Swindler & Son

by Ted Krever

  I hate these things, so, long ago, I found a balcony to hide in, overlooking a garden which, after several generations of painstaking cultivation, now resembled natural overgrowth.

  I’d settled into my seat a moment before Sara slipped through the drapes and plonked down, in unladylike fashion, onto the chair across from me. She was as unhappy as I was to have to share.

  “I can’t fault you,” she recovered. “Boring party.”

  “There is a gun room. You could shoot your date.”

  “I don’t have a date.”

  “Husband, whatever.”

  “I’m here on my own.”

  “I didn’t think they took women as members.”

  “They didn’t.” She let that sink in.

  “Well, congratulations—and my sympathies.” She smiled and shot me the eyes for the first time—that frank, challenging gaze that says Can you keep up? And makes you want to.

  Lust is an electric switch—it’s either on or off, there’s no middle setting. The switch was thrown with her from the first minute.

  “Rooting out misogynists everywhere, that’s your hobby?”

  “I can’t do them all, there aren’t that many hours in a lifetime.”

  “So why this place?”

  “An old boyfriend is a vice president, simple payback.”

  “Payback is never simple. Is he here?”

  She leaned to the window and pointed him out. I grimaced out of instinct, before controlling myself.

  “Yes, I know,” she admitted. “I thought I could improve him.”

  “You see? That’s a mistake men don’t make. When men pick the wrong woman, it’s never in an attempt to improve her.”

  She laughed and the laugh was instantly familiar.

  “I know you,” I said. “Which was it—Sky News? CNN?”

  “Both, if you go back far enough,” she waggled a midnight-blue sleeve, as though waving away bad memories. The same midnight-blue sleeve she waggles now, watching our lawyers snipe at each other.

  “The gift was intended for the six-month wedding anniversary.”

  “About a week from now.”

  “As soon as other arrangements can be made, the fund will end.”

  “So this is payment for a gift that will not be given.”

  Sara spits a laugh, louder than strictly necessary. It’s amazing how many things she finds to look at that aren’t me.

  “Why list the gift if you’ve no intention of offering it?” Condido asks.

  “The gift requires maintenance until my client can find another buyer. It is listed as part of the cost to my client of this divorce.” Another derisive snort from Sara. “Does Counsel suspect some sinister plot?”

  Condido’s face is a bland mask but Sara’s leaves no doubt she does. She crosses her legs and I realize she’s wearing the same shoes as our first date!

  She swaggered off the balcony in those kitten heels (Isn’t that what they’re called? Shoot me if I’m wrong). It was Bastille Day and the Fireman’s Ball was in full swing. We were served champagne in plastic cups, danced on an oak table and briefly on the rear trellis of a firetruck.

  She asked my opinion of her shoes and I said, “I never pay attention to shoes.” She replied, “Then you’ll never understand women.” And followed up with a monologue on the symbolism of the thing, how shoes could stand for independence or submission, daring or caution, warning or invitation. Or several of those at once. Of course, she refused to attach any specific meaning to the ones she was wearing. She was dazzling, ridiculous and brilliant.

  I asked if I could kiss her.

  She blew up. “How dare you! I’m trying to teach you something and all you can think of is, ‘How can I stick my tongue down your throat’?”

  She was really upset and it took me by surprise. Upon a moment’s further reflection, it struck me as rank injustice. I’d been in lust for over two hours by then, making conversation and dancing close without a hint of a move. And when did I ask to kiss her? (Notice, by the way: I asked!) When she impressed me! When she showed me substance—hell, an unknown universe!—in objects I would have laughed off five minutes earlier.

  And, not to split hairs, but, to me, a kiss is not automatically tongue calisthenics. Sometimes, properly done, it’s even romantic. Clearly, however, this wasn’t the moment for that discussion.

  I just replied, “That’s okay, I’ll ask again later,” as I watched those kitten heels march away from me, up the street.

  Now she taps them against the leg of the conference table as her lawyer says, “We see no reason to take anything your client says at face value,” and I sink a few inches deeper into my chair. “What is the nature of the gift?”

  “It is of no importance; the point is moot.” Duillard is laying it on a bit thick, if you ask me.

  And then—Sara speaks!

  “You only bought it as an excuse for lying to me all the time.”

  I can’t help myself. “I wasn’t lying, I was being selective.”

  “About who and what you are.”

  “Everything I said was truthful and accurate.”

  “Leaving gaps the size of the Pacific.”

  “We were getting to know each other. And then we were in the chapel, feeling no pain and signing documents.” Duillard pokes me, not that it does a bit of good.

  “If you’d simply been honest—”

  “There is nothing simple about being honest.”

  “You can keep your gift.”

  “I can’t use it.”

  “Throw it away.”

  “Can’t.”

  “Pack it in storage for the next girl.”

  I shake my head. Not possible.

  “Why the hell not?”

  “It has to be exercised.” The room goes quiet, everybody’s staring at me and all I can do is sigh and surrender. “It’s that blonde filly we saw in Poissy.”

  Sara sits up straight as an ironing board. She’s touched, it’s in her eyes, even as she struggles to recover her mask of disillusionment. Here is something she really wanted and would never buy herself. I was right, it’s on her face, that and the fact that it’s too late, past the point where it could make any difference.

  “If you want her,” I say, “she’s yours. But you have to take over the maintenance and get someone to take care of her when you’re out of town.”

  “You’ve got somebody taking care of her?”

  “Of course I do. I take my responsibilities seriously.”

  “The sarcasm isn’t necessary,” Condido protests.

  “No sarcasm.” I lean across the table. “Pierre told me to include everything in the list. If that’s the only problem, we’ll take her out.”

  “It is part of your financial contribution to the marriage,” Duillard fumphers. “It should remain on the record.”

  Like an overwound top, Sara finally comes apart. She grabs the documents from her lawyer, scans them top to bottom and forces a strangled voice. “I don’t want gifts from you.”

  “This is not proper,” Duillard complains. “There are procedures—”

  “Just take the damn line out,” I burst. “Jesus Christ—you’re fired!” I grab Duillard’s pen, cross out the language in our draft and initial alongside. “Let me have yours,” I tell Sara, who hands her paper over. I do the same there.

  She sits motionless, staring at the desk.

  “Are we done now?” I demand and both lawyers nod yes.

  I turn back to Duillard. “You’re hired again.” The old man nods, all wounded dignity.

  “We’ll take it to the judge,” Condido says. “You needn’t stay.” Sara’s up and out instantly, the shoes clicking hard against the stone floor.

  Sara

  And now—

  -’Now’? Now when?

  Now the next evening—Christmas evening—I’m in a hoodie, running from the cops and Sara’s yelling at me in the lobby outside Harry’s apartment.

  “I can have dinner
with Harry Sandler, or whatever his real name is, if I want to.”

  “Fine by me.”

  “Okay—so where is he?” She points at his door. They had a date!

  “You’ve rung the bell?” (she nods) “Out, I guess.”

  “And you have nothing to do with him being out?”

  “I’m innocent,” I insist, for the second time in living memory. “Actually, I really need to see him.”

  “He’s forgotten?” she sulks, with reason. In the same way I eventually became Harry’s spiritual son, Sara and Harry fell instantly into a ridiculous father/daughter besottment.

  “He’s forgetting plenty these days.” I pull his key from my pocket. “Let’s find out.”

  Harry’s apartment is the Temple of Gaudiness. What’s the most bombastic piece that could go in that corner? Swoops of aluminum flank the fireplace, silk drapes drool across the windows. Why sit in a chair when you can possess a high-back deep-glazed ceramic wonder with Asian lettering no one understands? The lights of the great boulevard glare through the thirteen-foot vaulted glass. The place is exhausting. I head immediately for Harry’s study.

  The laptop’s gone. Is it broken? In the shop? Harry’s barely computer-literate. We forced the laptop on him for emergencies. I don’t know that he’s ever touched it.

  Louis XVI would’ve found Harry’s dressing room a bit over-the-top. All I care about is: No wallet, no glasses, no watch. Okay, he’s gone for the night. Christmas, he could be making merry with any of a thousand friends—or an equal number of people he’s never met before.

  Sara exits his bedroom as I arrive.

  “Either the bed’s not been slept in or he’s a hell of a housekeeper,” she says.

  The bed in Diamante’s room is rumpled on one side. And no laptop.

  “Best of luck,” I nod. “Have to go.” But, at the exit, Sara’s right behind me, squeezing into the tiny elevator. We stare past each other the whole slow trip down.

  Expelled into the lobby, scanning the doorman across the koi pond. Maurice looks relaxed, hat face-forward.

  “You know where he is,” Sara accuses.

  “I really don’t.”

  She’s sizing me up, still skeptical. I’m a good liar—I’ve made a career of it—but I can’t convince her when I’m telling her the truth.

  “Something’s wrong,” she says finally. “Is he in trouble?”

  “No, he’s not in trouble,” I say, scanning for the darkest sidestreet as I trot outside, trying to get away from her, away from Harry’s building, away from the cops—I can’t really catalog all the things I’m running from anymore.

  And then a 1959 Cadillac pulls to the curb and Proto Toulouanda aims his pistol directly at my nose. “Come, Nicky, we take a ride, like in the movies.”

  Kidnapped

  -Pro-who? Is that a name?

  Proto Toulouanda is a one-man conglomerate. Bag man, muscle man, protection peddler, all-around guarantor of reliable outcomes. A very unpleasant person, if he’s not working for you at the moment. We know people who know him, but, happily, we’ve never employed his services nor been the target of them—until now. He wags his pistol toward the open rear door of the car.

  “Get inna back. Gimme your phones. My English not bad, so?”

  “Not bad, Proto. You want me, yes? Not her.”

  “Her, too. And gimme your phone.”

  “I don’t have one,” I open my jacket. He jumps out and pats down my pockets.

  Rene Baudelaire is behind the wheel. Rene is the kind of guy you send with Proto, to make sure Proto remembers the way the boss wants things to turn out. Underworld middle management. At the moment, he’s just one more unknown factor. Rene used to work for Gilles De Resnai, a serious boss in the northern suburbs, but they parted company a year ago and nobody knows who he works for now.

  “Bonjour, Nicky.”

  “Bonjour, Rene.”

  “And who is this?” Rene eyes Sara up and down.

  “Why don’t we leave her out of it? I’m sure whoever wants to see me doesn’t need to see her.”

  “She’s nice to see.”

  “She’s mute and blind as a bat. No memory, either.”

  “Then she don’t remember going for a ride,” Proto says, waggling the gun with a bit more attitude. We slide across the back seat, yards of tufted red leather.

  Rene pulls away from the curb. He’s sticking to the rear-view mirror, which is no way to drive. Proto’s settled into the passenger seat, replacing the gun in its holster.

  I’m replaying local politics, trying to figure out who might have sent these two but I can’t imagine any scenario that would include Sara. “You guys sure about this? She’s not someone I discuss business in front of.”

  “Nothing to discuss at the moment,” Rene says. “Plenty of time.” He takes a few turns and we’re deep into back streets, the kinds I used earlier to make sure I wasn’t followed.

  A few twists and turns dump us onto an arterial highway but only for a few stops, then briskly off and through a deeply wooded park—then threading a roundabout and back through the park again. Is it a signal? Do we have company? I lean to pick up the side mirror. Cars flit in and out of view but nobody sticks.

  We burst from a claustrophobic neighborhood onto the ring road, a few exits flash by and suddenly we’re on our way back. Is Rene trying to confuse us? It might work if we were blindfolded or this wasn’t the city we all live in.

  Now that I’ve been a hostage, I can tell you that silence comes natural at first. You don’t want to set off your ‘hosts’. First, you tell yourself it’ll all blow over, that it’s just a mistake. Then you realize, of course, it’s not a mistake—these guys are pros. You keep your mouth shut anyway, in hopes they’ll realize they really wanted to kidnap somebody worth a whole lot more money.

  However, twenty minutes later, we’re retracing our steps again. We haven’t picked up a tail, we aren’t even trying to shake a theoretical one. At this point, these boys have used up any sense of sinister they once had working for them. If we’re not hiding and not going anywhere, what the hell are we doing?

  As we cross yet another park, I open my mouth.

  “Are we lost?” Sara kicks me but it’s time to make at least a little noise. “We’ve been doing a lot of driving for not getting anywhere.”

  This is a bit colloquial for Proto and what he doesn’t understand makes him mad. He reaches for the shoulder holster but Rene slaps his hand back. Okay, Rene doesn’t want us hurt yet. He doesn’t even wait an extra second just to scare us. He says nothing but we still don’t seem to be going anywhere.

  “Really, Rene, you could have just invited me over for drinks,” I purr, as pleasantly as I know how. He laughs, not a big yuck, but the tension fades.

  “Nicky, life isn’t so simple,” he sighs and rejoins the highway, as though going nowhere faster shows he’s serious. Proto really is serious, but Proto doesn’t know any other setting. Is this it? Is Rene accomplishing his mission, just driving us around Paris in his huge American car? If someone’s trying to hide me, this isn’t the way to low-profile.

  And then, like clockwork, I look into oncoming traffic and see exactly what I don’t want to see.

  “You should get off the highway,” I say.

  “Stay in your seat,” Proto says with practiced menace.

  “You’re the passenger this time, Nicky,” Rene says. “Just relax—”

  “A police car just passed, going the other way and he spotted me. If you check your mirror, I’ll guarantee he’s on the ramp, coming round to this side.”

  Rene resentfully gives the mirror a glance and sits up all of a sudden. “You’re un prophete,” he admits. “Why’s he after you?”

  “You don’t know? They’re all after me. I’m leading the Hit Parade.”

  “Nicky, don’t play with me—” The next exit is coming up quickly on our right.

  “No playing, Rene. If you don’t get off now, he’ll have us all
in the Bastille, I promise.”

  “They don’t use the Bastille no more,” Proto says and he should know. “You mean La Sante.”

  “Don’t encourage him,” Rene says, just as the police car flips on its siren. Rene flinches, hauls the car in front of a honking Renault and onto the exit ramp.

  “Alright, what’s going on?” he demands. “You got protection?”

  “No protection—just trouble. GIGN had my apartment staked out when I got home. They’re combing the city for me since early evening.”

  “Why don’t I hear about it?”

  “They’re keeping it quiet. I mean, they’re really keeping it quiet.”

  This disturbs Rene on professional grounds—keeping a dragnet secret from the underworld is a breach of normal corruption.

  “Why are you so special?” he demands, corkscrewed in his seat, driving dangerously with his mirrors again. Sara and Proto are staring holes through me.

  “They think I smuggled the bomb into Paris.”

  Proto and Sara actually gasp, like children at the reptile house. “Merde!” Rene says, sharply turning a corner and putting his foot down so the Cadillac leaps forward. He eyes me like a croupier. “You’re a slick guy, Nicky, not a tueur. You don’t do such a thing.”

  Sara smacks me on the shoulder. “He’s such a liar.” The sirens get loud; a couple of extra cop cars have joined the chase. “That’s why I’m divorcing him.”

  “This is the wife?” Rene nods. “Congratulations.”

  “On the wedding or the divorce?” she asks.

  “A man gets kidnapped, his wife should support him,” Proto disapproves.

  “I’m kidnapped, too. How about him supporting me?”

  “If he don’t support you,” Rene says, “we don’t pick you up. A woman should show some respect.”

  “Yeah,” Proto says. “What’s a wife for?”

  “Apparently,” Sara says, “to be the other hostage.”

  Rene makes several quick turns with purpose. Alongside an underpass, then down an alley behind a long line of retail stores. He pulls between huge dumpsters, switches off the lights and waits. He and Proto both pull their guns.