Bender at the Bon Parisien (A Novel) (16 page)

“Psst,
honey!” I whispered as I dried a glass. Janie walked over, as the rest of the
room apparently didn’t notice.

“Hey
baby,” she answered.

“So,
are we going to ignore the fact that this guy killed someone?” I motioned
toward Renard. “Shouldn’t we be trying a little harder to get the hell out of
here?”

Janie
subtly looked in his direction. Renard was staring at his half-drunk glass.

“I
don’t know. I don’t think that he’ll actually hurt us.”

“Maybe,”
I said. “He does seem pretty reasonable, but he just admitted that he killed
someone.”

“Yeah,
I get that. But do you really want to test him and just try to walk out of
here?”

“Not
really,” I guessed.

“Plus,
think about this: He hasn’t been at all close to violent tonight. Nor has he
even said that he has a weapon on him.”
          “I guess you’re right,”
I sighed. “But still, this is serious. I need to keep you safe.” I puffed my
chest a little.

“Please.
Exhale, baby. You’d have more credibility if your shirt wasn’t in four pieces.”

I
did look ridiculous. She was right.

“Let
me ask you this,” she continued. “There’s a good chance that this coin of
theirs isn’t anywhere in here.”

“Yeah,
I’ve thought of that.”

“So
don’t you want to know where it has ended up?”

“Truthfully,
I’m a little more concerned about getting out of here right now,” I answered.

“No,
I know. But think about it for a second. When we look back on this later, won’t
it be annoying to not know?”

“I
guess.”

“I
mean,” she insisted, “we’re going to wind up telling people about tonight. It’s
an incredible thing to happen to us. Won’t it be such a shame if we have an
undefined ending?”

I
thought about it seriously as I washed a glass. “Not knowing might make it better,
actually,” I answered, shrugging.

“I
suppose.”

I
switched gears, and nodded at the coins. “So, how do they look?”

“They’re
cool,” she answered, looking down at the bar top. Janie and Fleuse had
meticulously laid out each coin from the safe. Even an inch apart, they took up
a large expanse of bar-top real estate. Trudel watched them organize over her
shoulder, and all three occasionally made comments about which ones they liked.
Most were in foreign languages and bore the faces of unfamiliar royalty. Pistache
sat alone at a table out on the floor.

While
whispering with Janie, I’d noticed Renard’s spirit had deflated. He wasn’t
guarding the curtain with any fervor, but he was seated at the end of the bar
closest to it. His drink sat in front of him. It was a lonely look, as if he’d
been through a breakup. I was beginning to feel badly for him. He noticed me
looking at him.

“So,
your girl says you’re a writer,” he said.

“A
journalist, yes.”

“I
imagine this is plenty of fodder for you.”

“Well,
I write about news and events mostly. I’m not sure how I’d approach this
experience.”

He
lightly shrugged. “Listen, write whatever you want. Just don’t mention Monsieur
Peukington. I’m serious about that.”

“Of
course.” I was unwilling to mess with a guy who threw someone off a bridge.

“Good.
Did you know that you’re bleeding?” he asked with a nod toward my hand.

I
looked down. It wasn’t much, and I hadn’t felt it. Really not more than a
scratch across the top of one of my fingers, it had been bleeding slowly. It
had to have happened during the safe moving.

“Huh,
I didn’t see that,” I automatically answered. Instinctively, I wiped it on the
front of my shirt.

Janie
looked up. “Honey, give me a break. You have soap, a sink, and towels back
there. How old are you?”

“That’s
true,” I admitted. “Who knows how nasty these towels are, though?”

I
washed my hand. Since things had finally calmed down in the bar, for the first
time it occurred to me that I might want to let the concierge know that we had
found the safe.

“So,
listen,” I said to Renard. “I know that you haven’t really found what you’re
looking for, and I am beginning to feel as though it might not be in here.”

He
made a face and took a drink.

I
continued, “So, my wife and I haven’t eaten yet, and we were headed out to dinner
when we came in here this evening.”

“We’re
way passed dinner now, honey,” Janie said. I had no idea why she would say
something that might keep us from getting out of there.

“Well,
cafés are still open,” I said hopefully.

“Very
few. Kitchens won’t be anywhere,” Fleuse muttered as he tilted a coin in his
hand toward the light.

“Well,
the point is,” I continued for Renard, “that it seems like things here have
kind of reached … an impasse.”

“The
coin is in here. I’m sure of it,” he said with another drink.

“I
know that you keep saying that, but are you sure that we need to be here while
you find it?”

He
finished the drink and set the glass down in front of him. “Look. You two have
been very friendly. I like you both, and you’ve been helpful. Do I think that
you are concealing the coin? No. Can I be absolutely sure that you are not? Also
no.”

“We
don’t have it!” Janie protested.

“Yeah,
if I had it,” I said, “I would just give it to you.”

“Would
you really?” Pistache asked as he stood.

“Yes.”

“Think
about it though,” the pickpocket went on as he approached the bar. “It’s
valuable.”

“Yes,
I know,” I said.

“I
don’t know you, but my guess is that you have probably never held anything that
valuable before.”

“True,”
I said. “But if this thing really belongs to some businessman, then I wouldn’t
keep it.”

“Stop
calling him that!” Pistache exclaimed and retreated back to his table.

I
looked to Renard who wasn’t saying anything.

“Why
not?” I asked. “This Peukington guy? I thought that’s what he was.”

“Well,
he is a businessman,” Renard said while tapping the edge of the empty glass.
“But …”

“He’s
a very dangerous businessman,” Pistache yelled out.

“What
do you mean, dangerous?” I asked as I refilled Renard’s drink.

“Think
about it,” Trudel hissed as she locked eyes on Renard. “Businessmen don’t kill
people.”

There
was a momentary silence.

“He
does business, though,” Renard refuted.

“Do
you get it yet?!” Pistache yelled toward me. “He is a bad guy! The cops look
for ways to get him.”

“For
what?” I asked.

“Not
all his business is legal,” Renard said simply.

“Not
all his business is legal?” Pistache huffed. “Heh, I’ll say. He ordered you to
kill Victor.”

“That
is not exactly true,” Renard stated. “I really wasn’t supposed to kill him.”

“No
one is saying it, but I will,” Fleuse chimed in as he placed a coin he held
back on the counter. He looked at me. “Monsieur Peukington is a gangster.”

“Do
you get it now?” Pistache again stood. “This guy, Renard obviously works for
him. He’s kind of a henchman. He’s not a trained killer or anything, but he’s
muscle. You are not targets of his, but if you try to go anywhere he’ll
probably make sure that you don’t have the coin. And he won’t care if you’re
conscious or not while he checks.”

“He
seems to like you guys, though,” Fleuse added positively. “Maybe he wouldn’t
kill you like he did Victor.”

I
looked to Renard, who confirmed the accusation without saying anything. I
sighed and reached for a bottle of whiskey. Removing the pour top, I took a
swig straight from the bottle. Exasperated by the situation, I was hoping that
the booze would help me feel numb to it. My eyes immediately watered from the
quick swallow. Pistache huffed in amusement.

I
looked in Janie’s direction, expecting to see a horrified and scared spouse. If
anything though, she was distracted. I worried that the sudden rush of booze
had skewed my perception, but she wasn’t even looking back. I saw her staring
at the curtain.

“Who
is that?” she said softly. All heads turned toward the entrance, and there was
an audible wave of gasps that rushed over the room.

I
looked toward the curtain as well and saw a thin, old face peering back at us
through shadows beyond the opening in the drape. I thought I was imagining it
all before I blinked a few times and the apparition did not dissipate.

The
visage barely reacted to being noticed by the group in the bar. Reduced to a
gasp, I heard the one word Trudel could muster.

“Victor!”

The trip from the
bridge to the water was longer than Victor Lacquer expected. It didn’t look
like much from a distance. He’d never leapt from anything higher than a diving
board in his youth, so the concept of really falling was altogether foreign.

He
heard the smack as he hit. Icy water burned his skin numb. His heart punched
the inside of his chest. He kicked. There was no bottom. The current
immediately pushed him.

Dizzied
by the fall and disoriented, Victor somehow found a way to find the surface,
even if only for a moment. He craned his neck. Keeping his head above water was
much harder than he would have thought. He stretched to get a glimpse of the
banks between interrupted gasps for air. No one was there to notice.

Victor’s
moments were passing quickly, and it wasn’t long before he realized that he was
in trouble. He kicked off his loafers. Muscles instantly ached. He struggled to
stay afloat. Panic. Sucking air. For the first time in his life, Victor thought
that he was going to die.

He
couldn’t have been in the water for more than half a minute. The bartender’s
perception of time was skewed. He knew it was only a second or two before his
head would sink below the water’s surface. However, those two seconds of
swimming saved him. It was just enough time to notice a rope among the waves.

Victor
didn’t know where it had come from, but it lay on the surface of the water,
floating in a mess of turns and loops. He didn’t know why he even reached for
it, but he did. It provided little comfort. The rope did not have nearly the buoyancy
it needed to keep him from slipping under. But, still he held it in his hand.

The
notion of holding on to this rope felt futile quickly. For all he knew, it was
river trash thrown from one of the many quiet houseboats and barges that lined
the river’s edge. Suddenly, something pulled the rope. The line sped through
his hand. He tightened his grip and was on the move.

He
wasn’t going anywhere quickly, but it was suddenly easier to keep his head above
water. He rubbed the river from his eyes and was happy to see someone actively
pulling him toward a houseboat. With the deck of the long, flat boat towering above
him, Victor was happy to realize that there was a ladder along the vessel’s
side.

Upon
grabbing it, he felt his arms give out. Victor spent so much energy trying to
stay alive in the river, that he was unsure now if he could even drag himself
up to safety.

Still,
he threw his hand at the next thin cold metal rung, and then again at the next.
He felt a strong hand grip his collar, and suddenly the strain on his own
muscles was lifted as he felt his shirt begin to pull him upward.

Victor
was finally lying on the deck of the boat in a puddle of water. He inhaled air
in giant gulps. The deck was hard and unforgiving. Gravity pulled him to it so
ferociously that his face started to hurt.

“Are
you okay?” a woman’s voice asked.

Victor’s
eyes were open, but he hadn’t thought yet to look upon the person who had saved
him.

“Hey,”
she repeated. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,”
he mustered through labored breaths. “Thank you.”

“What
happened?”

He
finally was able to focus on her. How she had been able to pull him from the
water with such ease was a mystery. She was short. Her wiry black hair was tied
in back, and her blue sweater was old and ratty. She stood next to an
unfinished wooden chair, hovering over him. Her long skirt stopped just above
her bare feet.

“I
was thrown off the bridge,” he blurted out.

“What?!”
she asked with surprise.

“Well,
I …” He wasn’t sure how to explain it. Victor was out of breath still just
trying to talk.

“Come
on,” she urged. “Let’s get you up.”

Before
Victor knew what was happening, she had him on his feet.

“You
had better come inside, it’s cold,” she continued. It was still summer, but the
nights had begun to cool considerably, and he shivered.

She
walked him passed some weathered outdoor furniture on the boat’s deck through a
small doorway. Victor had to duck. Bathed in the soft yellow light, the
bartender collapsed in a chair. A light hung from the ceiling, practically
tapping him on the forehead. He felt his clothing being removed. It felt
better.

“Take
off your pants,” the woman said. “My husband has a pair that will work. Or I
can just get you a blanket.”

Victor,
still in shock, complied. “A blanket is fine,” he muttered. “Thank you for the
help. Who are you?”

“I’m
Sarah,” she said through the door as she hung his clothes over the railing
outside. “You said that someone threw you off a bridge?”

“Well,
yes,” he replied simply as she returned to him. He wasn’t sure how much he
should explain.

Victor
looked around. He sat in a room that clearly doubled as kitchen and dining
area. The woman kept numerous houseplants in every corner on the space. There
was barely room to walk. Pots and pans hung from the ceiling, and Victor was
reminded of the bar. Sarah fit under them all, a remarkably small woman.

“Do
you live here?” he asked.

“Yes.
Let me make some coffee. You need to warm up.”

“You
live on a boat?” Victor asked.

“I
do,” she answered with a snicker. “I live on this boat.”

For
a moment, Victor considered retirement on a boat. Then, he remembered his
current circumstances. The future of the coin was suddenly very much
undetermined, and it seemed he had less claim to it than ever.

“So
are you going to tell me who threw you off the bridge?”

Victor
snapped out of his daydream. “I actually don’t know him.”

“So
you were randomly thrown off a bridge? I hope that trend doesn’t catch on.”

“Not
exactly. He did introduce himself first.”

“I
don’t want to pry,” Sarah said as she sat at the table with a cup of coffee for
herself. “But, it seems like there is more to this story.”

“Well,
there is.”

“I
know we just met, but why do I get the feeling that you might have deserved to
be thrown off the bridge?”

Victor
chuckled. “Yes, maybe. Who knows?” he said as he took a sip. He was beginning
to feel more like himself.

“What’s
your name?” Sarah asked.

“Victor.”

“Good.
Since you were thrown off a bridge and I saved you, a police officer might one
day ask me about it. I want to at least tell them I asked,” she said
nonchalantly.

The
bartender liked her. She made him feel comfortable.

“Victor
Lacquer,” he said as he extended his hand, finally having fully caught his
breath.

*        *        *

Victor
emerged from the kitchen in the cool grey morning light. Sarah let him sleep on
a trundle that pulled out from a bench along the side of the kitchen table. There
had been barely room to move, but he’d been warm and comfortable. His muscles
were so numb and tired from the river, it had been a solid sleep.

His
hostess had left some of her husband’s clothes for him to wear. They were slightly
too big for him, but Victor didn’t mind. When he emerged onto the deck of the
houseboat, he saw Sarah seated at an outdoor table. He didn’t know why she’d
trusted him, but he felt a particular kindness toward her as well.

“Good
morning,” she said as she sipped coffee and turned the page on a newspaper. Her
bony hand gripped the mug, stretching leather skin over her knuckles.

“Do
you get the paper delivered on the river?” he asked, jokingly.

“Actually
yes,” she answered. “Someone comes along every morning.”

Victor
walked to the railing and looked up and down the quai. The boat had not moved
from the night before. Many others like it were tied to the shore near Sarah’s.
He looked up the great stone walls that lined the river and saw backs of kiosks
that lined the sidewalk above. Behind him, he viewed the distant opposite riverbank.

“Would
you like a cup of coffee?” Sarah asked.

“Sure,”
he answered, looking at other houseboats. “Do you know the other people tied up
along here?”

“I
have met him,” she said as she nodded to the houseboat directly in front of
hers. “But, not many others. There’s a pot of coffee right here. Empty mugs are
inside. The cabinet above the wash basin.”

“I
wasn’t sure if this was a regular neighborhood or anything,” Victor thought
aloud, ducking back inside briefly. “If everyone’s houses come and go, I
suppose not.”

“Actually,
that is not exactly the case,” she called after him. “I have been tied here for
years.”

“Doesn’t
that defeat the purpose of having a moving house?”

“Well,
my husband and I don’t crave change the way some boat owners do.”

“Interesting,”
Victor noted as he emerged.

“So
Victor,” Sarah began. “Now that you are rested and dry, I take it you won’t be
staying here today. I’ll just need those clothes back before you go. I have
yours drying on a line near the bow. They should be ready within an hour or so.”

Victor
nodded as he poured coffee. “Thank you.”

“I
don’t think you came aboard with shoes,” Sarah said, looking at the bartender’s
feet.

“Oh,
right.”

“I
have an old pair of sandals that you can take if you need them.”

“That’s
great, thank you. You have been very hospitable.”

“Well,
I have many visitors when my husband is away. Sometimes it’s people we know,
other times it’s people in need.”

“Seems
dangerous,” Victor said, sitting down across from her. An all-weather area rug
felt cold and hard on his bare feet. “Doesn’t your husband worry that someone
will hurt you when he’s gone?”

“Maybe,”
she smiled. “But I don’t tell him half the time.”

“Well,
I’d be worried,” he said.

“That’s
sweet of you. You have enough to be worried about for yourself though,” she
said. “You got thrown off a bridge.”

“True.”

“I’m
sure that you’re in good shape now. Surely the guy isn’t still up there waiting
for you,” Sarah mused.

Victor
sipped his coffee. “Well, I certainly hope not, but I can’t be too sure about
it.”

“Oh
yeah?”

Victor
paused as he stared into the blackness of his mug.

“The
thing is,” Victor answered, “I did something wrong.”

“I’m
listening.”

“Something
illegal.”

Sarah
shifted in her chair.

“Oh
don’t worry,” Victor continued. “The police aren’t after me or anything. At
this stage, it could really just be classified as a personal problem with
someone.”

“Am
I in trouble for having you here?” Sarah asked, voicing her obvious concern.

“No,”
the bartender answered. “Still, I should be off.”

“Well,
hang on. Now I’m curious. Your clothes still need to dry anyway. So, out with
it. What happened?”

With
a sigh, Victor told her everything.

*        *        *

Victor
stayed another night on the barge with Sarah. As he’d recounted the situation
to her over coffee that morning, he’d somehow earned enough of her trust to
gain the invitation.

The
bartender had learned that Sarah herself was a fairly free-spirited person. Her
husband was a business-minded man, who truly seemed to love her eccentricities,
perhaps due to a lack of any himself.

“So
you don’t mind him being gone?” Victor asked as the two sat on the deck at
night. The soft morning sky had been replaced with stars. Instead of coffee, a
bottle of brandy sat on the table.

Wrapped
in a blanket, Sarah answered, “I would of course rather have him here. But, I
definitely don’t mind that he has his business.”

Victor
nodded.

“So,”
she said. “What about Trudel? The woman you mentioned this morning?”

“What
about her?” Victor grunted.

“Will
you be running away with her?”

“I
honestly hadn’t planned for that really. It never occurred to me that she would
even want to leave.”

Sarah
sat with her feet tucked beneath a blanket, gently swirling her brandy with the
motion of her glass.

Pausing
in thought, Victor added, “I actually didn’t really think that we’d wind up
together forever anyway.”

“I
gathered, based on what you said this morning about the time in the café with
her.”

Victor
took a sip of brandy.

“May
I weigh in here?” Sarah asked.