The Watch on the Wrist
The Peugeot’s door hangs open like a broken jaw. Blue paint, chipped at the wheel arch. Inside, the air is thick—menthol and salt, the kind that sticks to your throat. The man in the back seat doesn’t move. His wrist is pale where the sleeve rides up. A watch glints under the streetlamp. Gold. Heavy. The kind you don’t forget.
I light a cigarette. The flame trembles. Not from the wind.
That watch.
The cop—young, sharp-eyed—watches me. "You recognize it?"
I exhale. Smoke curls between us. "Maybe."
Three years ago, I was still running packages. Not drugs. Not guns. Just envelopes, boxes, the occasional suitcase. Things people didn’t want traced. The docks at night, the back rooms of cafés, the kind of places where the air smells like diesel and regret. I was good at it. Knew every shortcut, every blind spot. Knew when to talk and when to shut the fuck up.
That watch was a delivery. A dockside address—Warehouse 17, now a pile of rust and seagull shit. The client was a woman. Tall, dark coat, voice like gravel. She paid in cash, folded into a white envelope. No name. No questions. Just the watch, a velvet box, and a time: Midnight. Don’t be late.
I was late.
Not by much. Five minutes. Maybe ten. But the warehouse was empty. No woman. No watch. Just a note slipped under the door: Leave it on the crate. Walk away.
I did.
The café across the street is warm. Too warm. The woman at the corner table has a split thumbnail. She keeps folding and unfolding a receipt. The date’s smudged, but the time’s clear: 23:55. Five minutes before I got there.
I order a coffee. Black. No sugar.
The receipt’s for a watch. Gold. Heavy. Insured for 20,000 euros.
The woman looks up. Our eyes meet. She doesn’t smile.
The cop’s name is Laurent. He’s got a notebook, a pen, and a patience that’s wearing thin. "You’re sure you don’t know the dead man?"
"Never seen him."
"But the watch—"
"Could be a fake."
Laurent sighs. Flips the notebook shut. "You’re not helping yourself."
I stub out the cigarette. "I’m not trying to."
The woman’s name is Claire. At least, that’s what she says when she slides into the booth. Her coat smells like rain and something sharper. Cologne, maybe. Or fear.
"You were there that night," she says. Not a question.
I nod.
"You were late."
Another nod.
She unfolds the receipt. Pushes it across the table. "The watch was never supposed to leave the port."
"Then why give it to me?"
"Because you don’t ask questions."
I laugh. It’s a dry sound. "I’m asking now."
Claire’s fingers tap the receipt. "The man in the car—he was a courier too. Not as careful as you."
"And the watch?"
"A message."
The dead man’s name was Dubois. Laurent tells me this like it’s a gift. Like it’s supposed to mean something. It doesn’t. Not to me.
"He had your number in his pocket," Laurent says. "Scrawled on a napkin. You want to explain that?"
I don’t.
The napkin’s from a bar near the old port. A place I haven’t been in years. The ink’s smudged, but the digits are clear. My handwriting.
Fuck.
Claire’s gone when I get back to the café. The receipt’s still on the table. I pocket it. Walk to the docks.
Warehouse 17 is a skeleton now. The crate’s still there. Rotting wood, rusted nails. I kick it apart. Nothing inside but rat shit and a single gold link. Broken. Like the watch’s bracelet in the Peugeot.
A car engine growls behind me. Headlights cut through the dark.
I don’t turn around.
The woman from three years ago steps out of the car. Same coat. Same voice. Her hair’s shorter now, streaked with gray. Claire’s mother. That’s the detail that pins it—same sharp cheekbones, same way of holding a cigarette like it’s a weapon.
"You kept the receipt," she says.
I hold it up. "Claire gave it to me."
She smiles. It’s not a kind smile. "You were always the smart one."
"Not smart enough."
She lights a cigarette. Offers me one. I take it.
"Dubois talked," she says. "He was going to the police. The watch was proof."
"Of what?"
"That we move more than watches."
I exhale. Smoke mixes with the salt air. "And now?"
She flicks the cigarette into the water. "Now you have a choice. Walk away. Or end up like Dubois."
I look at the broken link in my palm. "What if I already told the police?"
She laughs. "Then you’d be dead already."
Laurent’s waiting outside my apartment. He’s got a warrant. A team. A look on his face like he’s already won.
"We found Dubois’s phone," he says. "Records show he called you the night he died. You want to tell me why?"
I hand him the receipt. "The watch was never supposed to leave the port."
Laurent stares at it. Then at me. "You’re in deep, Devereaux."
"Aren’t we all?"
Dawn breaks over Marseille. The Peugeot’s been towed. The café’s closed. The docks are quiet.
I sit on my balcony. Watch the sun rise. The watch’s link is in my pocket. Cold. Heavy.
The phone rings. Unknown number.
I answer.
"It’s done," Claire says. "They’re gone."
"And the watch?"
"Back where it belongs."
I hang up. Light another cigarette.
The menthol taste is still in my mouth.