Never seen her do that before,” Hugo said. “You got something to tell me?”
“I don't kiss and tell. I sure as hell don't kiss that.”
Hugo sat back and his fingers played with his whisky glass, a smile on his face. “I can't believe you're here, Tom. It's good to see you.”
“Well, you sounded all sad and needy on the phone, plus I have this Marseille thing.” He smirked. “And playing in Paris is always fun.”
“You still like to play, huh? Why does that make me nervous?”
“You'll survive. What about you, still doing your Sherlock Holmes party trick? You used to pretend to hate it when I made you do that for the ladies.”
“Pretend?” He'd minded when Tom made him perform, but not too much. It looked like a party trick, that was true, but mostly it was a result of Hugo training himself to observe. And it was also true that he'd gotten the idea from Sherlock Holmes, who was able to startle people with his accurate deductions about where they'd been, or where they were going, through simple observations.
“Come on, you've not seen me for ages. Tell me something about myself.“