“Don’t talk about my brother,” she said, standing on tiptoes, getting in Aziz François’s face.
“It’s only a couple keys,” he said plaintively. “How’d you find it, anyway?”
“Must be my lucky day. Turn around. Hands behind your back. I can’t let this one stand. I’m disappointed in you, Aziz.”
Suddenly, the guard was standing in front of her, the barrel of the machine gun prodding her chest. “Let him go,” he said.
The guard was young, maybe twenty years old, but hardened by his time on the streets. She had no doubt he’d hated the police since before he could walk. His finger was inside the trigger guard and he was sweating. Five pounds of pressure—barely more than you needed to tap a letter on a keyboard—was enough to fire a round. His unblinking gaze said he’d shoot her if given the chance.
“Tell him to fuck off,” she said, unsnapping her cuffs from her belt.
Aziz sighed mightily and told the guard to leave them alone.
“But…” the guard protested.
“Leave us,” said Aziz. “Go to my office. Shut the door.”
Reluctantly, the guard lowered the machine gun and walked away.
“Okay,” said Aziz when he heard the door close. “I can help you.”
“Too late.”
“I know this man Coluzzi.”
“Sure you do,” said Nikki. “His name just popped into your head.”
“I bought some merch from him last year.”
“Oxy?”
Aziz nodded. “Like you said.”
“Go on.”
“He was getting a crew together not too long ago.”
“Last year?”
“Last week.”
“He doesn’t work with your people. How would you know?”
“Another guy like him was in, looking to score some weed. Just a key. We smoked a blunt and he mentioned that he was working for this dude. A real smooth operator.”
“Coluzzi?”
“Yeah, that’s the name. I remember now.”
“Of course you do. What else do you remember?”
“That’s it. Coluzzi was getting some of his guys together, used to be part of some gang in Marseille.”
“What were they going to do?”
“No idea. I swear. The guy who told me was high. He probably knew he’d already said too much.”
“So where can I find your friend?”
