Bender at the Bon Parisien (A Novel) (11 page)

“That’s
why we came to you,” Pistache said, irritated.

“Well,
I have collected, yes,” Victor said, “but I don’t know the details about every
coin ever made. I’ve actually sold off most of my collection. Still, I have a
contact who can pinpoint exactly when and where this one was minted. He’s
helped me in the past. May I take it to him?”

“We
were hoping you’d know someone who might have an answer in case you didn’t,”
Fleuse said.

“Can
we trust this guy?” Pistache added.

“Oh
yes,” Victor answered. “As I said, I’ve used him many times before.”

“I
would be happy to go with you,” Pistache said.

“Are
you sure that’s what you want, though?” Victor answered. “If Peukington does in
fact try to hunt you down, wouldn’t you like to not have the coin for a while?
It might be helpful for you to throw them off the scent in case he finds you.”

“He
has a point,” Fleuse reassured Pistache. “We can trust Victor.”

The
bartender continued, “Fleuse, I have a feeling this coin will be worth a good
deal of money, especially if it was in Lavaar Peukington’s pocket. I would
accept a modest fee for the transportation and estimation of value for the
coin.”

“And
you won’t mind putting yourself in danger?” Fleuse asked.

“Well,
I won’t really be in danger,” he answered. “No one really expects me to have
it. They don’t know to look for me.”

“Peukington,
you mean?” Fleuse asked for clarification.

“Yes,”
Victor answered. “Plus, it will only be for a short time anyway. Just long
enough to get an idea of its worth.”

Fleuse
and Pistache silently conferred. “That sounds reasonable,” Newman said.

“As
long as the coin is worth an adequate sum,” Pistache added protecting his own
interests. “If it’s not worth anything, your fee would have to be pretty
small.”

“I
understand,” Victor said. “That seems fair.”

“Are
you sure you are okay doing this?” Fleuse finally asked him.

“I
assure you, I’ll be fine,” Victor answered, seeing a possible solution to his
financial troubles.

“Let me make sure
that I’m understanding this correctly,” I thought aloud as we stood in the bar,
however many drinks in. “You guys have been stalking this bar until it reopened—and
in some cases stalking each other—just to find a coin that might be worth a
little money?”

“Well,
not just a little money,” Pistache said.

“Okay,
so let’s say it’s worth two thousand euros,” I went on. “That would be an
incredible price for an old coin, no? What happens next? A few of you split it?
If Julian here finds it, it just heads back to the owner? Why all the fuss for
a couple hundred euros?”

As
I spoke, I glanced at Janie. I could tell she had the same inquiry.

“I
remember when Victor first mentioned it,” Trudel stated. “He was excited about
it. He wouldn’t have been if it had been small change. He was used to dealing
with big numbers, investments, and so on.”

“She’s
right. The coin is actually quite a bit more valuable than any of these people
predicted,” Renard stated calmly.

I
looked to the rest of them. Everyone was silent. It became obvious that
whatever Renard was about to say was only news to Janie and me.

“On
top of the enormous sentimental value of the object for Monsieur Peukington,
it’s known among collectors as the rarest of its kind.”

Pistache
jumped in. “Victor knew it. When we saw him next, he could barely contain
himself.”

“Due
to the crudeness and inexactitude of the minting pre-revolution, there were
many imperfections on currency,” Renard explained. “Coins like this one are not
solely made valuable by errors in minting. There has to be more. In this coin’s
case, it began as a 100-franc coin, so it has Louis XVI’s image pressed into
it. But, it was Napoleon who made his mark on it.”

“Literally,”
Pistache huffed.

Janie
and I looked at each other.

“What
do you mean by ‘literally’?” Janie asked.

“It
is said,” Renard continued, “that Napoleon led his troops into battle. A musket
ball struck him, and he would have been killed in action if it weren’t for this
coin in his pocket. It is not possible to know for certain if this tale is
true. The coin itself is damaged from the bullet, but it was not likely a
direct hit if it occurred.”

Pistache
added, “The bullet left a mark right across the face of Louis XVI.”

Breaking
his silence, Fleuse mused, “Symbolism for the revolution.”

All
were quiet as the story sunk in, but I couldn’t help laughing. Janie was in
similar shape. Her facial expression said it all.

“Yeah,
right,” she said softly.

If
the others heard her say it, they chose to ignore it. Renard continued. “We all
know Napoleon’s story, and apparently this coin never left his side after that.
Upon his death, the coin passed to his kin. It’s been in his family ever
since.”

“Gold
couldn’t stop a bullet without just crumpling, right?” Janie asked. “I mean, is
it really all that strong of a metal?”

“Victor
guessed that there was iron in it as well,” Fleuse added.

“And
nickel,” Pistache said.

“That’s
correct,” Renard said. “But really mostly iron.”

“Okay,
let’s pretend I believe that for a second,” Janie said as she searched for
understanding. “So this Peukington guy is a descendant of Napoleon?”

“Really?”
I asked.

“Well,”
Janie continued, “they said that the coin never left Napoleon’s family.”

“That’s
right,” Renard answered. “That makes the coin a relic of a bygone era of kings,
the lucky penny of an emperor, and the treasured heirloom of one of today’s
most influential and powerful businessmen—a direct descendent of the original
owner himself.”

“So
how much did it wind up being worth?” I asked, still mostly disbelieving the
story.

“Well,
even if the coin didn’t have that story, it would be worth more than face value,”
Renard explained. Fleuse nodded in agreement. Pistache slowly sipped through
another drink.

“It
was only one of a few 100-franc pieces minted in 1789, before the revolution
turned the city upside down,” Renard continued. “It was also one of the only pieces
minted partially in iron, due to a shortage that year of gold. But above all,
it saved the life of an emperor and altered the course of France’s history.”

“So
… it’s worth … what?” I asked again.

Pausing
for effect, Renard finally stated frankly, “It’s worth one million euros.”

Janie
rolled her eyes.

“C’mon.
Give me a break,” I laughed again. “There’s no way that a coin can be worth one
million euros.”

“I’m
afraid there is,” Renard stated.

“But
that whole story is bullshit,” I blurted out. No one reacted. They all just
watched us. “I mean, how on earth can something be so valuable, strictly based
on conjecture?”

“The
coin is worth whatever anyone would pay for it. That’s fundamental. Monsieur
Peukington has had many generous offers,” Renard said.

“Who
has made offers?” Fleuse asked.

“A
few museums, several wealthy collectors,” Renard answered.

“Well,
it’s not all conjecture,” Pistache said to me, still irked by my question.

“Jacques
is right,” Renard added. “Plus, the coin has changed so few hands in its time.”

“Sorry,”
Janie interrupted. “I just don’t buy it.”

“Look
at it this way,” Renard mused. “The coin’s story doesn’t matter. I’m going to
find it tonight, period. The faster that happens, the sooner that you and your husband
can head out on the town.”

Part
of me was intrigued, but Janie wasn’t buying any of the hype. I could already
see Fleuse’s eyes beginning to wander around the room, searching for the object.
Renard and Pistache were focused on me, maybe in part because they believed
that I might have already found it before they arrived. Regardless, I was
officially curious.

“Okay,”
I said. “Let’s find it.”

*        *        *

The
bar exploded in motion. The six of us frantically searched. I felt as though I
had a distinct advantage in that I was already behind the bar. I was pulling
open cupboards and drawers that didn’t want to budge, expecting all the while to
find the object.

I
checked beneath the bust of the man, inside the paned-glass door of the clock,
and under every single bottle of liquor. I sifted through cobwebs stretched
across the back of the record player. I even patted down the old flannel and checked
the insides of the old shoes. I wasn’t finding the coin.

“It
will never be behind the bar,” Pistache exclaimed from under a table. “It’s too
obvious! You’re wasting your time.”

It
dawned on me that I wouldn’t know what to do with the coin if I were the one
who found it. One of these people would undoubtedly take it from me whether I
wanted to give it up or not. I suppose that I just wanted to know what it felt
like to hold an artifact worth one million euros. Maybe Janie and I could get
our picture taken with it. No one back home would believe me, but to hold
Napoleon’s lucky coin in my hand? Normal tourists don’t get that kind of
experience.

I
realized that I’d chosen to believe in the coin’s far-fetched history. The
story itself was ridiculous, but I pictured retelling friends with as much
drama as I could muster. I knew Janie would love that part as well. When my buddies
back home expressed their doubts about Napoleon being saved by a single lucky
coin, I would simply answer with a shrug and say, “What do you think he was
holding when he had his hand in his shirt as he posed for all those paintings?”

“You
see it back there?” Janie asked.

“No,”
I yelled back as I searched the crevices of a particularly cobwebby cabinet.

I
caught a glimpse of her out of the corner of my eye. Although entertained by
the story, she wasn’t working up a sweat to find the object. She’d been writing
on a napkin again.

But
now as she sat sipping her drink, her eyes giggled at the sight of the room
being examined. Chairs and tables were being upended. Pistache was practically
fully upside down as he peered into the piano’s cavernous shell. Renard looked
here and there, all the while keeping an eye on everyone else. He didn’t want
someone making a dash for the door.

And,
Janie sat there spectating. She didn’t think I noticed her run her hand along
the underside of the bar, an action that betrayed her coolness.

As
it all happened, I somehow managed visions of finding the loot and concealing
it quickly. I wasn’t sure how, but I pictured us getting out of the bar and
heading home. The desire to keep the coin in a drawer for years was
overwhelming, but thoughts of riches continually danced through my head. I
could leave my job at the paper, and Janie and I could travel the world finding
spots like the Bon Parisien everywhere.

I
was peering into the empty insides of a trophy cup on the shelves behind the
bar, when I noticed Janie again. Still casually running her hand beneath the
bar, I could tell that she felt something that interested her.

She
looked around the room to check for anyone who might be watching her
particularly closely, and then casually joined me behind the bar.

“What
did you find?” I asked as I wiped cookie jar dust from my hands.

She
didn’t answer, only knelt to get a better view of the bar’s underside. I saw
her once again reach for something, and a moment later she was holding an envelope.
She placed it on the bar and we looked at it.

The
envelope was in pretty decent shape. It wasn’t torn, wrinkled, or discolored.
It could not have been suspended underneath the bar for very long. Each corner
was adorned with the remnants of scotch tape. The tape was also not worn or
brittle.

“Is
the coin inside?” I asked.

“I
don’t think so,” she answered. “Didn’t feel like it.”

“Did
you find something?” Renard shouted in our direction.

“Probably
not,” I said. “It’s not the coin.”

Janie
flipped the envelope over, and I felt a pang of excitement shimmy up my spine.
Written in marker on the back of the envelope were the words, “Open if I am
gone.”

“Who
wrote that?” Janie asked.

“How
should I know?” I answered.

“That’s
Victor’s handwriting,” Trudel stated. I hadn’t noticed, but she’d joined us. In
fact, everyone was now watching Janie and me.

“Well,
open it,” I urged.

Janie
slowly separated the folds of the envelope. She handled it as if she were an
archeologist carefully opening scrolls. She pulled out a piece of paper. The
handwriting was carelessly scrawled across the page.

Janie
read, “If I am dead, blame Trudie.”

The
room stood quietly as all eyes found Trudel.

“Where
did you find that?” she asked.

“It
was taped under the bar,” Janie answered.

“Well,
I have no idea why he would have written that,” she defended herself with a
shake of her head.

“Probably,”
Pistache interjected under his breath, “because you’re a crazy witch.”

Her
eyes burned as she looked at him. Fleuse was also gnashing his teeth over the
comment, but no one addressed it.

“Is
there a date on it?” I asked.

“Nope,”
Janie responded.

Renard
craned his neck to see the note. He was still hovering near the curtain. His
wheels were turning as if every word were a clue.

“Well,
I don’t know what that note is about,” Trudel stated matter-of-factly.

“What
did you do to him?” Pistache hissed.

“Nothing!”

“Now
Jacques,” Fleuse began. “That doesn’t mean anything yet. It’s just a letter.”

“Victor
must have written it because he saw his own disappearance as a real
possibility!” Pistache exclaimed.

“Well,
I know,” Fleuse said with a pacifying tone. “But …”

“He
was your friend!” Pistache exclaimed. “Doesn’t it seem obvious what happened?
She got rid of him!”

“I
was in love with Victor!” Trudel yelled. “I miss him so much! Why would I kill
him?”

Fleuse
silently withdrew a little.

“Because,”
Pistache explained, “you wanted the coin!”

“Not
in exchange for Victor!”

“Everybody,
hang on,” I said. “I know that some of this stuff isn’t my business, but this
note isn’t much to go on. We have no idea when he wrote it, or the context in
which he wrote it. Plus, his name isn’t even on it anywhere. It would be
different if he’d signed it or something.”

“Don’t
be naïve, American!” Pistache blurted out.