Brainquake (23 page)

He had washed himself out of his trade. He was a goddam amateur. He had lost his mind. He had lost his vision. He had lost everything. The noise around him made him think that he was still at the track.

He raised his head enough to see the blur shimmering in front of him. The café neon brought out the color he had known for years. He slowly moved his fingers toward the blur, closed them around the glass without raising his head higher, downed the whiskey. He blamed Zara.

She had shaken him up, invaded his timing, aborted his caution. He was never that impatient. He should have walked in front of the beard, looked into his eyes. But he didn’t. He had never jumped the gun before, never acted until he was certain.

He shouldn’t have murdered them. Now he had murdered himself. He shouted for two more whiskies, saw two more shimmering blurs placed in front of him. He drank one, dozed off, fingers still clutching the empty glass. Through his semidoze, he faintly heard a woman’s voice:

“That’s better, Skipper.”

Father Flanagan slept.

* * *

Lafitte, holding the baby on his lap, tilted back the peak of his cap, which was half-hiding the baby’s face. A sketch of the baby was being made by an attractive artist.

“You’re American,” Lafitte said.

“I’m an international omelet,” Jacqueline said. “So you won at the races today?”

“Not me. My American friend here won on Red Comet in the third. The only long shot in the field.”

Jacqueline glanced at Paul. Next to him was Michelle. Both were still shaking about the double-murder at the track. They knew they were the targets. The victims were dressed like them. Lafitte holding the baby was close to them when it happened. The killer was either Eddie or the mob.

Jacqueline said, “You were there when that man and woman were knifed? I heard it on the radio…”

Lafitte shrugged. “It was a shock, but the races had to go on.”

“Hold still.”

* * *

Father Flanagan stopped dozing long enough to pull the full glass to his lips. He sipped the whiskey and with one eye saw the blur of a baby, the blur of Lafitte, the blur of Paul, the blur of Michelle.

Father Flanagan’s gaze rolled back to Jacqueline’s pencil sketching the face of the baby.

Then his eye rolled back to Paul. Slowly, through the blur, Paul’s eyes came into focus. Only for a second, but that second was enough to recognize Paul’s eyes. Father Flanagan tried to raise his head higher, tried to get his arms off the table, tried to stand up.

His head dropped back on his arms. He saw the bagman’s eyes. But Father Flanagan was drained of strength. He fought passing out. Whiskey won the bout. He fell asleep. But in his sleep he hung onto his last thread of knowing he had seen the bagman.

A couple hours later Father Flanagan woke up. A young man was sitting at the table. He was being sketched by Jacqueline.

“Does it look like me?” the young man said.

“Coming along,” Jacqueline said.

“Coming along,” Father Flanagan said, waving for another drink, “isn’t enough, Rembrandt.”

Jacqueline took the barb in stride. She smiled. She was polite. “I never charge for a portrait until it
is
right, Father. I’m no bluenose, Father, but I think another whiskey’ll put you back to sleep.”

Father Flanagan smiled. She was friendly. She liked to talk. Attractive, too. Not hard to handle. “What’s your name?”

“Jacqueline. What’s yours?”

“Flanagan. New York.”

“Midland, Texas.”

“You don’t sound like a Texan.”

“Find me a Texan who does.”

They laughed. The young man was annoyed.

“Are you concentrating on my sketch?” he said.

“All the time,” Jacqueline said. “Just about finished.”

She added a few strokes and produced it. The young man beamed, paid her and left.

“How about you, Father?”

He nodded. She turned her chair around enough to face him.

“You’re the first priest I’ve sketched. I had a rabbi, two ministers, and a baldheaded religious leader of some new sect.”

“And babies.”

“Some.”

“One earlier tonight.”

“How would you know? You were asleep.”

“Not the whole time.”

“Close enough.”

She worked for a bit in silence.

“I like your work, Jacqueline,” Father Flanagan said. “What I saw of it.”

“This is nothing,” she said, sketching. “This is to pay the bills. Give me an hour to do a proper drawing and you’ll see something you’ll like.”

They heard the cash register ring in the café.

“Know what that bell just rang up, Jacqueline?”

“A sale.”

He smiled. “I’ve got an hour if you do.”

“You really want to, Father?”

“Why not?”

“I’d have to charge you more.”

“I’m not rich, Jacqueline, but art is the best use of money. Think of the great frescos commissioned by the Church.”

She glanced up from the sketch. “I would have thought you’d say charity was the best use.”

“They’re equal. Food sustains the body, art the soul.”

“Fifty dollars?”

“All right.”

She swiftly gathered up her equipment. “Let’s do it in my place. You’ll be more comfortable.”

* * *

Her place was a one-room apartment on Impasse Trainee, around the corner. It was a very small street.

“Even smaller than the street named after Cezanne,” Jacqueline said as she continued to sketch him.

From where he sat for her, he had a fine view of paintings and sketches hanging on the walls. She glanced up now and then, pleased how he studied each one.

He turned his head slightly to admire the bust of a baby on a pedestal.

“You sculpt, too?”

“I wish I could. Bought it at the Flea Market, cheap, brushed it up. It was so dirty.”

“What did you pay for it?”

“Three hundred francs.”

“Who made it?”

“No name on it.”

“I’m reminded of the baby you sketched earlier tonight. Do you know I thought his parents looked familiar?”

“Could be. They were American, too.”

“That would be extraordinary. I’ve been looking for the father. He was in my parish some years ago.”

“You should have come over, said hello.”

“I should. I should.”

“Paris is a small town in some ways, Father. Maybe you’ll run into them again.”

“They didn’t say anything, did they, about where they were staying?”

Jacqueline thought for a moment. “They didn’t, but the old man…it was his idea to sketch the baby, the parents wanted to go home. The old man said he wanted the sketch to hang it up on his barge.”

“Barge? A sketch for a barge?”

“Oh, many barges have become houseboats. People live on them. Deck them out nicely: real bedrooms, nice furniture. Haven’t you ever dreamed of living on a boat?”

“Not a barge.”

“Don’t be a snob. A boat’s a boat.” Jacqueline changed her pencil for a softer one, began shading his eyelids and around his cheekbones. “It’s a dream I’ve always had. To live on a boat that’s a real home. Plenty of space. And paint and sketch on the deck.”

“Did the old man say which barge?”

Jacqueline squinted, trying to remember. “He did… Damn it, I can’t remember…oh sorry, Father…”

“That’s all right. I’ve heard worse swearing in the confessional.” He smiled warmly. “But are you sure you can’t recall?”

“What was it? Jules? No. Jacques? No. Jean! It was Jean something…two names…I should remember. It rang a bell when I heard it. Jean Bourgois! Of course! The Resistance guy, the one they made that documentary about. That’s the name of his houseboat, the
Jean Bourgois
.”

Father Flanagan stood up, smashed her head in with the bust of the baby. Saw the baby’s eyes tilted on the floor staring up at him through her blood and hair.

He ripped the sketch of himself from the pad, crumpled it, wiped his prints off the bust, used his handkerchief to place it back on the floor near her. With the handkerchief, he opened the door and closed it behind him.

At midnight Lafitte was asleep in his room. The moonlight coming through his window illuminated the sketch of the baby on the wall. It was signed by the artist:
J Sterling—Montmartre, Paris
.

Lafitte tossed in his bed. Sweat began to cover his face. It was his recurring nightmare.

Jean Bourgois was facing the Nazi firing squad. The air was tinged with yellow. Bourgois turned his unmasked head and his eyes met the eyes of young Lafitte. It was high noon. Lafitte was standing with a large group of French civilians forced to watch the execution of the enemy of the Reich. Behind the civilians stood armed German soldiers, their Schmeissers ready to blow apart any civilian that turned his head away from Jean Bourgois. Lafitte heard the order: “Ready, aim—”

Lafitte cringed as he heard the word “Fire!” He heard the squad firing. Jean Bourgois, lashed to a pole with his hands tied behind his back, was riddled by the automatic machine gun bullets. His head slumped. The officer of the firing squad shot one bullet from his revolver into the head that hung already dead.

Lafitte pulled the blanket over his head, crying like a baby.

* * *

In their room the baby was asleep in the crib. Its tiny fingers held the monkey close. Michelle was in bed staring up at the ceiling. Paul was at the window staring at lights on the bank. Silence hung in the room.

Each knew how close they had come to death.

Whatever they had to say about it had been said. Now, in the quiet of a tomb, thoughts of survival crowded their minds.

A soft blue light was on. Its softness conveyed tranquility. And safety. It never kept the baby from sleeping.

Paul knew there was only one way to relieve the agony Michelle was going through. He would go back to New York, surrender to Pegasus, return the money, what was left, and throw himself on their mercy. If they let him live, he would go to the cops and explain to them why Michelle shot Al. It had been self-defense. They wouldn’t pursue her for defending herself.

He turned around very slowly to tell her what he’d decided when he heard the sound of the flute and the rumble in his head.

He tried to hold it off, but the brainquake came. In reddish pink color he saw Eddie suffocating the baby with a pillow.

Paul suddenly seized the fishbowl and held it high above the baby in the crib. Like a bullet, Michelle sprang from the bed and knocked the bowl out of Paul’s hands. It fell and shattered. Fish fought for their lives.

The brainquake ended as quickly as it had come. The crash had awakened the baby. It began to cry.

“Goddam it!” Michelle shouted. “You’re crazy!”

“Eddie was…was suffocating the baby.”

Michelle slapped him across the face, the full force of her rage behind the blow. “Eddie’s not here, Paul. I told you that. You’re just seeing things!”

“Brainquake…”

“I don’t care! I don’t care what it is. I’ve had enough of your goddam attacks. I can’t have you in the same room as my baby. I can’t risk his life around you.”

Paul looked down at the shattered bowl and the dead fish. He looked down at the crying baby he could have killed. He’d been lost in his brainquake. He didn’t know what was real anymore and what was hallucination. If she hadn’t knocked the bowl out of his hands…

“I’ll go,” he said, and reached under the bed for the bag.

Michelle was breathing hard, holding the baby now, stroking its head. Her face paled as she realized he meant it. Swiftly Michelle ran to him, seized him, turned him around, held him close with her free arm.

“I’m sorry, Paul. I’m sorry. I know you have no control over it.”

“But you’re right. I have to go.”

She put her hand over his. “We’re both on the brink after what happened today. I’ve got to help you, Paul. I want to help you.”

“Nobody can help me.”

“I can, I promise.”

“It’ll happen again. I’ll see Eddie, and I’ll hurt the baby. Might kill him. Can’t take that risk.”

“Eddie’s in New York.” She gripped him hard. “Just keep telling yourself that. He’s not here. He’s probably dead already. Your bosses killed him, back in New York, like they killed those two people at the racetrack. There’s danger here, yes, but it’s not from Eddie!”

The baby kept crying. Paul was staring through the baby.

Michelle set the baby down in its crib, gave it the monkey, came back to Paul. “Please, don’t give up. You can sleep in another room. Or I’ll stay with you every second. I’ll watch you close. No matter what you see, I’ll stop you from hurting the baby. I’ll be there to stop you from hurting him no matter what you do.”

She led him to the bed, sat him down on it, dropped on her knees and clenched his hands.

“You’re not crazy, Paul. That jackal in your brain is, but you’re not. Paul, please listen to every word I say and fill your brain with those words. Eddie is not here. He’ll never find us. Believe that! Say it!”

“Eddie will never find us.”

“Eddie isn’t here!”

“Eddie isn’t here.”

“Say it again, Paul!”

“Eddie isn’t here.”

She kissed his hands, then his face, then his lips.

“Michelle…” Paul said very softly.

“Yes, Paul?”

“Thank you for trusting me.”

Tears rolled down his cheeks. It was the second time she saw him in tears.

The morning was turning out to be the most enjoyable hunt in Father Flanagan’s career. He loved boats. All kinds and sizes, sail or engine. Now he was a kid steering his small rental outboard, slowly passing at close range a world of its own in the heart of Paris.

He was on a joyride. No strategy, no complicated tactics this time. So he took his time. Why rush? Why not take advantage of put-putting past all the faces and enjoy them? The bagman and the widow were smart to hole up on a moored barge. But a barge with a name on it wasn’t smart.

Except for the one he was looking for, the French names on the barges didn’t interest him. Though the funny ones amused him. All over the world owners of boats had a sense of humor.

The decks of the houseboats all had individual touches reflecting the owner’s taste. The extremely long and very wide holds once filled with various cargoes were now arch-roofed. In the holds that now had windows with curtains, the inhabitants lived.