Cloaked in the shadows opposite Le Galleon Rouge, Valentina waited for Luca Falconi to emerge. She wasn’t a smoker, but she lit a cigarette and tapped her foot like any other tramp waiting for her date.
She’d arrived earlier, looking for the man who’d paid off Delacroix on behalf of Tino Coluzzi. Gaining entry had been a matter of loitering out front and asking the first man heading into the place where a girl could get a drink. Her leather miniskirt and tight blouse did the rest. In minutes she’d been seated at Falconi’s table, listening to a group of increasingly drunken criminals discuss their work. One made his living hijacking gasoline tankers. Another was a forger specializing in passports and identity cards for Middle Eastern refugees. All of them smelled as if they’d eaten garlic at every meal for the past month.
Valentina was careful not to ask any questions about Tino Coluzzi, or, in fact, about anything that might betray her intentions. She laughed when they laughed. She drank when they drank. And she had a hand on Jack’s leg half the time and Falconi’s the other.
Everything changed when the dark-haired man entered the bar and started asking questions about one of their friends. The drunken men were no longer so drunk. Even so, they hadn’t guarded their conversation. She learned that the man at the bar was interested in Tino Coluzzi, too, and they didn’t like it one bit. Valentina had a clear view of him. Even with the dim light and the pall of smoke, she recognized him at once. Blue suit. Purposeful gait. He was a man who left an impression. She’d seen him earlier in the day leaving the Hotel George V. He had to be the man Delacroix had mentioned. Simon Riske.
The door to Le Galleon Rouge swung open. Luca Falconi walked out, an ice pack held to the back of his head. She called his name. “Are you all right? Someone said there was a fight.”
Of course, she knew there had been a fight, as did everyone in the place. Falconi had run inside afterward screaming about Eddie’s head being knocked in and Jack having his arm ripped off. In the chaos, she’d hurried outside in time to see Riske in full flight turning the corner. It had been a difficult decision whether to follow him or to stay with Falconi.
“Guy that was here earlier,” said Falconi. “Troublemaker. That’s all.”
“And your friends? Are they all right?”
“Let’s not talk about them.”
She put a hand on his arm. “I wanted to thank you for the drinks.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“No, really.” She gave him a smile that was too warm by half.
Luca looked at her. “Tell you what, I could use a coffee. You?”
“It’s late, but thanks anyway. Maybe next time.”
“I make a mean espresso.”
“I need to get home. I have work in the morning.”
“You don’t have to stay long. It’s not far. I could use a hand getting home.”
“That’s three reasons. How can I say no?” Valentina smiled. “All right. But I can only stay for a minute.”
Falconi put an arm around her shoulder. “Just a few blocks. And don’t you worry. I’m a gentleman. Word of honor.”
Valentina allowed herself to be pulled closer. When his hand fell to her rear and began to fondle her buttocks, she moaned and put an arm around his waist.
She didn’t mind that he wasn’t a gentleman.
She wasn’t a lady.
Word of honor.
“Strip,” commanded Valentina.
She stood near Luca Falconi in his bedroom on the top floor of a modern building a fifteen-minute walk from Le Galleon Rouge. She’d put up with his groping the entire way, allowing him to nuzzle her neck and whisper garlicky nothings in her ear. Once upstairs, he’d forgone his famous espresso in favor of generous snifters of grappa. He’d continued his seduction, playing French disco music from the 1970s and singing along as he put a hand up her skirt. After another grappa and an hour of being pawed, she decided it was time to go to work.
“Me?” Falconi smiled nervously. “My clothes? Now?”
Valentina ran a fingernail along the underside of his chin. “Yes, you. Yes, now. And, yes, all of them.”
“But the espresso…”
“Forget the espresso.” Valentina unbuttoned her blouse and, when it was open, unclasped her brassiere and thrust her bare chest toward him. “Let me show you how.”
Falconi fell upon her like a hungry wolf, kneading her breasts, putting a greedy mouth to her nipple. She gasped and threw back her head. “Luca,” she moaned.
His reply was a pig-like grunt.
She counted to five then pushed him away gently. “Strip, I said.”
Falconi stepped back, eyes wide with desire, nearly tripping over his own feet. “La diavola!” he said.
Growing impatient, Valentina helped with the last few buttons, then adroitly unbuckled his belt. By now Falconi was panting heavily enough that she feared he might drop dead of a heart attack before she could get any information out of him. Falling to her knees, she pulled his trousers to the floor, then yanked down his boxer shorts and told him to step clear.
Falconi obeyed. A moment later, he stood naked before her, his pale, flabby breasts lying flat on his chest, his belly cascading over his waist in waves of fat beribboned with stretch marks. Somewhere, she supposed, the man had a penis, but she could see only a nest of gray pubic hair peeking from the marble-colored lard.
“It takes time,” he said ashamedly.
Valentina kissed him delicately. “We have all night, chéri.”
As he lumbered onto the mattress, she took off her blouse and brassiere and unzipped her skirt. She allowed him plenty of time to regard her, feeling her power over him grow.
“Come,” he said, extending a hand.
Valentina smiled and put a foot onto the bed.
Falconi labored to sit up against the headboard, one hand manipulating himself. His eyes opened wider as she climbed onto the bed and straddled him. She moved closer, lowering herself, grabbing a fistful of hair and guiding his face to her womanhood. She felt an inexpert tongue against her and cried out. He redoubled his efforts, hands cupping her buttocks. She moaned again.
She maintained this position for two minutes by her watch, enough time for his neck to cramp, then stepped back, still towering above him.
“My pill,” he said, eyes shooting toward the bathroom.
“Go get it.”
Falconi slid to the side of the bed and, after much exertion, put his feet onto the floor. His work had winded him and he sat hunkered over, unable to stand.
She saw her moment.
“Luca? Darling?”
“Yes?”
As Falconi turned his head, Valentina wrapped her left arm around his neck and locked it into place with her right. He struggled for thirty seconds, then went limp.
Not dead.
Unconscious.
When Falconi came to, his prospects for sexual gratification had dimmed considerably. He lay on the bed, ankles and wrists bound with duct tape, another length of tape stretched across his mouth.
Valentina brandished a steel box cutter before his eyes, its razor-sharp blade extended. Her handbag was too small to carry the pistol she’d used on Delacroix. There had been no place to hide it in her skirt. Besides, it was unwise to fire a pistol in an apartment building at this hour. Even with a noise suppressor, the sound might carry through the walls. She was a polite guest. She didn’t want to wake the neighbors. The duct tape was Falconi’s.
The box cutter fell to his testicles. The blade nicked the wrinkled, sagging flesh. Falconi jolted.
“Tell me,” she said, “where I can find Tino Coluzzi.”