Louis Shalako
“Ah,
merci, Madame.” So she spoke French after all, which shouldn’t have been a
surprise considering the polyglot nature of the immediate neighbourhood.
The shop right next door had signs in what looked like Chinese characters, which should have been some kind of a clue, and there was a Greek restaurant just down the block. Hubert had even been in there once or twice, years ago, and he might have even recommended it, unfortunately it was just a bit early for lunch.
Hubert was beginning to wonder where the man was, maybe they’d caught him in a nap, or just as likely, taking a good dump. There was the sound of hard shoes on wooden stairs and there he was after the curtains parted with a twitch and a discernable swish from the little roller hangers that it hung upon. Monsieur Omar was clad in a white shirt with long sleeves, a waistcoat in grey with pale pin-stripes and the traditional red Fez hat with a black tassel. Plain, darker grey trousers of a shapeless nature and scuffed black shoes rounded out the ensemble.
“Ah, gentlemen, gentlemen.” He beckoned. “Won’t you please step into my office. We can speak privately there, and the customers really don’t need to know there are police officers in my little store—”
He smiled at his own joke. They smiled right back, as best they could, still, there was something in the air—call it hope, thought Hubert.
That seemed fair enough, and hopefully their trip would be worthwhile. His accent was fairly tolerable, when one took into account that he had grown up with another language, one which would impose its own sort of effects on the second, and presumably, any other languages he might pick up. Hubert had been expecting a tiny damp cinderblock booth of a room, with a huddle and a muddle of papers, a sagging swivel stool and boxes of product stacked sky-high. It wasn’t quite that bad. There was room for a desk, a few chairs, a low couch, and a big metal filing cabinet among other things. As they entered, a little bell rang, probably connected to the front door, and it seemed he would know when a customer entered if he was working alone. Even the bulletin board, with its contractor and supplier business cards pinned along the right hand margin, seemed to be organized. There was a calendar, a telephone on the desk, decent lighting, and it all seemed very professional.
A younger woman, slender and anonymous in the garb, came in with coffee, and their new friend waved her away, but leaving the door open to catch a little more air.
“Okay, gentlemen. You’re interested in an unusual sale of ice, ice cubes in paper sacks.” He explained that some folks still had the old ice-boxes, where a solid block of ice, better yet, two or three, would be enough to keep food cool and from spoiling, for at least a day, or two, possibly three if the people didn’t open up the box very often, also, just how full of stuff it was.
“So, somebody came in and bought fifteen bags, ice cubes you said on the phone.”
“Yes. Abu.” He picked up a framed photograph laying on the desk.
He waved them in closer, pointing at one face in particular. It was a team photo, a football club, wearing their numbered jerseys, shorts, long socks with stripes at the top, and their cleated shoes. They had a banner and a small trophy. The whole bunch were smiling, or waving and yelling at the camera.
“This guy, eh?” Garnier held the photo in the light.
The face seemed ordinary enough. He didn’t even look all that foreign, not these days, not in this city. A mop of longish dark hair, and a mustache, not huge, but kind of curled and pointed on the ends. He appeared to be of average height and build, judging by the men around him.
“And you’re sure it was him? Second row, fourth from the left?”
“Uh, huh.” He cleared his throat. “I’d know him anywhere. We played together, ah, for about a season. We came in second place in our division. He’s not a bad player, actually.”
Hence the photo, and the trophy, and squinting, a date two years previous was visible, scrawled on an upper corner. The man explained further, but it was a league and everything. Strictly amateur stuff, still, there were passions, and rivalries, and everyone wanted to win. It was the love of the game that brought them together, and sometimes, it was what drove them apart. He still played, Thursday nights and Sunday afternoons, and they had practice on Sunday mornings.
“If nothing else, it gets me out of the store for a while.” While he owned the building and the family lived in the rooms above, the truth was, he spent an awful lot of time in that store.
“And you say he was wearing the coveralls.”
“Oui, Monsieur. I thought he was legitimately working. Now I know better.” He bit his lip. “Montgolfier Brothers. At the time, I thought, it was, er—how do you say it. A cute name for a company. It was convincing enough.”
“Did you speak to him? Did he seem to recognize you?”
“Interesting. He didn’t talk much, and I had no reason to get too involved. We had other customers in the store. He had another fellow with him, ah—also in the coveralls, and they basically paid cash, small bills, and took the bags, two or three at a time, out to the vehicle. It was a blue van with signs on the side.” He thought for a moment. “Did he recognize me? It’s certainly possible. I recognized him, after all. If so, he made no real reaction…not really.”
“And when was this?”
“Going by the newspaper, the morning of the crime. About noon, perhaps a little before.”
The detectives nodded at that.
“With your permission. We’d very much like to borrow this for a while.” Garnier.
“You’ll get it back, of course.” Hubert—
“But of course, gentlemen. Ah—was there anything else?”
“Does this man have a last name?”
“Oh. Yes. Sorry! Samaha. Abu Samaha. He was boarding with a family, ah, but I can’t say whether he might still be there.” He’d never known their name, but it was in Montmartre, in what was probably, going by the description, another low-income area, and another prime candidate for both immigrants, and the more bougie types looking for a bargain, a fixer-upper as it was called.
“…and what about the other man, can you describe him.” Garnier. “Did you hear him talk, did he have an accent, that sort of thing…”
“Fairly ordinary, middling height and weight. Maybe early thirties. Dark hair, clean shaven. Ah, dark eyes—that’s about it, gentlemen. He really didn’t say much, I had the impression he was a helper.” Abu was the one with the money, right.
“Did they have name-tags, on the breast pocket or anything like that?”
“Ah. No. Interesting—”
Just another detail, but it added to the overall picture.
“Okay. So, how do you guys get new team members? How is it organized?” Hubert wasn’t all that much into football.
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“Ah. The club secretary puts an ad in the paper. People telephone, they inquire, people come and try out at the beginning of the good weather. Understand, we’re filling holes in the roster at this point. Most of us, not everyone, but we are back, year after year. If we do sign them up, there’s a small fee that everyone pays. Truth is, we simply can’t take everyone who wants to play—ah, we all pitch in on the fuel for a road game, that sort of thing. The fee basically covers the trophies, the, uh, engraving, and a little party for the awards ceremony. Nothing too spectacular, just a buffet with light snacks and so forth.” They played in public parks for a small fee, the schedule made up by the organization.
One of the members owned a popular restaurant, and the big banquet room, one night a year, was free for the asking. He put on a pretty good spread, buffet-style, self-serve, according to Khalid, and the organization paid for it at little better than cost and a gratuity for the staff involved. The men brought the wives and girlfriends, and it made for a pretty good night out; and, uh, what the hell—it was only once a year.
“I see. Thank you.” Hubert grinned at the observation.
The little flashes of personality were interesting, and Muslim ladies liked a night out once in a while, just like anyone else—who knew, right? It’s not like he’d ever thought to ask.
“Do you know if Abu had a driver’s license? Anything like that? Would you know where he might have worked?” Martin was trying to be as thorough as possible, which recent events had shown to be a necessity.
“Ah. I think not—the only way I have any idea of where he lived, was that the coach was dropping us off after an out-of-town game. The team has a rickety old bus and I suppose it’s better than everyone taking a taxi, cheaper, anyways, when you consider the whole bunch of us. I think he worked in some service industry somewhere—a building cleaner or something fairly menial like that.” That was it, and it was all the man had.
He sat there, hands folded across his belly, nodding affably, his eyes straying to the coffee, as yet untouched.
“Well, thank you, thank you very much. This may be very helpful to us.” Hubert paused.
“Ah. As it is written. The Law is like a stream of water, it brings life.”
“Hmn. Nice. The Koran, I presume?”
“Yes, in the very words of the Prophet himself.” He cleared his throat, hesitating—
“And?”
“And. The truth is, I didn’t like Abu very much. I don’t think he liked me all that much either, and yet we didn’t hate each other. He could be…brash. Rude, especially on the field. It’s not helpful when one player thinks he’s the star. I passed the ball to him one time, when he was in the perfect position to score. And he missed the ball. What bothered me was the way he talked to me afterwards, like it was all my fault. Honestly, it was a perfect pass and he just missed it. We couldn’t afford to hate each other, not while being on the same team. This might explain why he didn’t make a big fuss of recognizing me. Just one of those personality things, but I have learned to trust my instincts. First impressions can sometimes be wrong, but in his case, I think not. It is wrong, to wish ill for any man. Yet it is also very much human.” He nodded. “Also, if he has committed a crime against the society of man, and therefore, against the society of God, then he must be caught and punished. It is only right and just, after all.”
“Just a thought—do you have the phone number for your club secretary? Abu might have had other friends on the team, or perhaps he may have updated an address.” Hubert couldn’t think of too much else. “If someone hired Abu, for casual work or whatever, they might have hired one or two of his buddies as well…it’s just a possibility.”
“Ah, excellent idea. Yes, I have that.” He pulled a small black book from a side drawer and tore a sheet off a small note pad.
“Nice.” Garnier.
He put the name down in neat block letters, like a draftsman working on a set of building plans. Hubert reached and took a cup and sipped it appreciatively as Garnier carefully filed that away in his pocket.
“Ali—our secretary, will be able to give you gentlemen a list of the team members for that season or any season. All you have to do is to ask.”
“Wonderful.” It was all Hubert said.
Perhaps it was enough.
“Thank you, my young friends.” He put the tips of his fingers together. “It has been a pleasure.”
And on that note, it seemed they were off to their next destination. Martin took a moment to grab a pack of smokes, for Alphonse as he said, who might be suffering in that car all morning, if not all day long. Somewhere in the world, someone was always suffering, as Martin put it. Considering the fugue in there when they finally found the vehicle, two and a half blocks up the street, it might very well be them doing the suffering, certainly for the next little while…Hubert stood on the curb for a minute or two, vehicle door held wide open, waiting for some of the smoke to clear.
A blue cloud rolled off down the sidewalk.
Fuck.
On the other hand, they had at least gotten something.
END
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