Chapter 2
The coffee was still dripping off the edge of the white table when Mr. Belgasham made his decision.
It ran in a thin brown line down the gold rim and hit the pavement. The stain on his right trouser leg had spread. He wasn't looking at it anymore. He was looking at the guard's hand. The guard had it pressed flat against the front of his black leather jacket, right over his pocket, and his forehead was shiny with sweat even though the air was cool and overcast.
I was still standing too close to the table. My hands were shaking and I couldn't make them stop. The guard's fingers were digging into my shoulder from where he'd grabbed me when I knocked the cup.
Belgasham folded the white napkin in his hand. The brown mark from where he'd dabbed at his pants was right in the center. He didn't throw it away.
A waiter had come out from the cafe and was hovering two steps back, holding a clean cloth and not knowing what to do with it.
"We don't need the police for this," Belgasham said. His voice was calm and low, the same calm from before. He looked at the waiter, not at us. "No police. You understand?"
The waiter nodded once.
Belgasham turned his eyes to me. He didn't look angry. He looked like he was deciding something and had already finished deciding it.
"You'll come with me," he said. "I'll take care of it for your trouble."
It wasn't a question. I didn't know if he meant a good thing or a bad thing. My throat was dry. Before I could answer the guard spoke up fast, his hand still stuck to his chest.
"What about him?" he said, jerking his chin at me. His voice was higher than before. "Boss, he's just — we don't need —"
Belgasham didn't let him finish. He gave the guard a look that shut his mouth. Then he looked back at the table.
He pointed at the cup with the napkin still in his hand. The little white cup was on its side on the saucer, empty now except for the dark sludge at the bottom.
"That stays," he told the waiter. "Don't wash it. Don't touch it. Put it in your kitchen and hold it. I'll send someone for it."
The waiter's eyes went wide. "The cup?"
"The cup," Belgasham said. "As it is. You hold it for me."
The waiter swallowed and nodded again. He stepped forward carefully and picked up the saucer with the cup on it like it might burn him, both hands under it. He backed away toward the cafe door.
The guard tightened his grip on my arm and started pulling me toward the curb. I dug my shoes into the pavement. The black car was right there where it had been the whole time, idling at the curb in front of the beige stone buildings. The rear door was already open a crack.
"Where are you taking me?" I said. My voice came out smaller than I wanted. I tried again. "Where are you taking me?"
No one answered at first. The guard just pushed. His hand slipped from my shoulder to the back of my shirt and he steered me hard past the little fence of the cafe.
Belgasham walked behind us. He still had the stained napkin folded in his left hand. He wasn't in a hurry. He stopped for half a second and looked down at his trousers, then at my worn gray shirt, then back at the car.
I could smell the leather of the guard's jacket and the sharp, sour smell of the spilled coffee drying on the stones.
The guard shoved me toward the open back door. I caught myself on the doorframe with both hands. Inside, the back seat was black leather and it smelled like cigarettes and cleaner. I didn't want to get in. I looked back over my shoulder at the waiter who had disappeared inside with my cup, at the empty table with the brown ring where the coffee had been, at the sidewalk where anyone could see us.
"Get in," the guard muttered close to my ear. His chest was right behind me and I could feel him breathing fast. His other hand never left his pocket.
Belgasham stopped at the curb and held the door open wider with his free hand. He looked at me, and for a second his face wasn't stern at all, just tired and very still.
"Inside," he said quietly. "Now. You're safer with me than out here."
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I didn't have a choice that felt like a choice. The guard's hand pushed on my back and my knees hit the edge of the seat. I slid across the leather to the far side, my dirty shoes leaving a mark. Belgasham got in after me, sitting in the middle, the stained napkin still folded in his lap. The guard climbed in last and slammed the door shut behind him, crowding the seat. His shoulder pressed against mine and I could feel the hard shape under his jacket where his hand was.
The driver in front didn't turn around. The car pulled away from the curb with a soft jolt, and the cafe with its white tables and gold rims got smaller in the back window. The waiter was standing in the doorway holding onto that cup, watching us go, while we left the stain right there on the street behind us.
