“One hundred euros.”
“My wife’s cost me five thousand.”
“You should have come to me.”
“How about I give you two hundred euros instead?”
“Two hundred it is.”
Gabriel handed over the money. The African shoved it into the pocket of his threadbare coat and reached for the bag.
“Forget about it,” said Gabriel. “Just tell me how my friend fell.”
“He got a phone call when he reached the top of the steps. That was when the guy pushed him.” The African pointed toward one of the coin-operated telescopes on the opposite side of the street. “He was standing right there for several minutes before your friend arrived.”
“Did you get a look at him?”
“Non. His back was turned the entire time he was there.”
“And you’re sure it wasn’t an accident?”
“Left hand, center of his chest. Down the steps he went. He never had a chance.”
“What happened to the man who pushed him?” Receiving no answer, Gabriel looked down at the African’s inventory. “How about I buy another bag?”
“The Vuitton?”
“Why not?”
“How much would you like to give me for it?”
“I really don’t like negotiating with myself.”
“One fifty?”
Gabriel surrendered three hundred euros. “Keep talking.”
“Another guy pulled alongside him on a scooter, and he climbed on the back. It was all very professional, if you ask me.”
“And you, of course, told the police everything you had seen.”
“Non. I left before they arrived.”
“Did you at least try to help my friend?”
“Yes, of course. But it was obvious he was dead.”
“Where was his phone?”
“On the landing next to him.”
“I assume you picked it up as you were leaving.”
The African hesitated, then nodded. “Forgive me, Monsieur. Those phones are worth a lot of money.”
“Where is it now?”
“Are you sure you’re not a cop?”
“When was the last time a cop paid you five hundred euros for two fake handbags?”
“I gave the phone to Papa.”
“Great,” said Gabriel. “Who’s Papa?”
* * *
While loading his inventory into plastic rubbish bags, the street vendor introduced himself as Amadou Kamara and explained that he was from Senegal, the unstable former French colony on Africa’s west coast where joblessness and public corruption were endemic. A father of four, he concluded that he had no choice but to go to Europe if his family was to survive. He attempted the typical Senegalese route north, an overcrowded fishing boat bound for Spain’s Canary Islands, and nearly drowned when the vessel capsized in the treacherous waters off Western Sahara. After washing ashore, he walked to Morocco’s Mediterranean coast, a journey of more than a thousand miles, and managed to reach Spain in an inflatable raft with twelve other men. He did backbreaking agricultural work for a couple of years in the blistering Spanish sun—for which he was paid as little as five euros a day—then moved to Catalonia to peddle counterfeit goods on the streets of Barcelona. After a scrape with the Spanish police, he made his way to Paris and went to work for Papa Diallo.
“The local distributor for Prada and Louis Vuitton?”
“And a lot of other luxury brands as well,” replied Amadou Kamara. “The bags are manufactured in China and then smuggled into Europe aboard container ships. Papa is the biggest player in the Paris market. He’s from Senegal, too.”
“What else is Papa into?”
“The usual.”
“Stolen iPhones?”
