The Tooth and the Drive
The rain stops at 5:17 a.m. I know because the neon sign above the pharmacy flickers off the same second, like someone pulled the plug on the sky.
I shake water from my coat. The paper bag in my hand is already damp at the bottom. Inside: one hard drive. The silver tooth is in my pocket. Molar-shaped, still sharp at the edges. Cold against my thigh. The receipt from Pharmacie de la Canebière is wrapped around it. Doliprane 500mg x 20. Payment: cash.
The fish market awning drips. I crouch, slide the bag beneath the salt-crusted bench where the old men play dominoes at noon. They’re not here yet. No one is. Just me, the bag, and the smell of yesterday’s catch gone sour.
I stand. My phone buzzes. A text from Lui: Noon. Don’t be late.
I don’t answer. I never do.
The tram stop is two blocks east. The widow’s been there since 4:45. I know because I walked past twice already. First time, she was smoking. Second time, she was crying into her sleeve. Now she’s just sitting, staring at the tracks like they’re about to tell her something.
The bruise under her eye is fresh. Purple, with a yellow halo. She’s wearing a man’s leather jacket, too big for her. The sleeves swallow her hands.
I light a cigarette I don’t want. The smoke tastes like the inside of a coin purse.
You’re not a hero, I tell myself. You’re a courier. You move things. That’s all.
But the tooth is still in my pocket. Cold.
The hard drive is for Lui. Real name: Thierry Moreau. Runs the port’s night shift. Also runs the kind of debt that doesn’t get paid in euros. The kind that gets paid in favors, or teeth.
The widow—her name is Claire, I heard the fishmonger call her that—doesn’t know about the hard drive. She thinks her husband left her something else. Something worth more than money.
He said he’d leave me the code, she told me when I asked. Before they took him.
They being the same men who pay me to move things they can’t be seen moving.
I check my watch. 7:32 a.m. The tooth is still in my pocket. The hard drive is still under the bench.
I walk to the bakery on Rue des Catalans. The line is long. The woman in front of me smells like lavender and bad decisions. She orders a pain au chocolat, then changes her mind to a croissant. The baker sighs like she’s just asked him to recite the Iliad.
I buy two coffees. One black, one with milk. I don’t know how she takes it.
Claire doesn’t look up when I sit beside her. The bench is wet. My coat soaks through.
You’re not here to talk, I think. You’re here because the tooth is burning a hole in your pocket.
I hand her the coffee with milk. She takes it without looking. Her fingers are cold.
He left something for you, I say.
She laughs. It’s a dry sound, like paper crumpling. He left me a bruise and a note saying he’d be back by morning.
Not that.
I pull the tooth from my pocket. The receipt is still wrapped around it. Pharmacie de la Canebière stares up at us.
Her breath catches. Where did you—
Found it in a bag. Under the fish market awning.
She unfolds the receipt. Her hands shake. This is from yesterday. He went to the pharmacy before… She doesn’t finish.
Before they took him, I say.
She nods. The bruise darkens. She closes her fingers around the tooth.
What’s on the hard drive? she asks.
I don’t answer. I don’t know. Lui didn’t tell me, and I didn’t ask. That’s the rule.
It’s not for you, I say instead.
But it’s his.
It’s evidence.
Of what?
I shrug. Of whatever they’re trying to hide.
She stares at the tooth. He was going to leave me the code. He promised.
Maybe he did.
Then where is it?
I don’t say anything. I don’t have to. We both know the answer.
The tram arrives. It’s empty except for a man in a suit reading La Provence. He doesn’t look up.
Claire stands. The leather jacket swallows her. You’re not going to give it to them, are you?
I don’t answer. The tram doors hiss shut behind her.
I walk back to the fish market. The old men are setting up their dominoes. The bench is empty. The paper bag is gone.
Shit.
I check my phone. 11:03 a.m. No new texts. Lui doesn’t need to remind me. He knows I’ll come.
One of his men is leaning against the warehouse wall when I arrive. Tall, silent, chewing toothpicks. He nods at the stairs. Boss is waiting.
The hard drive is already on Lui’s desk when I walk in, next to a glass of pastis.
You’re late, he says.
Traffic.
He smirks. You don’t drive.
I don’t sit. You didn’t tell me what was on it.
You didn’t ask.
I’m asking now.
He leans back. The chair creaks. Names. Dates. Amounts. Enough to put half the port in prison for a decade.
And the other half?
Enough to make sure they never talk.
I think of Claire. The bruise. The tooth in her palm.
You’re not a hero, I remind myself.
Lui slides an envelope across the desk. Your cut.
I don’t touch it. What happens to the names?
What do you care?
I don’t.
He laughs. Good. Because the men on that list? They’re not the kind you cross.
Neither are you.
No, he says. But I’m the kind you work for.
I leave the envelope on the desk. Lui doesn’t stop me.
Outside, the sun is high. The streets are crowded. I walk to the tram stop. Claire isn’t there. I don’t expect her to be.
The pharmacy is open. I go inside. The woman behind the counter looks up. Oui?
Doliprane 500mg, I say. Twenty.
She rings me up. The receipt prints. I fold it carefully, slip it into my pocket.
The tooth is gone. Given away.
I walk to the fish market. The old men are playing dominoes. The bench is empty. I sit anyway.
The neon sign above the pharmacy flickers back on. The rain starts again at 12:17 p.m." }