The Paris Directive Read Online Free PDF Page B

her with his steady gaze, his narrowed dark-blue eyes taking all of her in—the short skirt, the long legs, the tight dress that had been washed once too often and now barely covered her backside—until she began to feel uncomfortable and turned away. Leaning over the table, Ali was sizing up his next shot when she whispered something in his ear. “Fuck off,” he told her.
    “A fine-looking woman,” Reiner said, watching her walk back to the bar. The Arab said nothing. “Your wife?” Ali shook his head. It was none of the guy’s business one way or the other.
    Reiner mentioned that he was looking for work and inquired if Ali knew of anything. Ali asked what he did. Reiner called himself a jack-of-all-trades. Painter, stonemason, electrical work, home repairs, anything that put a jingle in his jeans. Ali said that he was working at a place out of town called L’Ermitage, but he already had a helper. There was nothing for him there. In the past, however, he’d done odd jobs for the English who owned the house on the adjoining property. You can try there, he told him. But they probably wouldn’t be arriving till the end of next month.
    Thérèse, without glancing at Ali, stormed by the table and he stared after her. She was on her way to the crapper to squat on the Turk and then fix up her face in the scrap of mirror nailed to the wall. Though he hated to let loose of this pigeon, Ali knew it was time to go.
    “Let’s play another game.” Reiner said that he wanted a chance to win back his money. “I feel lucky.”
    “Another time. I’ve got to go.”
    “Come on,” he coaxed. “You don’t have to go yet. What’s your hurry?”
    Ali was sorely tempted. He felt Barmeyer was challenging him and wondered where this savate got his balls after losing two in a row by lopsided margins. The games had been strictly no contest, and Ali had the forty francs in his pocket to prove it. When Thérèse came back, Ali grabbed her by the arm to remind her who was boss. She waved to Mickey on their way to the door. The two old guys at the bar said good-bye to her. No one said anything to Ali.
    No sooner were they outside in the street than she asked, “How much did you lose this time?”
    “What makes you so sure I lost?”
    “You always lose. And we barely have enough to get by as it is.”
    “Shut up!” He smacked her hard across the face, turning her cheek scarlet. “Quit nagging me.”
    Back inside the Valon, Reiner racked up the balls as if he’d been doing it all his life. The more he saw of the Arab, the less he liked him, and since he’d begun watching Ali he’d seen a lot. He didn’t like the way he pushed his girlfriend around any more than the way he took his forty francs. But the money was an investment that would pay off.
    Brushing his blackened hair out of his eyes, and glancing up front to make sure no one was looking back, Reiner leaned over the pool table and sent the cue ball smashing into the pack. It exploded, a multicolored starburst of balls that shot like radar-guided missiles into the pockets.
    The little green Renault passed the sign that said L’Ermitage and continued until it turned off onto the unmarked dirt road that cut back and forth as it climbed the hill. The house was a three-story white stucco with a cupola atop a low-pitched red tile roof. It looked like the right place to him. The grass hadn’t been cut in a long time, the shutters closed tight.
    Reiner parked the car behind the house so that it couldn’t be seen from the road. He went in through the back door. It had a simple spring lock that any fool could open. Ah, the English, he thought, they were so trusting. After a quick examination of the house from top to bottom, he found that it was just as the Arab had said. Empty. Except for the musty smell, a perfect place to hole up for the next few days while making final arrangements. And at forty francs, quite a bargain!
    In addition to its privacy and location, the premises