Simon opened a locker and donned a paint-smeared coverall. Grabbing a heat gun and a scraper, he went to work, starting on the hood, holding the gun inches away until the paint began to curdle and he could scrape it off. He worked in columns, inch by inch, slowly, meticulously. The job demanded muscle and concentration. Soon his shoulders ached and sweat ran from his forehead.
They all carried machine guns and wore masks, the witness to the robbery in Paris had said.
The images from the news had stirred things up as surely as a stick prodding a hornet’s nest. There were things he didn’t want to remember. Events dangerous to recall for the emotions they provoked, the long-buried desires they stoked. The memories came to him all the same, as he knew they would ever since lifting the watch off Boris Blatt’s wrist.
He imagined the report of his old AK-47, the reassuring kick of the machine gun pressed to his shoulder, the wonderful, bittersweet scent of spent cordite in the warm air. Mostly, though, he recalled the thrill of it all.
Twenty years later, he could still taste it.
“Damn!” Simon called out as the scraper slipped and nicked his thumb. He stepped away from the car, shaking his hand, wiping the blood on his pant leg. He found a plaster in the locker and bandaged the cut. His eye fell to his forearm and the artwork on it. Some tattoos faded over time. For some reason his appeared to have grown brighter.
The past isn’t dead. It isn’t even past.
Someone famous had said that. An American writer. He didn’t remember the name. He only knew that it was true.
Monday
Chapter 8
It was nine the next morning when Lucy Brown parted the curtain and stepped into the painting studio. “Someone to see you.”
With rapt attention, Simon guided the scraper in a vertical stripe down the automobile’s hood, the shavings falling away in a curlicue. “Client?”
“Never seen him before.”
“Did he bring his car?”
“Just an umbrella.”
“There,” said Simon, stepping back and surveying his progress. After ten hours, he’d managed to strip the entire hood. Another week and the car would be finished, though he had no intention of completing it himself. Sometimes he had to remind himself that he was the boss. He rolled his neck, wincing as his bones cracked. Only then did he look at Lucy. “Does he have a name?”
“Mr. Neill. He said he was a friend of a friend. Oh, and he’s one of yours.”
“Mine?”
“American.”
“Where is he?”
“In the workshop. He seemed to know his way round.”
“Is he touching any of the cars?”
“No. Hands in his pockets.”
Simon considered this. “Tell him I’ll be there in a minute. Give him some tea.”
Lucy nodded. But instead of leaving, she stepped through the curtain and crossed the studio toward him. She was unrecognizable from the night before. The pencil skirt and fitted blouse had been replaced by a gray coverall with the name “Max” sewn on the breast and sensible work boots. Her blond hair was pulled into a ponytail and tucked into a baseball cap. Her only concession to makeup was the streak of grease decorating her cheek.
“What is it?” asked Simon, noting the look on her face.
“You’re not going to see him like that?”
“Like what?”
Lucy pointed to a mirror. Simon turned and caught a glimpse of himself. His coverall was stained with sweat. His face was red from exertion and his hands were blackened by paint shavings. “Were you up all night again?” she asked.
“Me? No. Course not. I got up early. Wanted to get a start on the week.”
