Grant winks. “Not long at all.”
He steps in and answers the phone in his flawless French. There’s a brief back-and-forth. Grant gets a little heated at the end, almost like he’s arguing. When he finally hangs up, it’s with a bang! of the receiver in the cradle.
Uh oh.
“Um… so I guess that didn’t go so well?” I ask hesitantly.
“No, it went fine,” Grant says, though it’s obvious he’s pissed. “Jean-Paul just needed to be reminded of certain obligations he still has.”
He starts walking towards the car at a fair clip. I rush to keep up.
“Do you think it’s a good idea to get help from somebody who’s not that enthusiastic about it?” I ask.
“If you’ll recall, Connor wasn’t exactly on board at first. And he owed me, too.”
I have to admit, that’s true.
“Jean-Paul will quiet down once he gets used to the idea,” Grant says – then smiles mischievously. “Didn’t help that I woke him up out of a dead sleep, either.”
“Where are we going?” I ask as we both get in the car.
“A neighborhood called Montparnasse.”
Fear seizes my chest. “You didn’t exchange the address over the phone, did you? Or any identifying landmarks?”
“We’re not stupid, Eve. I know the risks, and he and I have been at this for a while, you know. Not to mention Jean-Paul’s even more paranoid than you are. Hard to believe, I know.”
“Then how do you know where to find him?”
Grant grins as he turns the ignition. “An age-old code amongst thieves.”
“What’s that?”
“We’re meeting at the first place we got drunk together.”
13
Montparnasse is a surprising neighborhood to find a criminal mastermind. By that I mean that I expected one of two extremes: either an enclave of the super-rich, or a seedy little neighborhood with lots of shady characters.
Montparnasse is neither. It has its fair share of 17th and 18th century buildings, for sure, but it has a lot of modern touches, too, including a 60-story black skyscraper that sticks out like a sore thumb amongst all the Louis-the-Whatever style of buildings. There are also plenty of cell phone stores and fast food places, although they tend to be located in the fanciest buildings you’ve seen this side of a Saks Fifth Avenue in Manhattan. The blend of old and new gives it the feeling of an upper-crust, bustling, business-oriented neighborhood.
Grant gives me a mini-tour as we drive along the tree-lined boulevards, just like he did back in New York City. He throws around the terms Rococo, Neoclassicist, Beaux Arts, and Art Nouveau like I would say ‘Sunset’ and ‘Santa Monica’ back in Los Angeles. He also points out a bunch of cool little restaurants and bars that were frequented by Hemingway and Picasso between the World Wars.
I might enjoy the sightseeing more if I weren’t so worried we’re about to get mowed down in a submachine gun drive-by, or blockaded by black SUVs and kidnapped with black bags over our heads.
We drive around until he finds a five-story parking structure on the main drag. Grant pushes the button at the automated entry and grabs a ticket from the dispenser.
“What are you doing?” I ask fearfully as the arm lifts and he drives on in. I’m thinking about the security cameras I know must be in the building.
“Can’t very well park a stolen car right outside the place we’re going to meet JP,” Grant says. “Won’t Epicurus be monitoring police reports about stolen cars?”
Shit, he’s right.
“How long can we leave it here?” I ask.
He looks at the ticket, which is covered in French gobbledygook. “It says vehicles left longer than two weeks will be towed, so we’re good.”
He finds a spot on the jam-packed third floor. From there we exit the car and hustle down the stairwell.
Twenty minutes and over a mile later, we’re still strolling down a side street that has a combination of 1870’s and 1970’s buildings.
“You really did take that whole ‘let’s not park close to the meeting place’ thing seriously, didn’t you?” I ask.
“Of course,” he says, then wiggles his eyebrows. “I’m a professional.”
I roll my eyes, then ask, “How much farther?”
He points about 300 feet ahead to a stately seven-story building out of the 19th century, with a stone façade and ornate balconies. “Right there.”
My expression betrays my confusion.
“What?” Grant asks.
“When you said the first place you got drunk together, I was expecting a bar.”
He laughs. “See? And here you were worried about me blowing it.”
When we reach the building, Grant glances up and down the street to make sure no one’s close by. Then he casually picks the lock.
We’re in.
The lobby is ornate and beautifully furnished, with framed mirrors, flower arrangements, and plush rugs. We skip the elevator and walk up a stone staircase all the way to the top, where we find only a couple of apartments occupying the entire seventh floor.
We walk down the hall to the furthest door and Grant knocks. There is the sound of numerous bolts unlocking one by one, then the door opens and catches on a series of chains latched inside. In the three inch gap, I see a hangdog face with mournful eyes that stare out half-lidded at Grant.
“Ugh, putain d’merde,” the male voice says in disgust.
“Nice to see you, too, JP,” Grant says.
The door closes, the chains click and fall away one by one, and the door opens a few feet. A man a little shorter than Grant is standing there, dressed in a wifebeater undershirt, grey slacks, and no socks or shoes. He’s ten years older, too, with wisps of grey at the temples of his unruly, wavy dark hair, and crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes. He’s fairly good-looking, in a world-weary, what do I care? kind of way. He kind of looks like a basset hound, if you can imagine a handsome basset hound.
“Well?” he says impatiently. “Entrez, entrez.”
We walk inside. He quickly shuts the door behind us, then latches all the chains and bolts and locks in quick succession like he’s done it a thousand times before.
The place is gigantic, a beautiful, high-ceilinged room with hardwood floors and tasteful furniture. There are massive French doors that lead out to a 10 by 20-foot stone balcony and a stunning, picture-perfect postcard view of Paris.
Aside from Grant’s palatial penthouse in NYC, it’s probably the most beautiful apartment I’ve ever been in.
It’s also the messiest apartment I’ve ever been in this side of college. There are empty wine bottles, stained wine glasses, plates with traces of food, and overflowing ashtrays on every spare surface. The place smells like a smoker’s patio at a heavily crowded bar.
The most interesting thing, though, is the huge bank of television monitors and computer screens that take up the far wall of the apartment. There are over 40 views of the hallway outside the door, the stairwell, the elevator, the lobby, various halls, and the streets surrounding the building.
This guy knew we were coming from a mile away. And I mean that (almost) literally.