The Port of Nice was shaped like a long "U" of concrete seawalls with the open side pointed south to the sea. Smaller piers jutted out from the interior of the "U" like teeth on a zipper, each pier crowded with speedboats and sailboats. Cal had been a boat owner, himself, for a few years; a pontoon boat with a shallow draft that was great for navigating the lakes and rivers around Heartland in search of the perfect fishing or dive spot. But he had to tow that boat behind his Chevy everywhere he went, and with baseball, MJ, and a million other obligations, the pontoon boat mostly stayed parked in the side lawn under a tarp.
The USS Regret.
But now? There was all the time in the world, the most amazing weather, and a marina just a tram ride away. The only thing holding him back was a lack of money and a best friend who hated the water.
"You want to rent a boat?" Cal asked, knowing the answer.
"Hell no," Frank confirmed. "Except maybe on one of those."
Frank pointed to a row of luxury yachts lined up against the pier like train cars, nose to tail. They were all spectacular displays of wealth, with multiple sun decks and stacked rows of tinted windows. This was exactly the image that came to mind whenever Cal heard the phrase French Riviera, and he wondered how wealthy a person might be to leave a multi-million-dollar boat parked here like Cal had parked his pontoon boat on his side lawn. At least docked here they wouldn't kill any grass.
The port was bordered by two giant hills that rose dramatically from the rocky coastline. Castle Hill to the west was a tourist attraction still on the list to see, and sloping more gently to the east was Mont Boron, where Nice's ultra-wealthy lived and could look down on their yacht like toys in a tub. A cold wind blew between the hills and over the marina, sending a shiver through Cal. The wind was loud in his ear, and he gripped his jacket tighter around him.
"Do you want to walk around?" Cal said, doubtful. It was a beautiful scene, but it was cold and Frank seemed restless.
"Nah, fuck this place," Frank said. "Besides, I want to check out someplace a little more interesting."
So, the marina had never really been their destination. Cal chastised himself silently for forgetting that, even for casual trips across town, Frank's plan was never really his plan.
"Are you going to make me ask?" Cal said.
"Come on," Frank said and winked. "It's just a few blocks north."
The city here had a different energy than their own neighborhood of Le Carré d’Or. The pedestrians were younger and louder, with casual conversations and laughter competing with the volume of heavier traffic. Cal was immediately glad that Frank hadn't chosen the port neighborhood for their home. It reminded him of Sarasota, where the beach was the town, and it was crowded, crowded, crowded with Florida tourists during the summer and northern snowbirds in the winter. Here, the curbsides were similarly packed with parked cars on both sides of the narrow street. They passed cafes, seafood restaurants, antique shops, and other tourist traps, and people crowded every space.
Then, Frank pulled him under the awning of a bar and restaurant that was built into the side of a building and open to the outdoors. Cal grabbed a tall table in the shade while Frank ordered them a pair of beers and returned with a platter of pan-fried calamari, which instantly went cold from the wind whipping down the street.
"Thanks for the squid," Cal said between chews. The seasoning was perfect, and the texture held only the slightest hint of rubber. "But is this what we hiked up here for?"
"Look behind you," said Frank, his mustache damp with beer froth.
Across the road was a small storefront wedged between an alley and another business. Red letters spilled across the window, spelling out in French, Livraisons de Mercure. Frank had found the business that had picked up Hoodie and Goggles after they'd abandoned their hunt for Eeva; the same white van that Hoodie had driven through Le Carré d’Or a day later.
"I'll be damned," Cal said. "I thought it wasn't registered online. We couldn't find it when we searched."
"Yep," Frank said.
"And we couldn't read the phone number in the photo you took," Cal said, remembering. "How'd you find it?"
"The old-fashioned way."
"Yeah?"
Frank laughed. "Yeah, I kept calling every combination of missing numbers until I found them. Then I asked for their address."
"Wow," said Cal with genuine reverence. "Fucking super-spy over here!"
Frank shrugged.
"Sometimes old dogs don't need new tricks," he said and then drained his beer before signaling the young woman behind the counter for another one. "Sometimes the old ones work just fine."
Just then, a white van sputtered out of the alley next to Livraisons de Mercure and turned down the street, back towards the port. The driver's face was obscured by an interior shadow, but a long-sleeve arm hung out the window, holding a cigarette that left a trail of thin smoke as it passed.
Cal said. "That's them!"
Frank nodded like there was never any doubt.
"So now what do we do?" Cal asked.
Frank popped a tiny fried squid into his mouth and shrugged, being awfully casual. "They followed Eeva for some reason," he said, "So now we follow them."
Holy shit.
After decades of mystery, Frank had just invited him to play spook.