astray. Josiane, by the way.” He winked at Manson. “Watashi wa kanojo ga watashi ni insho o suisoku suru.
“She was taller than average for a woman, thin, hair shaved short to her head as with the fashion of her people’s women, large eyes as dark as onyx and skin just as smooth and black. One flash of that white smile—I knew she was mine. The challenge was if I could have her by nightfall.
“I lost, but the chase was on. I drew away, made her wait. She would become angered and curse me and then I would come on strong again and win her back over. We went on like this for a rigorous two weeks. As I casually told her about my false life on days we would speak I gently implied I was in search of your item. Three days later she had brought it to me.
“I had begun to tire of her and would have dropped the whole thing, but such diligence deserved rewarding.” DeGere had slid back into his French accent. “I took her that night and left as she slept. I was fantastic.”
“So you got it in just two weeks?” Manson asked.
“Yes. I’ve actually had it for more than a month. I told you getting it was easy.”
“Did you ever hear from her again?”
“Ah, no. Should I even be concerned with such a thing? She’s a young girl. She will always remember me, but she will come to fall in love with someone else.”
Manson tsk-tsked and gulped down his last swallow of wine. He was reaching for the bottle to top off DeGere’s glass when a knock came at the door.
“Who?” he said to himself. He looked at DeGere, who shared an equally concerned look. They were both participants in a dangerous business, even if Manson were only a middle man. It was not unheard of to steal from a thief. Typically that thief wound up dead.
Manson had never shot anyone, but he knew he had the will. He quickly went over to the closet and took his gun out of the holster hung up on a hanger. Adrenaline had supplanted the alcohol flowing through his veins and his focus was near razor-sharp. He walked to the peephole and looked out. All Manson could see was the black head of a figure. He peeked again and stepped to the side of the door.
“Who’s there?” Manson called.
“My name is… Josiane.” The voice seemed startled, almost as if the person speaking hadn’t expected anyone to answer. Manson looked over and saw DeGere looking at him, that same calm, half-lidded careless expression on his face. To one who did not know DeGere he would have looked calm, but Manson could see the tiny veins now standing out on his neck, the lids of his eyes millimeters higher than they had been a moment ago.
“It is her,” he whispered.
“Just a minute!” Manson called again. He stalked over to DeGere, angry. “If I have to shoot her I will not forgive you.”
DeGere waved him off. “She is harmless. She is opposed to any type of violence. I will save you the bullet.”
He headed for the door, but Manson grabbed his wrist.
“DeGere, don’t let her in.”
“What can I say? The ‘jig’ as you Americans say, is up. Besides, she will only cause more problems if I don’t let her in. She may cause a scene. Bring people. Police people. If my way doesn’t work you can always kill her and I will buy you a new bullet.”
“Don’t play this game. I’ll just tell her you’re not here.”
“Do you really think this girl came all the way from the furnaces of the African subcontinent to this freezer of a tiny state just to be turned away with a, ‘oh, he’s not in right now?’” DeGere waved him off again. “I will deal with it.”
Manson wanted to say, “Do you think she came all the way here just to pout at you?” but he held his tongue.
“She will cry, I will cry. Maybe she slaps my face, maybe we make love again.
Peut-être que nous allons essuyer les uns des autres ânes avec de la soie.”
Manson was prepared to shoot a potential thief or killer, but an innocent? Worst yet, a victim? If DeGere couldn’t get rid of her he wasn’t sure what was going to happen.
The Frenchman paused by the door before throwing it open and stepping into the threshold. He was right, she was tall, but very petite, almost painfully so. She seemed sagged inside of a pair of blue jeans and a thick knit mock turtleneck. DeGere stepped his thin frame into the doorway and completely blocked her from view. He spoke French low, rapid and staccato. Manson didn’t speak the language but he knew the cadence. The girl’s head was already hung low and it dropped lower, bobbing up and down occasionally. He leaned in closer, lower, until his mouth was just outside the bell of her ear, his voice sunk until he was almost a dry baritone, the words coming even faster to the point that had Manson understood French, he would not have heard clearly enough to translate.
He stopped speaking. Manson realized his eyes had trailed off to a blank spot on the wall a few feet away from the couple. DeGere’s voice had had a pseudo-hypnotic effect and he felt as if he’d lost a moment or two. He looked back to see them hugging. DeGere stood and pulled her into the room by a dainty wrist.
“Wait, what are you—” DeGere closed the door and Manson fumbled the gun behind his back. Not that she’d noticed; she was too busy crying and leaning on the other man to even see there was someone else in the room. He retreated to the closet and slipped the gun back in its holster.
“Sit-sit-sit,” DeGere said, rubbing her back and ushering her to the couch. She slid the backpack off her shoulder and sat and DeGere handed her his wine. She took a sip, grimaced, and followed it with a big swallow.
He sat on the edge of the coffee table in front of her and Manson resumed his spot on the arm of the other couch.
“I thought you were dead,” she said in better than decent English. “That morning, when I awoke, I thought killers had come and taken you from me. I went to the police and they would do nothing. I asked all through the village. Nobody knew. I was left to think you were dead. No one took pity.”
“I am a trader, sweetie,” DeGere had taken on a Minnesotan accent. It was so good Manson wondered again if the man were really French. He didn’t expect DeGere had told him his real name. He wasn’t really a Manson.
“A traitor?” she said. Manson wasn’t certain she’d understood the word.
“No, a trader. I trade things for money. It’s how I make my living.”
“But it was a gift. I thought you wanted it for yourself.”
“I did, honey, but I want things for myself so I can give them to other people. It wasn’t personal—you understand?” DeGere laughed. “I hardly own anything not on my back.”
“I see.” She turned those dark eyes to the window. “Your heart is cruel.”
“Josiane,” Manson interrupted, “how did you find…”
“Kevin Flatbush,” DeGere said without turning around.
“…Mr. Flatbush, yes. How did you know he was here?”
She sat up. She’d stopped crying, but something else was different about her. Even in this short span of time Manson could see it. Her eyes were changed, half-lidded.
“I confess; I took something from you. Your passport. But I put it back. I wanted something of yours, but I thought we would be together and it would not matter. I would have you. But I remembered the name. I spent all my money to hire a man to find you.”
Manson wanted to slug the man for being so careless. This wasn’t just a girl.
“Wewe ni mtu tupu,” she whispered. “What is your name?”
“Now doll, in my business people are always after me.” DeGere looked stung from that first thing she’d said, but he quickly recovered. “They want to find me to hurt me, to hurt my family. My—”
“You are a thief.” She hadn’t stood, but Manson’s eyes bugged as if the two of them had moved in tandem and his sight was struggling to keep up. His gaze truly shifted to her for the first time. It was like looking through a hole at a scene in forced perspective. What he was seeing was wrong somehow. She looked bigger, only not.
“You stole much from me. But you left me with shame. More than I can bare. I did not know everyone was laughing at me when I first searched for you. I have been your fool and I will be known as a husbandless woman of no virtue in my village. I have something for you.” She reached for her backpack. Manson itched for the gun, but he held still. Josiane unzipped the pack, sliding an impossibly skinny arm inside and pulled out a bowl.
It was plain and worn, a faded brown piece of junk in Manson’s eyes. If she were trying to lure DeGere back with more gifts this wouldn’t do the trick. She set it in his lap and he grabbed it. She reached back in and took out a dark cream-colored stone and a bejeweled ceremonial dagger. Dollar signs danced in Manson’s eyes as he recognized both. A client had inquired about the dagger a few months back, but he hadn’t been able to get a bead on it; the egg-shaped stone’s markings indicated it was one of three stones from a legend very similar to David and Goliath. There were a half dozen names that immediately came to mind of people who would pay beautifully for both.
Manson saw DeGere in his periphery pick up the dagger and examine it.
“That dagger is priceless and its disappearance will more than likely cost me my freedom. The stones a group of farmers found only last week, but would no doubt cost me my life. And the life of your unborn child. I figured you would like it. She gave an insincere smile and Manson’s eyes bugged again.
“C’mon, it was only one time,”
The Beggar's Bowl Page 2