Jojo’s was in full swing when Coluzzi entered just after ten p.m. All the tables in the main room were occupied, with the overflow leaning on the brass railing and crowding the bar. Music blared as the girls worked the room, most not bothering to cover themselves with anything more than a G-string. He moved through the crowd, ignoring their entreaties, caught up in the smells of sweat, perfume, and lust. He gave the bartender a wave and pointed toward the kitchen, then continued down the hall.
“You’re back?” Dressed in chef’s whites, Jojo looked up from the grill.
“Didn’t expect me?”
“Already put aside my best steak for you.”
“Appreciate it.”
Jojo took out a steak from his prep drawer and threw it on the grill, dumped a handful of freshly cut fries into the basket, and dropped it into the fryer. Wiping his forehead with a towel, he returned his attention to Coluzzi. “Find your Russians?”
“Dead end.”
“Want to tell me what it’s about?”
“Actually, I have a question for you.”
“Yeah, what?”
“Still have your season tickets?”
“Thirty years running.”
“You ever see Alexei Ren?”
“Now and then. He likes to stand on the sidelines with his players.”
While the public knew Alexei Ren as a glamorous businessman who attended fashion shows in Paris and threw lavish parties at his home in Saint-Tropez, as well as the owner of the Olympique de Marseille football club, Coluzzi was privy to a darker truth. At one time Alexei Ren had been the king of the Russian mafiya in the South of France.
“You two friends?”
“Me? I know him. He used to come in not long after he got out of the gulag in Siberia and was setting up shop. He was a different man then. Absolutely ruthless. On a mission to get back the years he’d lost. The girls were scared of him. He couldn’t get enough.”
“You ever work together?”
Jojo flipped the steak, flames shooting from the grill. “That’s right,” he said, testing the meat with his fork. “You wouldn’t know. That was about the time you were doing your stretch for that armored car job.”
“Know what?”
“We had a sweet deal running that summer. I had some boys working legit jobs at the spots up and down the Riviera. Sporting Club in Monaco. Hôtel du Cap. Byblos in Saint-Tropez. Moulin de Mougins. Only the best places. The kids were locals. They knew everyone, especially the movers and shakers. When they spotted one of the high and mighty coming into their establishment, they’d give me a call. I’d pass the word to Ren, shoot him their home address, and leave the rest to him. He had a slick crew. Very talented. Get in. Get out. Fast. Fast. Fast. They could smell jewels through three feet of concrete.” Jojo rubbed his fingertips together, grinning at the memory. “Rich pickings, my friend.”
“I never read about it.”
“Of course you didn’t. People that rich don’t want their names in the paper. They keep it all hush-hush. The insurance guys talk to the police. The police do a little looking. No one wants to give other thieves the idea there might be more. That was the summer I bought my boat. Good times.”
Jojo plated the steak, cleared the basket from the fryer, and dumped the contents into a bowl, dusting the fries with a pinch of salt from on high. After a few crisp shakes, he spilled the golden fries onto the plate and slid it in front of Coluzzi. “Hey,” he said in warning as Tino drew it nearer. Jojo spooned a dollop of garlic butter onto the steak, then gave his blessing. “Bon app.”
Coluzzi took his time eating, careful not to betray his interest in Alexei Ren. He asked for more fries, dousing them with the melted garlic butter and warm juices. “You know how to cook, Jojo.”
“Hope it’s not overdone.”
“Perfect.” Coluzzi put down his knife and fork, then wiped his mouth. “Why didn’t you keep working with Ren? I’d like to be in on a gig like that.”
“He cleaned up his act. He’s smarter than guys like us. He took that money and invested it. Pretty soon he bought that big computer company and he was off to the races. Now he’s like a superhero. Big family. Lots of kids. Setting up foundations for the poor.” Jojo laughed caustically. “Like everyone forgot what he looked like without his shirt.”
“What do you mean?”
“The tats. He was vor v zakone. A criminal for life. He didn’t come to France because he wanted to. He was kicked out.”
“That right?”
“Hoods like that have their personal history tattooed on every inch of their bodies. He came out on my boat once. It’s something you’ll never forget. Anyway, that’s why you never see him without a long-sleeved shirt and high collar. He doesn’t want anyone remembering.”
“I thought he was just being careful not to take too much sun.”
“Thing I liked about him,” said Jojo, “he was fair. The man never tried to short you. He thought about the future. Keeping your friends, friends.”
Coluzzi pushed the dish away from him. “That right?”
“You ought to try it sometime.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you pay your partners what you promise.”
“So it’s true. You were talking behind my back.”
“And now I’m saying it to your face.”
The door of the kitchen swung open. Two men Coluzzi recognized entered.
“Or tell it to Bobby or Claude,” Jojo went on.
“Yeah,” said Bobby, who was squat and stocky with a neck like a tree trunk and hands as big as cleavers. “Tell us.”
Claude nodded. He was a “hitter”—a killer for La Brise—slim and oily with long black hair and a yellowish cast to his skin. If he said ten words in a day, it was a lot.
“What is this?” said Coluzzi. “I asked you earlier if there was a problem. Come on, Jojo. You can’t be serious.”
“Knowing you, I’m pretty sure you’ve already spent what you owe us. We’ll take payment in a different currency.”
“I paid you your share.”
“No,” said Jojo. “You didn’t.”
Coluzzi saw there was no point in arguing. “So what are you going to do? Bust my legs? Grow up.”
“For a start,” said Jojo. “Then I’ll let Bobby and Claude get creative on you. Unless, of course, you want to settle up.”
“How much do you think I owe you?”
“A hundred grand.”
“Not likely.”
“Then it is what it is.”
Coluzzi shrugged, giving Jojo one last chance. “Come on. It doesn’t have to be like this.”
“Yeah,” said Bobby. “It does.” He stepped toward Coluzzi, his fat hand going into his jacket for his gun, Claude casually picking up a carving knife, testing it for weight.
“Hey, hey,” said Coluzzi, standing from his stool, eyes wide, trying to make them think he was pissing his pants, that his time in Paris had softened him up, turned him into a pussy who shied from a fight.
Bobby cleared his gun, a snub-nosed .38. “You greedy…”
Coluzzi drew his stiletto from his sheath and slashed it through the air, the tip slicing Bobby’s fleshy neck, releasing a spray of arterial blood. Bobby fired a shot, even as he dropped the pistol and reached for his ruined neck. Claude lunged at him, the carving knife aimed at his belly. Coluzzi had always been the fastest guy around. He jumped to one side, the blade missing him by a long shot. In the same motion, he thrust the stiletto into Claude’s chest, just below the sternum, giving the handle a vicious twist when he felt the blade tear through something heavy and fibrous, probably the lung or the liver. Claude opened his mouth and blood seeped out over his lousy teeth.
Coluzzi yanked the blade free and turned on Jojo, who just then launched a pounding hammer straight at his head. Coluzzi ducked, the hammer bouncing off the wall and clattering onto the floor. In his other hand, Jojo held his stubby chopping knife. Realizing it wasn’t any kind of weapon, he searched the counter for something he could use, settling on a rolling pin. He came at Coluzzi like a barroom brawler, swinging the rolling pin and jabbing with the knife.
Coluzzi backed up as much as he could in the cramped area, hemmed in by counters and shelves and the ovens and stoves. He had to be careful. No one cared about Bobby or Claude. They were both Italians, not even real members of La Brise. But Jojo…he was royalty. Should Coluzzi lay a hand on him, do any real damage, there would be hell to pay.
Coluzzi ducked and dodged the wild blows, shouting for Jojo to calm down. But Jojo liked a fight and there was no doubting the blood in his eye.
Jojo lurched at him, the knife catching Coluzzi on the forearm—nothing serious, but a cut nonetheless. The rolling pin swooshed angrily at his head, barely missing.
“Enough,” said Coluzzi, fed up with Jojo’s nonsense. The man was sixty. Didn’t he know when to throw in the towel? Coluzzi waited for his spot, then lunged at Jojo, knocking the knife to one side and slugging him in the jaw.
It was enough.
Jojo went down on his knees, half out of it.
As luck had it, Bobby’s gun was right there, in arm’s reach.
“Don’t,” said Coluzzi.
But Jojo was already going for it, probably not even thinking what he was going to do with it or how he might get a shot off. His fingers found the grip, his hand pulling it closer. Coluzzi dropped to a knee and drove his stiletto through the top of Jojo’s hand, impaling it on the cracked linoleum floor.
Jojo was too stunned to shout. He sat there as if paralyzed, staring at the blade protruding from his hand, shaking with rage.
Coluzzi tossed a packet of ten thousand euros onto the floor. “There,” he said. “We’re even. Got it?”
Jojo looked at him, then at the money. “Sure,” he said. “We’re even.”
“Swear it.”
“I swear.”
“And you’ll never pull any kind of bullshit like this again.”
Jojo nodded.
“Say it.”
“I swear.”
“Okay, then.” Coluzzi pulled the stiletto out of Jojo’s hand. “Jesus,” he said, wiping the blade on a dishtowel. “What a mess.”
Jojo stood up, shakily, and put his hand under a stream of cold water.
“And one more thing,” said Coluzzi. “I need your ticket to the game tomorrow.”