The Glove Key
The rain tastes like copper and cigarettes.
I don’t smoke. But the dead man does. The pack’s still in his breast pocket, soggy now, the cellophane peeling back like a second skin. I tap it with my knuckle. Empty.
His glove is worse. Leather, once nice. Now it’s stretched at the seams, the fingers curled like he’s still trying to hold something. I work the thumb drive into the lining before I can think too hard about it. The lining’s torn. My fingers brush something cold. Not the drive. A key. Small, brass, tucked into the dead man’s palm like a last secret.
I check the mouth. The lips are parted. No key. Someone’s already been here.
The alley smells like wet cardboard and old kebabs. The money changer’s back door is ajar, the security light buzzing like a dying insect. I step over the body, my shoes sticking to the pavement. The drive’s in my pocket now, the key in my other hand. The dead man’s blood is still warm on my cuff.
The café on Rue du Marché aux Poulets doesn’t open until six. I order a coffee anyway. The barista doesn’t ask questions. He’s seen worse at 3 a.m.
I count the cash in my wallet. Enough for a train ticket. Not enough to disappear.
The thumb drive is a lump in my pocket. I roll it between my fingers under the table. It’s not mine. But it’s not his anymore either.
My phone buzzes. Unknown number.
You have something that doesn’t belong to you.
I sip my coffee. It’s bitter. I don’t answer.
The first cop shows up at 4:17. Not in uniform. He orders an espresso, sits two tables away. His shoes are polished. Too polished for this hour. He doesn’t look at me, but his fingers tap the counter in a rhythm that’s not quite random. Morse code for I know.
I leave a five-euro note under my cup and walk out.
The rain’s stopped. The streets are slick, reflecting the neon signs like broken promises. I duck into a phone booth near the Bourse. The glass is cracked, the receiver smells like piss. I dial the number from memory.
A woman answers. "You’re late."
"I had a detour," I say.
"The drive. Where is it?"
"Somewhere safe."
She exhales. Not a sigh. A calculation. "You have until noon. Then the price goes down."
"And if I don’t sell?"
"Then you’re not as smart as I thought."
The line goes dead.
The second cop finds me at the Gare du Midi. He’s younger. His tie is loose, his eyes bloodshot. He flashes a badge. "We need to talk."
"About what?"
"The body in the alley. The one with the glove."
I don’t react. "I don’t know what you’re talking about."
He leans in. "The key in his mouth. It’s gone. You were the last one seen near the scene."
"Seen by who?"
"Doesn’t matter. What matters is you’re holding something that doesn’t belong to you."
I smile. "Funny. That’s what the other guy said."
His jaw tightens. "This isn’t a negotiation."
"Everything’s a negotiation," I say. "Even silence."
He doesn’t like that. He grabs my arm. I let him. For a second. Then I twist free, my elbow catching his ribs. He grunts, stumbles back. Not hard. Just enough.
"Noon," I say. "I’ll call you."
I walk away. He doesn’t follow. Not yet.
The fixer is waiting in a black Audi outside the station. The car’s running, the windows tinted. I get in without being asked.
She’s older than I expected. Silver hair, sharp eyes. Her hands are steady on the wheel. "You’re making this difficult," she says.
"I’m making it interesting."
"Interesting doesn’t pay."
"Then why are you here?"
She doesn’t answer. Instead, she hands me an envelope. Thick. Unsealed. I peek inside. Euros. A lot of them.
"Half now," she says. "Half when I have the drive."
I weigh the envelope in my hand. "And the key?"
"The key’s not part of the deal."
"Then we don’t have a deal."
She studies me. "You’re not in a position to negotiate."
"Neither are you," I say. "Not if you want the drive more than I want the money."
A pause. The engine hums. Then she nods. "Fine. The key too. But you don’t ask what it’s for."
"I don’t care what it’s for."
"Good." She puts the car in gear. "Because you’re not going to like the answer."
The drive is in a locker at the airport. The key’s in my shoe. I don’t trust banks. I don’t trust fixers. I don’t trust cops.
But I trust the train to Antwerp. It leaves in forty minutes.
I buy a ticket. One way. Cash.
The fixer’s envelope is heavy in my pocket. The blood on my cuff has dried. The dead man’s face is still in my head. Not his name. Just the way his glove felt when I pried it open.
The platform’s crowded. Tourists. Businessmen. A woman with a flamingo on a leash. No one looks at me twice.
I board the train. Find a seat by the window. The fixer’s number flashes on my phone. I ignore it.
The train pulls out. Brussels shrinks behind me. The rain starts again, streaking the glass.
I take the thumb drive out of my pocket. Roll it between my fingers. Then I drop it into the ashtray and light a match.
The plastic melts. The data burns.
The key stays in my shoe.
Some secrets are worth more than money. Some aren’t.
I’ll find out which one this is in Antwerp.