All the Old Knives Read Free Page A

It’s a Siemens push-button I abandoned years ago for the lure of touch-screen technology. It’s neither shiny nor minimalist, but it has an excellent microphone I sometimes use to record conversations inconspicuously. I power it up, check the battery, and set up the recording software. I’m the kind of person who likes a record of his life. If not for posterity, then in order to cover my ass.
    Back in Vienna I used cash to refill the Siemen’s prepaid SIM, and now I dial a number I used a week ago; before that I hadn’t used it in more than three years, when I made the call for Bill Compton, who was once Celia’s boss. After three rings a gruff-sounding man answers. I’ve never seen him, so I don’t have a face to imagine. I say, “Is this Treble?”
    He thinks a moment. His own code name changes depending on the speaker, so in his head (or, for all I know, on an old envelope beside his phone) he goes through a list of names. Treble means that he’s speaking to … “Hello, Piccolo. How are you?”
    â€œWe’re still on?”
    â€œA small roadster,” he says. “Very feminine. In Carmel-by-the-Sea.”
    â€œExactly.”
    He hesitates. “You said there were a couple mopeds and an older Chevy, right?”
    â€œBut they won’t need any work.”
    â€œYes, yes.” His manner doesn’t instill confidence, and I wonder how old he is. “Yes, it’s all fine. I’m there.”
    â€œIn Carmel?”
    â€œOf course.”
    I hadn’t expected him to arrive so soon.
    â€œWhen do you need it, again?” he asks.
    â€œNot immediately, but in the next few days.”
    â€œOkay, then.”
    â€œThere’s a chance,” I say quickly, worrying about his memory, “that it won’t be necessary.”
    â€œYes, you told me this before.”
    â€œIn that case, I cover travel and half your regular fee.”
    â€œI know. It’s fair.”
    â€œGood. I’ll call you again soon.”
    â€œBe seeing you,” he says, and when he hangs up I think, I sure as hell hope not.

 
    4
    I arrive at Rendez-vous a half hour early, taking the existence of a bar as a hopeful omen, though I see no bottles. I’m intercepted by a young, hardly there woman in black with a ponytail atop her skull and an iPad in her hand. Even though the restaurant behind her is completely empty, she says, “Reservations?”
    â€œYes, but I’m early. Just getting a drink.”
    â€œName?”
    â€œHarrison—I mean, Favreau.”
    â€œSeven o’clock,” she says approvingly to the iPad. “I can seat you now, if you like.”
    During the flights I sustained myself with an image of my terminal point: a stool and a long bar to support my exhausted frame. It’s what I want Celia to see when she arrives—a man in a man’s place. “I’ll wait at the bar,” I say as I slip past the waitress and, with relief, station myself at the end of the pounded-iron counter. A pert young bartender, also in black, who has sculpted his three-day beard so carefully that it looks like a layer of paint, smiles thinly. I order the gin martini I’ve been anticipating for the last twenty-four hours.
    â€œSorry. We only have wine.”
    â€œYou’re kidding me, right?”
    He shrugs, reaching for a laminated pamphlet that lists the bottles at his disposal. It’s wine country, after all. I start to read through the vineyards, but the compound names quickly blur—I don’t know a thing about wine. I shut the menu. “Something very cold and strong.”
    â€œWhite or rosé?”
    â€œMan, I don’t care. Just make sure it’s dry.”
    I watch him take a bottle from the fridge and waste a lot of time fooling with the opener before getting it open and pouring. He’s not elegant about it, the wine glug-glugging and splattering a bit on the