Chapter 11: The Photo on the Phone
The phone sat on Mr. Belgasham's desk like it was still hot. It was a cheap black Android with a cracked corner on the screen protector, the kind you could buy at any tabac without showing ID. The guard's phone. He'd left it face-down on the little white round table at the cafe during the sting yesterday, and when the second man spooked and ran, Mr. Belgasham's driver had scooped it up. Now it was here, in the back office above the cafe, and nobody had touched it except to put it on a white napkin, the same kind Mr. Belgasham had been holding when I knocked the coffee over.
Mr. Belgasham didn't pick it up right away. He sat behind his desk in his dark three-piece suit, his trousers clean now but I remembered the stain on the right leg. The napkin was folded beside the phone. The guard stood by the window with his hands cuffed in front of him with a plastic zip tie, not real handcuffs. His black leather jacket was gone, just the black shirt underneath, and his forehead was sweaty again even though the office was cool. I sat on a stool by the door because Mr. Belgasham had told me to stay where he could see me.
"The code," Mr. Belgasham said. His voice was calm, the way it had been when he said "Let him go" on the sidewalk.
The guard shook his head. "You don't need to see it. It's just personal stuff."
Mr. Belgasham looked at him for a long time. He didn't raise his voice. He just slid the phone forward a half inch across the desk. "You put something in my coffee. You put something in your pocket. Now I have your phone. The code."
The guard stared at the phone. His hand twitched toward his chest, the same place he'd been clutching when I told Mr. Belgasham to ask what he put in his pocket. "I forgot it," he said.
"You didn't forget," Mr. Belgasham said.
There was a pause. I could hear the espresso machine downstairs and someone dragging chairs on the stone sidewalk.
Mr. Belgasham stood up, picked up the phone, and held it out. "Last time I ask nicely."
The guard swallowed. Sweat ran down his temple. He mumbled four numbers. "Zero seven one nine."
Mr. Belgasham typed them in. The screen lit up. He didn't hand it back. He set it down and started scrolling with one finger, his other hand holding that white napkin.
I watched his face. He didn't react at first. Just slow eye movement, the same restrained way he'd looked at the stain. Then he stopped and turned the phone so I could see it.
It was a photo, taken at night, of our cafe from across the street. Same beige stone buildings, same balconies, same white round tables with gold rims. In front, a man stood with his back half-turned, talking to someone. He wore a black leather jacket almost exactly like the guard's. Same cut, same shine. I felt my stomach drop because I'd seen that jacket yesterday, on the second man who'd stood near the curb and then run when the driver moved.
"Do you know him?" Mr. Belgasham asked me.
I nodded. My throat was dry. "He was there yesterday. Near the car. Same jacket."
Mr. Belgasham swiped to the next screen. It was a message thread. No names, just a number at the top. The messages were short.
Tuesday 11:42 - It's done?
Tuesday 11:44 - Not yet. Kid interfered.
Tuesday 18:09 - Need clean table tomorrow. Same time.
Yesterday 08:31 - Bring vial. Leave after.
And then a photo of a small clear packet with white powder, sitting on a palm. Under it: 5k after lease transfers. 5k more when shop closes.
I didn't understand all of it but I understood the word lease. Mr. Belgasham had told me once the cafe building wasn't his, that he rented it and the owner was old and liked him.
Mr. Belgasham turned the phone toward the guard. "Who is he?"
The guard's mouth was open. He was shaking a little, just like when Mr. Belgasham had asked "Why are you shaking?" and he'd said "I'm not."
"He's nobody," the guard said. "Just a guy."
Mr. Belgasham placed the phone down very carefully. "A guy who pays you ten thousand to poison coffee so a lease transfers. Who is he working for?"
The guard looked at the window, at the door, at me. His eyes stayed on me a second too long, like he wanted me to disappear.
"He's middleman," he finally said, his voice low. "For Dubois."
"Say full name," Mr. Belgasham said.
"Laurent Dubois. He has the bistro two blocks down, on Rue de Rivoli. He wanted your corner. Owner promised him first offer last year and then you renewed for five years. He said if you got sick, scared, owner would break the lease. He'd step in."
I remembered the bistro. I'd begged outside it once. Gray awning, same beige stone. The owner there wore a white apron and never gave me anything.
Mr. Belgasham didn't look surprised. He just breathed in slowly through his nose. "So not random," he said, almost to himself. "Not about me personally. About the table. About the corner."
The guard nodded fast, like he was glad to be understood. "He said nothing would happen to me. Just put the thing in, walk away. You'd get sick for a week. That's all."
Mr. Belgasham picked up the white napkin and folded it once. "And the vial in your pocket?"
"In the jacket," the guard said. "Inside pocket. I didn't empty it all."
Mr. Belgasham looked at me then. I hadn't said anything. He tilted the phone again so I could see the photo of the bistro owner — I didn't know it was him, but Mr. Belgasham would later tell me it matched the city registration — and the jacket, and the cafe in the background.
My hands were cold. I kept thinking about how the guard's jacket and the handler's jacket looked the same on purpose, so no one would notice two men, just one kind of man.
May you like
"You did good to notice the pocket," Mr. Belgasham said to me quietly. Not loud, not praising, just true.
The phone stayed on the desk, screen still on, the payment note glowing. Outside, the cafe chairs scraped again. We had a face now, and a name, and a reason that wasn't crazy. It was just money and a corner table.
