Chapter Two
An hour later, Hugo stood on the curb of the Quai Saint-Michel, roughly a quarter-mile from Max's stall. He waited for a break in the traffic before hurrying across the street, heading in the direction of his friend. He kept his head down against the breeze but looked up every so often, trying to catch a glimpse of the old man, but soon the cold wind blinded him with his own tears.
Max was fine, he told himself. An angry man at a nearby stall and a pair of dropped glasses, and maybe Hugo's own need to find action where none lay. He'd known Max several years, they'd shared meals and more than a few cups of coffee, swapping stories about Paris and Texas, finding common ground in their love of books and their slightly jaded view of the world. Hugo still felt a tug of urgency, but logic had slowed his walk and reminded him he was in Paris, a place to stroll, not stride.
To his right, an engine sputtered as a tourist boat cast off from the far bank. Hugo watched as the bateau-mouche chugged slowly into the middle of the river, its passengers huddled together on the open deck, blobs of color on a bleak winter's day. France had endured a drought since the summer, particularly to the south of Paris, and the little water that escaped the thirsty wine regions left the tourist barges sitting low in the river, almost too low for those on board to see over the embankment and take in the majesty of the Grand Palais and the Musee d'Orsay. As the boat passed by, he saw a little boy on the deck clinging to his father for warmth. Hugo bunched his hands deeper in his pockets. He'd find some coffee after paying Max.
He walked on beside the river, eyes watering when the breeze whipped into him as he made his way toward Pont Neuf. His path was blocked momentarily as two old ladies, bundled against the chill, held onto each other's arms and kissed hello. Their red noses bobbed from side to side, but their little bodies were too cold or too stiff to complete the second bisou, so they abandoned it with nods and waddled away, arm-in-arm.
As he approached Max's stall, Hugo felt a sense of relief. The old man was folding his camping chair and stowing it beside one of the metal boxes. He looked over at Hugo. “I assumed you'd run off. Alors, I meant to ask before, when you mentioned her. What is happening with Christine?”
“Well, I'm not sure really,” Hugo said, glancing over Max's shoulder. The bouquiniste across the bridge had packed up her stall and gone. “Chrissy's in Texas, I'm here, and that was pretty much the end of it. I just called, though, and left a message about going over to see her, to talk about things.”
“That's something,” Max said.
“It's a long plane ride, is what it is.” But with two weeks of vacation to endure, a last-minute dash to Dallas actually seemed plausible. Or only slightly idiotic. “We'll see what happens,” he said. “Anyway, here's the rest of your money.”
“Merci.” Max's hand swallowed the roll of bills like that of a practiced pickpocket. “Need a receipt?”
“No, if I need one later, I know where to find you.” Hugo hesitated, then put a hand on his friend's shoulder. “Hey, you'd tell me if something were going on around here?”
“Going on?”
“With your neighbor. And I've never seen you drop anything, Max. A book, money, your glasses. Call it a feeling.”
“Ach.” Max turned away and shrugged. “You should have feelings for Christine, not me. Anyway, I'm thinking about retiring. Getting off the street. This job, I live around so many crazies I sometimes feel I might become one.”
“You, retire? Are you serious?”
“Why not?” Max picked up a small bag of key chains and grinned. “Get a nice place in the countryside and write a novel. How about that?”
“Sounds wonderful. But I'm not sure I believe you.”
Max looked past him, along the quai, then met his eyes. “Everyone must know when to quit, Hugo. An old man can't battle the forces of evil alone, you know, not for long anyway.”
“Forces of evil sounds a little dramatic. Are you serious?”
“Mais oui.” Max spat and then rubbed his chin. “The cold in winter, the heat in summer, the miserly tourists, the bums that harass me for my hard-earned cash every day.” He looked away. “There are many evil forces, you should know that.”
Hugo shook his head, unsure how serious Max was, and stood there for a moment watching his friend fuss in front of his stall. They both looked up as a seagull squawked low over the parapet, whirling down to the water. Hugo thought about Christine and being impetuous. Maybe he should go.
“It will be snowing within the hour,” Max said, a finger jabbing toward the sky. “I see it and I feel it.”
“Then you should pack up, old friend.” Hugo patted him on the back. “And maybe I'll go pack a suitcase.”
But Max was no longer listening. His eyes were fixed at something over Hugo's shoulder, his old face drawn tight. His hand opened of its own accord and the bag of key chains fell to the sidewalk.
Hugo turned sideways, alert, the back of his neck tingling as though the devil himself were breathing down his neck.
“Bonjour, Max.”
The man was tall and broad with an angular, chiseled face and deep-set, dark eyes. He wore a beige raincoat and a fedora much like Hugo's, but his was tilted low over his brow. He seemed to be ignoring Hugo on purpose, an artificial posture that heightened Hugo's image of the man as a comic-book bad guy.
Max licked his lips and stood as tall as he could, a conscious effort at bravery. “Nica, what do you want now?”
Nica stared at the bookseller for a moment, then appeared to notice Hugo, turning his head just slightly to meet Hugo's gaze. For five long seconds neither man looked away. Then Nica smiled and turned his eyes on Max. “Just to talk. Do you have a moment?”
“Say what you have to say,” Max said. “I am busy.”
Nica gestured to the stone steps ten yards from the stall, stairs that led down to the walkway beside the river.
“We should talk in private,” Nica said.
“I can't leave my stall.”
Nica looked at Hugo and smiled again. “Your friend can look after it. This won't take long.”
“I don't think he wants to go anywhere,” Hugo said.
“And I don't think this is any of your business.”
“Ach, Hugo, my busybody American. Ça va, it's no problem.” Max nodded to the stairs. “Come on then, let's talk.”
Hugo watched them disappear down the steps, Max's old shoes scuffing loudly on the stone as he descended, and Hugo fought the temptation to spy on them. He forced himself to unfold the old canvas stool and sat on it, a temporary bouquiniste in a cashmere coat and cowboy boots.
He sat for a full minute, his mind busy but his feet numbing as he worried about Max. Using the cold as an excuse, he got up and walked to the stone balustrade, and looked down to the walkway. At first it seemed empty, but then voices rolled out from under the Pont Neuf. He leaned over the parapet and saw them in the shadows of the arch. He listened for a moment, unable to hear the words but recognizing the harsh tone.
He hesitated. Nica had said that this was none of his business and Max had wanted him to butt out, but it wouldn't hurt to wander down there, just to be sure. After almost twenty years in law enforcement, inserting himself into other people's disputes was second nature, sometimes an urge he couldn't resist — especially if the dispute seemed one-sided. Whether that urge was to protect the innocent or catch the guilty didn't much matter anymore.