Bender at the Bon Parisien (A Novel) (19 page)

“We
don’t have the coin,” Janie answered, “but can we do that anyway?”

Immediately
steering the focus off of us, Peukington addressed the room with a voice that
shook like thunder.

“Ok,
that’s it. I’m not asking any more questions.”

Renard
finally lifted his head. It looked as if he was bracing himself for something.

“Listen
American,” he said to me without lowering the weapon. “You seem nice, like a
little bunny. But since you apparently know nothing, I won’t lose any
information if I lose you. Plus, I hate bunnies.”

I
saw the muscles on the back of his hand twitch, and I heard the gunshot. As if
shoved backwards, I felt the bar shelving thrust into my back. My spine
shifted. With ears ringing, the immediate fire that comes with pain swelled so
intensely that my eyes were forced closed. My knees gave way. Trying to fight
my seized face, I forced an eye open just in time to see the bar rise as I sunk
to the floor.

The American
bartender clumsily played the piano, but Jacques Pistache had barely noticed.
He’d only been in the Bon Parisien for a few minutes, but the pickpocket’s mind
was on other, more important matters. He eyed the clock behind the bar. The
ornate face once seemed elegant and artistic, but without the coin he thought
the piece was gaudy. Someone here had to have removed the item.

“In
the words of the Bard,” he whispered into his glass as he took a drink and
allowed his body to sway to the music. “The game is afoot.”

Fleuse
sat at a table, distracted by Trudel, who appropriately was having nothing to
do with the man. The pretty American girl was encouraging her husband’s
horrible music, and Pistache felt free to roam the room and think.

Did
Fleuse or Trudel have the coin? Did each one suspect the other? One or both
would surely know that Jacques didn’t have the coin if someone already nabbed it.
So far, no silent conversations were being held through stolen glances or
looks. Fleuse really seemed completely engaged by Trudel’s words, and the
latter seemed equally involved in her energies to keep him at bay.

Then
what about the tourists? Did they have any idea what was going on? They seemed
drunk. The American bartender’s playing was becoming increasingly loud.

“Okay,
that’s enough of that!” Trudel shouted.

“Let
him play!” Pistache answered, feigning interest. He had his actor shoes on.

Trudel
ignored the pickpocket. “I just finished my drink, and I need another. What
kind of bartender are you?”

“The
tourist kind,” the American said with a laugh.

“Honey,
get her a drink,” the pretty girl said.

Pistache’s
eyes darted around the room. Perhaps no one had the coin and it was hidden
somewhere else. If that was the case, he didn’t have a good idea of where to
start looking. There were so many trinkets and nooks and crannies that the coin
could almost have been anywhere.

The
music stopped. “Aww,” Pistache groaned, faking disappointment. “What shall I
dance to now?”

“I
didn’t come to my favorite bar in the world tonight to not drink anything,” Trudel
squawked. “Here it’s been closed for a few weeks and this is what I have to
return to.” The very sound of her voice annoyed Pistache to his core.

“He
is doing his best,” the hapless Fleuse remarked. The pickpocket watched him. If
he had the coin, he would surely have signaled something to Pistache.

Fleuse
continued, “It’s better than serving ourselves.”

“Is
it?!” The opera singer snapped.

Everything
about the woman repelled Pistache. She was entitled and devious. Worst of all,
she may have been a vital distraction for a member of their team, Victor.

He
decided to stir the pot. Perhaps if he engaged the two more, he’d be able to
decipher if one of them had the coin.

“If
you can tell me,” Pistache mused to Trudel, “how to make something as simple as
a martini, then I will buy your next drink.”

“Go
to hell,” she grunted.

“That’s
what I thought,” he answered with a leer. He was trying to see directly past
the conversation and into the subtext of her speech, but she was proving
unreadable. “You couldn’t serve yourself if you tried.”

Nothing.
Pistache was beginning to be frustrated.

“Oh,
I think I could take another beer,” he said aloud as he thought about entirely
different matters. But almost as soon as he’d absentmindedly said it, a new
idea dawned upon him.

Fleuse
hadn’t silently signaled that he’d taken the coin. Pistache didn’t believe that
the clockmaker was bright enough to hide it from him anyway. The Americans
likely didn’t even know about the hidden object, so Trudel could really be the
only one who had it.

All
Pistache needed to do was put his skills to work and check her pockets for the
coin. But, Trudel had had her guard up from the moment he’d arrived. The opera
singer had made her distrust of him very evident with every step in the
conversation. A distraction would help.

“Here’s
an idea,” he announced, pleased with himself. “We should play a drinking game.”

“We’re
listening,” the pretty girl said smiling.

“Well,”
Pistache began confidently, inventing the game as he went. “I’m thinking maybe
something that says ‘welcome to Europe’ for both of you.”

The
bartender’s pretty wife was smiling.

“Perhaps,”
the pickpocket tried with the rise of an eyebrow and a look to the young woman,
“something that involves the loss of clothing.” The coin would be easier to
find if everyone were removing clothing. Then again, the thought of a lumbering
and naked Trudel made the pickpocket shudder.

“No,”
the tourists answered in concert.

“Okay
then, new idea,” Pistache improvised. “Does anyone have a deck of cards? I
assure you, all clothes will stay on.”

The
American behind the bar began to rummage around for the item under the ineffective
direction of Fleuse. Pistache looked around the room at all the players. Trudel
would be his target, but he could not simply invade her personal space immediately.
It was then that he noticed the pretty girl’s necklace.

“Got
it!” The bartender shouted proudly as he produced a shoebox, followed by a deck
of cards. Pistache moved toward the man’s wife.

“Perfect,
let’s see the cards. Everyone gather around up here.” Pickpocketing is easier
in crowds.

“Didn’t
you say you did a little magic?” the pretty girl asked. Her French was better
than he’d imagined.

“I
did,” Pistache answered, maintaining his act. “But, card tricks aren’t really
my thing. That is, unless you have another card hiding behind your ear.” The
swift touch of the girl’s chin and a wink proved enough distraction to flip the
clasp on her necklace. He pocketed the prize.

“Back
off, man,” the temporary bartender said, oblivious to the actual circumstances.
“Really, that’s enough.”

“Sorry,
my friend,” Pistache answered, acting apologetic and a little drunk. “I get
carried away. Okay, here’s the game. There are five of us here, so we deal out
nine cards each. Jokers included.”

The
pickpocket dove headfirst into the explanation of his game. He was proud of the
fluidity with which he was able to describe the rules, especially considering
there had been no advance planning.

The
instructions of the game were rather basic, and the collected group made it
easy for Pistache to brush against their pockets. Obviously, he cared more
about the others busying themselves than the game itself at all. Although he’d
already managed the necklace from the pretty American, Trudel would still be a
difficult target. He’d need every advantage.

“And
the jack?” the opera singer asked, snapping Pistache’s concentration.

“The
jack is in the blind!” the pickpocket exclaimed, pleased with his recovery.
“Whoever has the queen, produce it and drink!”

Just
then, a man entered. All parties turned to see the stranger, who appeared with
a pleasant look on his face.

“Good
evening, sir,” the American bartender said. Pistache thought the tourist was a
fool, pretending to be a real Parisian bartender.

“Good
evening. How about a beer?” the stranger answered.

Something
was familiar about the man to Pistache, the sound of his voice, his face. Even
his gait rang a bell, but he could not place the man.

“Sounds
good,” the American replied.

Pistache
knew he had to think fast. Now that there was an uninvolved bystander in the
room, could he proceed as he needed to? Did he invite him to play? Would not
inviting the stranger look too suspicious?

“Looks
like you are all in the middle of a card game,” the man said.

“Yes,”
the pickpocket answered. He only had one real choice on handling this
unexpected patron. The pickpocket would need to ignore the fact that the man
was somewhat familiar. Devoting any more mental energy to searching his
memories would be too distracting, especially if it unearthed some trivial
encounter on a metro or in this very bar.

“In
fact,” Pistache continued. “I was just explaining the rules to my friends here.
Would you like to join? It could be easily arranged.”

“No,
thank you.”

Pistache
felt relieved.

“I
brought a book, so I’ll be comfortable somewhere over there, thanks,” the
stranger finished.

Pistache
refocused. It would be easy to continue with the stranger removed from the
moment. As the man went to his table, Pistache maintained character and
announced, “So we continue! Where’s the king of spades!”

Little
did he know, a game-changing move had just been made.

*        *        *

The
card game progressed, and Pistache was beginning to feel as though his chances of
getting close to Trudel were running out. She was becoming friendlier with
drink, but as the rounds kept piling up, the game seemed to drag on.

At
various points in the action, Pistache would glance in the direction of the
stranger. He knew from experience to be aware of his entire surroundings, and
he was unnerved when he looked the way of the man at the table. The man seemed
to be peering back. Maybe it was just Pistache’s imagination, but he even felt
as though he detected a smirk at times.

No
matter the circumstance, Pistache knew he needed to find the coin. Growing
frustrated still with Trudel, he moved to Fleuse, who was looking rather weary
with drink.

“Are
you running out of steam, my dear man?” Pistache asked, hoping the new tactic
with Trudel’s suitor would change the opera singer’s demeanor.

“Don’t
give up now,” he continued. “You just need a little pick-me-up.”

Pistache
moved so quickly to Fleuse that the clockmaker barely had time to resist being
drawn into a somewhat intimate embrace. Pistache hummed a lullaby, but kept one
eye on Trudel.

The
opera singer seemed mildly entertained for a moment. She took a sip of her
drink and dryly commented, “You two are strange.”

Fleuse
protested. Pistache checked the man’s pockets as they danced. Unsurprisingly,
no coin. He lifted Fleuse’s watch, a momentary distraction. The pickpocket couldn’t
help himself. The man didn’t seem to notice, nor did any of the other patrons
for that matter. He told Fleuse as he walked away, “You move well, my man.”

“Did
you like my dancing?” The clockmaker asked the opera singer softly.

“You
were hating it yourself in the moment,” Trudel said. “Now you are proud of it?”

 “Of
course he’s proud,” Pistache said, creeping closer to her. Sensing a change in
mood, the pickpocket was ready to pounce. All he needed was a second. “We were
good together just now.”

“Who
has the three?” the American bartender asked.

Trudel
looked to her hand, and Pistache considered leaping in, but he hesitated just
long enough to miss the opportunity.

“What
happens if consecutive cards are in the blind?” the bartender piped up again.

Slightly
annoyed, Pistache just wished the tourist would not care about the card game.
Without making too much effort to pretend the game was in fact a real one,
Pistache blurted out “then everyone takes a drink!” He shrugged lightly and
yelled “Pistache!”

“You’re
making that up,” Trudel said.

The
pickpocket inched closer.

“Yes
I am. Are you not having fun?”

“No,
actually, I am.”

Finally
sensing an opportunity, Pistache lit up inside. “I knew it, Madame von
Hugelstein!” he exclaimed. He could almost reach her handbag. But no, he knew
she wouldn’t put the coin there. It was too precious, and she’d know others
would be looking for it. It had to be on her person.

“But,”
she added, holding her finger up to make an exception. “That doesn’t mean I
find you at all funny!”

Pistache
felt as though she was almost flirting with him. It was the moment he needed.

“Madame
von Hugelstein, I must tell you!” The pickpocket bellowed as he thrust his arm
around her and swiftly managed his hand underneath her scarf, into her inside
jacket pocket. “I have met my match!”

It
was a lucky, albeit educated guess. There, inside the cozy darkness of the
opera singer’s breast pocket, Pistache closed his fingers around a weighty,
cold piece of thin precious metal. The coin had been found.

The
lift was nearly flawless as Trudel instinctively leaned away from him and
ducked from beneath his arm. Pistache did everything he could to hide his
elation, but after an entire evening of charades and plotting, he felt
victorious. He slipped the coin into his own pocket and immediately took a
drink in an attempt to hide his smile.