Bender at the Bon Parisien (A Novel) (21 page)

“I
hate to leave you all,” Pistache interrupted without too much grace. “But I
believe the night has dragged on long enough.” He turned to me. “Bartender,
give me the coin and I’ll be on my way.”

“Gimme
a break, man,” I said in English with a subtle laugh. “After all this, why
would I just hand it over?”

“Because,”
he answered as he reached into his sport coat pocket. “You have to.”

I
heard the ‘click’ as Pistache cocked the revolver. My heart sank. It went
without need for explanation that he’d removed it from Lavaar Peukington at
some point during the struggle.

“And
this one isn’t out of ammunition,” Pistache added mockingly.

Renard
sighed and took a step backward.

“Wait,
Jacques,” Victor managed.

Pistache
didn’t move. I was frozen, immediately aware that there was a chance I was
about to get shot for the second time in a night. Janie arrived silently at my
side.

Victor
continued as he stepped forward, “It’s not real.”

Momentarily
distracted from the coin, Pistache answered, “What do you mean it’s not real.
The coin’s a fake?”

“No,
the coin is very real. It’s authentic absolutely, but the story isn’t.”

“Napoleon
never owned it?” Trudel asked, echoing the thoughts of the room.

“What
is going on here?” A voice suddenly awoke. Every head turned. Peukington sat in
the chair with his head up.

“When
did you wake up?” Pistache said in a sarcastically cheery tone.

Peukington
looked around. “What happened?”

Janie
took a step forward and spoke very seriously. “You shot my husband. So, I beat
your ass with a chair.”

I
smiled, but tried not to let Peukington see it.

“Wow,”
Trudel said. “Look out for her, am I right?”

“You’re
still mad about that?” Pistache asked Janie in jest.

She
shot him a look. “Same thing is going to happen to you if you shoot him too,”
she answered with a nod to the revolver. Pistache was still pointing it at me.

“What
happened here?” Peukington repeated. “Where is the coin? Renard, untie me!”

No
one moved.

“Julian,”
Pistache said without breaking his stare at me. “Save your breath. I’ll fill
the rich man in.”

“Renard,
get me out of here,” Peukington hissed. He didn’t notice that Victor still
stood closely behind Renard.

“So
you shot this poor American tourist,” Pistache began for Peukington. “… And
then his wife kicked your ass with a chair. At least that was her description.”

“I
said that I beat his ass with a chair,” Janie said. “You can’t kick an ass with
a chair. How are you supposed to kick with a chair?”

Pistache
thought for a moment. “Funny. Anyway, we tied you up so you wouldn’t try to
murder anyone else while your lackey here traded fisticuffs with our former
bartender. He’s a tough bird. While all that was happening, this tourist guy
here comes back from the dead. It turns out that he’s had the coin all along.
So that’s something. Anyway, here we are now. He was about to give it over to
me when Victor and Julian here decide to tell me that it’s worth nothing.”

“Like
hell it’s worth nothing,” Peukington spit. “It belonged to Napoleon.”

“If
you believe in fairy tales,” Victor answered with soft hiss.

Pistache
ignored Victor. “That’s what I told them, Peuky. If it’s worth nothing, then
why did everyone show up here tonight for it?”

“Exactly,”
Peukington agreed. “For once, pickpocket, we are in complete agreement. How
about you untie me now.”

“Nice
try,” Pistache said with a smile.

“Renard!”
Peukington exclaimed. “Get me out of here! Grab that coin, and let’s go. Enough
monkeying around.”

Victor
silently moved to Peukington. Without a word, the old bartender wound up and
delivered a swift and powerful fist to Peukington’s face. The businessman once
again slumped and fell into silence.

Trudel
and Fleuse jumped back a little. Janie and I were stunned.

“Victor?!”
Trudel shrieked.

Renard
rolled his eyes, and Victor looked back at him.

“What?”
The bartender asked Peukington’s man. “It’s not like he was actually helping
anything here. I got thrown off a bridge, and that American guy got shot! He’s
better off knocked out!”

Renard
sighed. “It’s going to be so much harder to convince him not to kill you now.”

Victor Lacquer was still
not ready to be seen. He glided along familiar streets and felt a subtle sense
that he didn’t belong. Almost two weeks had passed. Sarah had been more than
accommodating, but he’d needed to join the world of the living again. Walking
through the town he knew, he felt as though something had changed. It was as if
Paris no longer belonged to him.

Victor
pushed his way through a park, passing a long string of bicycles chained to a
fence. A small flock of birds parted on the path as he walked by, annoying a
woman with birdseed on a bench.

Just
outside the park, Victor glanced at his reflection in the windows of a café he
knew well. He saw a face wracked with worry. Once he arrived at the Bon
Parisien, he figured he could say hello to the management, apologize, probably
pick up one last check, of course see if the coin was still there, and get out
of town. He thought of Fleuse and Jacques. Trudel knew about their secret as
well. Did she find a way to get herself wrapped up in this mess? What about the
man who’d thrown him off a bridge?

Victor
took a turn one street early. It wasn’t a shortcut, but the path up the
alleyway afforded a glimpse from a distance of the Hôtel des Bretons. He
enjoyed approaching the bar this way. The archway at the end of the alley perfectly
framed the Bon Parisien’s windows across the street.

But
today, Victor noticed something was different. At the end of the alley, a dark
shadow blocked Victor’s view of the hotel. It was a character.

At
first, the bartender assumed it was just another Parisian leaning up against a
wall on the sidewalk, rolling his own cigarette. But as he approached the
person’s backside, something was different. He could tell there was no
cigarette. In fact, the character’s body was rigid and alert. He was watching
for something and was transfixed by the Hôtel des Bretons. Victor immediately
softened his step, recognizing the man who’d thrown him from a bridge. Victor
quietly approached Julian Renard.

Without
thinking, he seized the man’s jacket and whipped him around, pressing him into
the brick alleyway wall. With Victor’s hands firmly around Renard’s neck,
Peukington’s man both choked and gasped with surprise at once.

“Victor!”
He managed in pain.

“That’s
right, motherfucker.”

“But
I threw you off the bridge. You’re alive!”

“I’m
back from the dead,” Victor snapped as he couldn’t control his temper.

Renard
struggled for breath, still pinned.

“Why
on Earth should I not kill you right now?!” Victor yelled as he reinforced his
grip on Peukington’s henchman.

“Keep
your voice down!” Renard hissed in pain. “I’m hiding here.”

Ignoring
him Victor answered, “Let’s hear it. Give me one reason.”

Renard
squirmed. “We’ll make a deal!”

“You
think you can buy me off? Really? After throwing me off a bridge?!”

“Listen,”
Renard struggled. “You chose to play this game. Getting thrown off a bridge, or
worse, is part of the risk you take. Let go of me, and let’s work this out.”

Victor
thought for a moment, but didn’t relent. “What can you offer me?”

“No,
no, no,” Renard squirmed, grabbing Victor’s hands. “You’ve got it all wrong.
The question is, what can you offer me?”

“Are
you serious!?” Victor again was yelling. “I’m the one with his hands on your
throat. You think you’re in a position to negotiate?”

Renard
winced and grunted, tightening his grip on Victor’s wrists. “I bested you once
old man. Do you have enough fight in you to try again?”

Victor
knew that if he tried to out-muscle Renard, he’d lose the fight.

Renard
continued, seemingly sensing weakness. “So I’ll ask again, what are you going
to do for me?”

The
bartender released the man, and took a step back.

“What
the hell are you talking about? Why would I do anything for you?”

Renard
fixed his sport coat and cleared his throat. “That’s better. First things
first: How are you?”

“Cut
the shit,” Victor spat, slightly short of breath. “Just answer the damn
question. Why would I do anything for you?”

“Well
let’s see,” he answered. “I already killed you once, and frankly, I’m not
afraid to do it again.”

Victor
winced.

“So,”
Peukington’s man continued as he gestured toward the Bon Parisien. “Right now
all your friends are in that bar. I don’t know what’s happened yet, because no
one has come out. That tells me that they either can’t find the coin in there,
or they are arguing over who gets to keep it.”

Victor
craned his neck to see into the bar’s windows, but he couldn’t make out the
details.

“So
unless you have a better idea,” Renard said, “here’s my plan. I would like to
kill you again, drag your body in there, and remind them what happens to people
when they take things that belong to other people. Specifically, Lavaar Peukington.”

Victor’s
shoulders dropped. “Okay,” he answered with a deflated tone. “Counter offer. I
just run away. You never hear from me again.”

“Well
that’s a nice thought,” Renard said. “But, Monsieur Peukington will always want
me to hunt you down. That’s the kind of man he is. Are you willing to live your
life with a target on your back? Can you hide out forever?”

Victor
felt as though he’d already lost. “Okay, what can I do?”

“Here’s
what’s going to happen,” Renard answered calmly. “I’m going in there. If anyone
comes out other than me, you get the coin from them. I don’t care how.”

Victor
nodded.

“If
an hour or so goes by and I haven’t come out,” Renard continued, “then you have
my permission to come in, but only under one stipulation.”

“What’s
that?”

“Not
only do none of them know that you are alive, but they don’t know that we’re
making a deal. They’ll be surprised, but they can’t know that we talked. They
have to believe that you are still working as a team with Fleuse and Jacques.”

“So
what happens if I get the coin?” Victor asked.

“Simple.
You can give it to me, and as a reward, I’ll tell Peukington not to kill you.”

“Will
he listen to you?”

“You
had better hope that he does,” Renard answered with a laugh. “Listen, Monsieur
Peukington is a businessman. He will recognize this deal. I can’t say he’ll be
so lenient with your friends.”

Victor
thought for a moment. “What happens if someone kills you in there?” Victor
asked.

“Really!?”
Renard asked, entertained. “Do you think someone in there is capable of that?”

“You
never know,” Victor said coldly.

“In
that event,” Renard mused, “You’ll have to return the coin to Monsieur
Peukington yourself and explain our arrangement. The only other outcome is you
getting thrown off another bridge or something.”

“I
guess I really hope that no one kills you,” Victor mused with a defeated shrug.

“Good
plan,” Renard said. “Where have you been, anyway?”

“Why
would I tell you,” Victor asked. “If something goes awry, I’m going to need a
hiding place. You didn’t even know I was alive.”

“But,
I wasn’t looking. Trust me, when Lavaar Peukington wants to find somebody, he
always does. Dead or alive.”

Victor
looked again at the bar, and then to Renard. “Fine. I’m still not telling you,
though.”

“I
can live with that,” Renard laughed. “Hang on to that if it makes you feel
better. So, are you ready?”

“One
last thing,” Victor added.

“Go
ahead,” Renard said.

“I’m
going to hit you when I get in there.”

Renard
clenched his teeth. “Don’t do anything stupid. You need me on your side,
bartender.”

“I’m
not asking. If we have to pretend this conversation never took place in front
of all of them, I’m going to have to really sell it. And I’m pretty annoyed
that you threw me off a bridge, so an apology would be great at some point.”

Renard
waited a moment and extended his hand. “Victor, I’m glad you aren’t dead. Now
let’s go finish this thing, huh?”

“Don’t
patronize me,” Victor grunted. “Save the act for the bar.”

“If
things were different,” Renard continued undeterred, “I sincerely believe that
I would have enjoyed a whiskey with you.”

Victor
averted his gaze, but shook the man’s hand anyway. “Yeah,” he answered.

“See
you soon, my friend.” Renard buttoned his sport coat and crossed the street for
the Hôtel des Bretons.

*        *        *

The
safe hit the floor with a thud. Pistache could feel himself starting to sweat.
Once it was discovered that he held the coin, there’s no telling what Renard
would do. As long as the safe remained locked, Pistache assumed that Renard
would be preoccupied and the pickpocket would be out of harm’s way. It would
buy him time to strategize.

Just
as he was thinking it, he heard Renard splinter the leg of a chair as he wedged
it against the combination dial. Pistache looked up from the card game.

“That
didn’t work,” Fleuse said.

“That’s
true, Monsieur Newman. Thank you,” Renard said, annoyed.

“I
am going to need another drink,” Pistache thought out loud. He didn’t realize
that his glass was empty as he taught the pretty American girl the Sailor’s
Revenge. She was still attempting the move, and Pistache found her clumsiness
charming. The girl was catching on slowly, though.

Of
course, none of this had changed the fact that he still needed an exit
strategy. He’d slowly come to terms with the fact that he wasn’t going to be
able to simply walk out of the place with the coin. He needed to re-hide it
somewhere. Preferably, somewhere out of the way. And to do it, he might need a
distraction. He had the answer almost as soon as he’d begun thinking about it.

“Wait
a minute!” he exclaimed to the American bartender. “Can you make a
Feu du
Saint Denis
?”

“I
have no idea what that is,” the tourist answered. His French pronunciation was
laughable.

“It’s
a flavored whiskey shot, but the top of it is on fire,” Pistache excitedly
announced. He knew it was a little risky, but fire causes chaos. He needed that
to guarantee that no eyes were on him.

“Who
was Saint Denis?” the American asked.

Pistache
had no idea. Who cares? “He was a saint.”

“Huh,
okay,” the American answered, looking unfulfilled. “Let’s try and keep the
lighting of fires to an absolute minimum.”

“Well,
think about it,” Pistache pressed on. What if there was a way to somehow use the
fire to open the safe?” He knew that fire might damage the safe, which would be
in his favor. If it was never opened, the coin in his pocket might stay a
secret.

“That’s
a terrible idea,” Renard said, overhearing the conversation.

“Why
not? Maybe we weaken something that can give way in the lock,” Pistache tried.

“Or
wind up melting it shut,” Fleuse added.

Damn
you Fleuse, Pistache thought.

“Fleuse
is right,” Trudel said as she looked over her hand of cards.

“Thank
you,” Fleuse said with a smile at Trudel.

“Well
for whatever it’s worth, I don’t love it either,” the pretty American girl
said.

Pistache
noticed her absentmindedly flipping the bottle cap between her fingers. “No one
asked you, American. Go back to working on your bottle cap trick.” He looked to
Trudel. “Keep your new friend quiet.” Pistache felt the bottle cap lightly hit
his arm. He remembered how much he hated most American girls.

“Well,
it looks like your chair thing is working really well,” the pickpocket went on
sarcastically. “So, maybe you should keep going with that while I make a
Feu
du Saint Denis
for everyone here who likes me.”

“Let’s
just hear him out for a second,” Fleuse surprisingly suggested. “Okay Jacques,
what do you propose?”

The
pickpocket was pleased. He asked the tourist, “Do you mind if I join you?”

“No,
come on back.”

Feeling
his victory closer at hand, Pistache ventured behind the bar. As he explained
the dangers of
poison du poisson
, his eyes darted between the bottles.
The hiding place for the coin should not be in plain site this time, he
thought.

Pistache
lined up the shot glasses, always keeping an eye on Renard. He lit the drink,
immediately realizing that he needed more fire. If a distraction was really
going to work, the situation must truly be out of control.

As
everyone drank, Fleuse added, “Let’s see just how hot this booze burns and its
effect on intricate metalwork. We might be able to tell if it will cause more
harm than good. We can use my watch.”