Delphine smiled and walked toward the table. “Don’t you remember me, Papa Le Boudin? It’s me, Delphine.”

He squinted at her and scratched his grizzled beard. “Delphine, eh? I once knew a girl who went by that name; a skinny, snot-nosed little ragamuffin.”

“That’s me, Papa. I grew up.”

Le Boudin smiled, showing his few remaining brown, tobacco stained teeth. “You call me ‘Papa’. Is that in honor of my great age?”

“No, Papa, it’s in honor of what my mother told me on her deathbed.”

“Folks say lots of things on their deathbeds. Don’t necessarily make them true.”

Delphine frowned and looked him straight in the eye. “I’ve no reason to think she was lying.”

Le Boudin stared back at her for a moment, and then gave a low, bitter laugh. “I remember your ma; she was Romany. You’ve got the same dark, wild look about you.”

“Considering my trade, it’s better for business that I look more like her than you.”

Le Boudin broke out in peals of laughter. After a while, he wiped his eyes and coughed. “That’s good. After that one, I need a drink. Pull up a chair and join me.”

He blew into two dusty glasses and wiped them on his shirt. Then he filled them with cheap red wine and handed one to Delphine. “Let’s drink to your ma, God rest her soul.”

They drained their glasses, and he poured another round. Then: “So what brings you back to the Zone? I heard you were making out all right, peddling your ass in Montmartre.”

Delphine ignored the insult. That was his manner, and it wouldn’t improve as he worked his way through the bottle. “Maybe you’ve heard about Virginie Ménard, the girl who was killed up in Montmartre?”

“Maybe I have. What of it?”

“She was my—best friend. I want you to help me find her killer. I’m not asking this as a favor; I can pay for information.”

Le Boudin glanced down for a moment and toyed with his glass. Then he looked back at her with a frown. “Sounds like you’re out for revenge.”

“Could be, Papa. Will you help me?”

Le Boudin scratched his nose with his hook. “I had a bellyful of killing in Mexico and Algeria. We shot at them, they shot back at us. Look what it got me. There’s an old saying: Revenge goes down sweet, but it comes back as bile.”

Delphine did not reply. She swung her legs to one side, lifted her skirts, and pulled out a pouch from under a garter. Goggle-eyed, Le Boudin leaned over to get a good look. She smoothed down her dress, turned round, and placed the pouch on the table. “Screw your eyes back into their sockets, old man, and take a look at this.” She upended the pouch, emptying a small pile of gold rings, bracelets, earrings, and broaches, all set with semi-precious stones and pearls.

Le Boudin’s eyes widened and he whistled. “Where the hell did you get all that?”

“Don’t worry Papa, they aren’t hot. They’re tokens of appreciation from gentlemen, and a few ladies too. My life savings.”

Le Boudin stared at the jewelry for a while, then shook his head. “I can’t take it from you, my girl. In a few years you’ll need it all, believe me. You don’t want to end up here, lifting your dress in a stinking alley, selling yourself for a crust of bread, a bottle of cheap wine, and a flop for the night.”

“Then you won’t help me?” For all her streetwise toughness, there was a plaintive tone in her voice and a wistful sadness in her eyes; she reminded him of a little girl on his knee, begging for favors.

“I didn’t say that. I might help you for—for your mother’s sake, but on one condition. Promise me you won’t act outside the law.”

For a moment, Delphine stared at him, perplexed by his reference to the law. After all, the cops stayed out of the Zone; it was like a tiny foreign country outside French jurisdiction. But then, she realized that Le Boudin and his chiffoniers worked on the streets of Paris; they were licensed and didn’t want any trouble with the police. “All right, Papa, I promise.”

Le Boudin smiled. He figured he could trust her, or at least he was willing to take a risk. But business was business, and he wanted security. “Here’s what I’ll do. Tell me what you want. If I think I can help, I’ll hang on to your trinkets as a pledge. If you keep your word, I’ll return them when the transaction’s completed.”

“Fair enough. I think Jojo’s mixed up in it. I know some of your men scavenge Montmartre. I want—”

“Wait a minute, girl,” Le Boudin broke in. “You’re going too fast. Do you mean Jojo the Clown?”

Delphine nodded.

Le Boudin laughed and shook his head. “That ugly runt? He’s a real zonard, a tough little shit. But I thought he went straight after he got outside? Has a job clowning at the Circus Fernando, as I recall.”

She frowned. “Jojo’s a bastard. Throw him a crooked centime, he’ll jump at it. There’s an artist in Montmartre named Toulouse-Lautrec who looks like Jojo’s twin brother. I think Jojo tried to frame Lautrec, pin Virginie’s murder on him. Anyway, the cops are chasing their tails, and that fat pig Rousseau’s working on the case; I don’t trust him. But his partner Lefebvre’s all right, and I think he’s been put over Rousseau.

“Your men go picking in Montmartre. It’s possible one of them might have seen Jojo dump the body, but so far he’s keeping his mouth shut. Maybe he’s been bribed or threatened. I want you and your men to help me find out who killed Virginie. It may be Jojo, or he may be working for somebody. Whoever it is, I want revenge, but I’m willing to go to Lefebvre rather than take it on myself.”

Le Boudin drank some wine; then he scratched his beard and knitted his brow. “You’re asking a lot, my girl. Some of my boys are Rousseau’s snitches.”

Delphine’s eyes flashed and her voice hardened: “Who do they work for, you or Rousseau?”

Le Boudin grunted, drank another glass and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “A dog works for the man who feeds him.”

They were interrupted by the little girl Delphine had seen outside. She walked to the center of the room, stood still, and started chewing on a fingernail.

Le Boudin glared at her. “Hey girl,” he snarled, “I told you not to bother me when I’m doing business. Now get out before I tan your ass.”

The girl spat a tiny scrap of chewed fingernail on the floor. “I’m hungry, Grandpapa,” she whined without looking up.

“Well then, go find your ma and tell her to feed you.”

The girl rocked back and forth on her filthy bare feet. “Don’t know where Ma is. Ain’t seen her all day.”

Le Boudin grimaced. “Oh, all right.” He reached into a barrel and pulled out an apple. “Here you go, little one.” He lobbed the apple; the girl caught it deftly in one hand, took a bite, chewed and grinned. Then she turned her curious gaze on Delphine. Her mouth half-full, she mumbled, “Who’s she?”

Le Boudin gave the girl a mock frown and waved his hook menacingly. “She’s your Aunt Delphine. Show some manners, you little demon, and then scram.”

The child giggled, turned her back on Delphine and ran out the door.

“A wild one,” Le Boudin muttered, “just like you. Anyway, I’ll talk to the boys and see what they can find out. I’ll put up some trinket as a reward—at my expense, not yours. You mind what I said about your savings. And remember, if the dirt we dig up leads to Jojo or anyone else you take it to that inspector—what’s his name?”

“Lefebvre.”

“Yeah, you take it to him and don’t mess with it yourself. You ain’t as tough as you think. Now, it’s been nice seeing you after all these years, but I’ve got a business to run.”

Delphine laughed. “I know, Papa. Guess I better scram too.”

Le Boudin raised his bulk from the stool and lumbered round the table. He lifted Delphine out of her chair ’til her feet dangled a foot above the floor, and gave her a bear hug. “You take care of yourself, my girl,” he whispered huskily.