“Eve,” Grant says, “let me introduce Jean-Paul Du– ”
“No last names, no last names!” the man interrupts in irritation. He has a heavy accent – no lahst nemz! – and pads past me without so much as a look in my direction.
“Fine,” Grant says, clearly annoyed at the reception. “JP was one of my… mentors, you might say.”
“Malheureusement pour moi,” Jean-Paul mutters.
I don’t need to understand French to know he’s ruing the day he met Grant right about now.
Grant continues with the introduction. “Jean-Paul, this is Eve. No last name,” he adds drily.
“Mrm,” JP grunts as he picks up a remote. The biggest screen in his wall of monitors erupts into a television newscast. “This is you, no?”
There is aerial footage of a couple of Coast Guard-looking boats and dive teams in choppy water. The screen cuts to cell-phone footage of a plane crashing into the English Channel. Whoever filmed it was right on the water’s edge, and got a spectacular show despite the early morning darkness.
“Oh my God,” I say, my hand flying to my mouth.
“Wow,” Grant says, impressed. “Somebody was in the right place at the right time.” Then he whispers to me, “Remind me later, we still need to wire that money to Mike.”
“So it is you,” Jean-Paul hmphs, and lets out a string of what I can only assume are elaborate French curses, ending with “Fucking shit,” though it sounds more like Fuckeeng sheet.
Grant is annoyed. “Look, I wouldn’t have contacted you if it wasn’t an emergency.”
“Yes, yes, I can see!” the Frenchman says, and presses another button on the remote. Apparently he DVR’d the program, because it fast forwards until Grant and my picture appear onscreen – along with a bunch of French text at the bottom. The only word that stands out is INTERPOL.
Oh my God.
Apparently those cops at the airport actually were cops.
“And so you come to me,” Jean-Paul seethes. “Merci beaucoup.”
“Look, I saved your ass on the Monte Carlo heist – ”
“Mon Dieu!” Jean-Paul cries out, and throws his arms in the air. “‘The Monte Carlo heist, the Monte Carlo heist’ – will I never hear the end? I will be dead and in my grave and you will still be talking about the fucking Monte Carlo heist!”
“You have no idea what I’m up against, JP!”
“Oh, alors, enlighten me, s’il te plaît,” Jean-Paul snaps as he slumps down at the dining room table and fires up a cigarette.
Grant spends the next five minutes detailing everything. Epicurus, the two women, the art gallery, the raid on the skyscraper, ditching the plane in the English Channel.
The plight of the two imprisoned women doesn’t move JP. Nor do our troubles make him any more sympathetic to our cause. Instead, by the end of the story, JP’s head is on the table, forehead down, in a scene of utter dejection.
“Ugghh, putain d’merde,” he moans.
That’s the second time he’s said ‘putain d’merde’ in the last five minutes. I’m guessing it’s not exactly a happy phrase.
“I need your help,” Grant says, his tone insistent.
Jean-Paul lifts his head and snaps, “I do not need this right now, Grant! This is not the best of times, you know?”
“Why, what’s up?”
“I have other business I am attending! I cannot drop everything just because you are a stupid asshole who sticks his nose where he should not!”
“What, are you on another job right now?”
“Of course I am on another job!” JP explodes. “We are not all of us billionaires! Some of us have to work for a fucking living!”
That part about ‘work for a fucking living’ is pretty funny coming from a thief – but, whatever.
“I’ll pay you,” Grant says.
“You had better fucking pay me,” JP mutters as he lights another cigarette.
“What was your expected take on the job?”
“Two million, easy. After this, I retire.”
“Still dreaming of French Polynesia, huh?”
“I will not be dreaming anymore after this job.”
“Forget the job. I’ll pay you five.”
That gets JP’s attention. “Five million?”
“Yes.”
JP thinks for a second. “Ten.”
Damn, is everybody a haggler? First Mike, then this guy –
“Six,” Grant says.
JP narrows his eyes. “Fifteen.”
“What the fuck?” I say angrily.
“Eve,” Grant warns me.
“He’s going the wrong way!”
“No, madmoiselle, I am going the correct way,” JP opines. “Grant never bargains. Jamais.”
I frown and look at Grant. “But you bargained with Mike – ”
“Eve, shut up,” Grant whispers.
“Aha,” JP says happily, and gestures with his cigarette. “You see? If he is bargaining, I think you are up the shit tree.”
“That’s not the right expression,” I snap.
He puffs on his cigarette. “Well, with fifteen million, perhaps I can buy the appropriate one.”
Grant shakes his head. “Eight, and don’t push your luck.”
“A fucking billionaire, and he is worried about eight million,” Jean-Paul mutters, then launches back into negotiating mode. “With my job, I make three million – ”
“You said two,” I interrupt.
JP ignores me. “ – but if I am caught, I go to jail. Not so good. With you, if I am caught – kkkrkk,” he says, drawing his finger across his throat. “Very not so good.”
Grant scowls. “Nine million dollars, that’s my final offer.”
“Euros,” JP says.
“Euros?! We’re talking about dollars, not euros – ”
“I am in France. I am talking of euros,” JP says.
“That’s ten million U.S. – ”
“Done,” JP says, and slaps the table. “Ten million U.S., accepté.”
Grant narrows his eyes at him. “Sneaky.”
JP just smiles. “That is why you came to me, no?”
“I assume you and Dom are not a package deal.”
Dom?
The name conjures up an image of a muscled bald guy with tattoos and a bad attitude.
Jean-Paul waves one hand dismissively. “No no no, I negotiate pour moi, c’est tout.”
“When’s Dom getting here?”
JP shrugs. “Soon, I think.”
“‘Soon’? Did you make the call or not?”
“Putain – calme-toi, I made the fucking call!”
“Who’s Dom?” I ask.
JP starts to answer, but Grant cuts him off. “Somebody JP and I used to work with.”
The Frenchman looks at Grant quizzically, then points at me. “You, uh… you do what?”
“I’m a hacker.”
“Computers?”
It sounds more like Com-pyoo-tairs?
“Yes.”
“Ah bon. So, you two are not… fwe-foo?” he whistles.