Murder in Belleville

Sunday Late Afternoon

DÉDÉ’S GAZE REACHED OVER their heads as they shouldered the gym bags. Aimée spun around. Several men who could be Muktar’s relatives approached from both directions.

“Dédé” she said. “Who set the car bomb?”

“Let’s talk at my place,” Dédé said.

The mecs moved closer, their eyes locked on her and René as if they were rabbits. Rabbits caught between their crosshairs.

“Crowds make me nervous,” René said.

“Me too,” Aimée took his arm, edging out from the trellis toward the open grass. Three uniformed CRS, armed with machine guns slung over their chests, were visible through the grilled fence on rue des Couronnes.

Almost a shout away.

“Keep going, René.” She and René kept edging over the grass. Large signs proclaimed PELOUSE INTERDITÉ, but she didn’t care if she stepped on the grass.

The way the mecs’ jacket pockets bulged bothered her.

She and René were out in the open; to their left was a wooden playground structure. If only they they could get the attention of the CRS.

“Put those bags down,” Dédé said, his chest heaving. Several of his shirt buttons were undone, revealing gold chains.

“Dédé, I asked you a question,” she said, ready to pull out her Beretta.

“Try to behave, eh?” Dédé said, his teeth white and smiling. “Let’s work out the misunderstanding. Just hand those over. Let’s keep this civilized, eh.”

“Civilized?” she screamed. “Muktar called me nasty things in Arabic.”

The men Dédé summoned had disappeared up the trellised steps. An unreadable look crossed his perspiring face.

“You little sabpe!” Dédé said.

“Little?” she said. “I’m taller than you.”

“You’re dead,” Dédé’said, his eyes vacant. “And you’ve dug a lot of graves next to yours,” he added before disappearing.

The CRS headed through the open gates toward the grass.

“Some trouble here?” asked one of the stout-legged CRS.

“Yes, officer,” she said. “Thank God you’re here.”

And she meant it. She wasn’t often happy to see the CRS.