Blame it on Paris

by Lise McClendon

  “Yes. A lawyer sent over by his parents. They’re very distressed.”

  “Well. He’s in the clink, isn’t he.”

  “Can we talk for a minute?” The girl, who still hadn’t said her name, thought about that then waved Francie into a cluttered sitting room. Books were stacked everywhere, along with dirty dishes and the odd sock. She flounced down on an old sofa and gestured to Francie to take a seat on a sagging armchair. “Sorry, I didn’t get your name.”

  “Is it important?” the girl said. “‘Cause I’m not getting involved. No way.”

  Francie held up a hand. “Anonymous is fine. I’m just doing a little background stuff.” She took a small notebook and pen from her purse. “Is this okay? Some notes, just for my own benefit.” The girl lifted a shoulder and tried to look more bored. “Are you a student at the University of American Business?” She nodded. “So you knew Reece from there as well?”

  “He was new last fall. I’ve been here for two years.”

  “This location is so convenient to the University. Must be lots of students here.”

  “Oh, sure. Almost all.”

  “And his roommate?” Francie pretended to consult her notes. “Sami Amoud?”

  “I saw him around.”

  “Were you here when the police raided the flat?”

  “No. I was in class.”

  “Did you talk to Reece or Sami after the raid?”

  The girl took a big bite of apple and chewed it slowly. “Just Sami. They took Reece with them.”

  “How did Sami take it? The raid and all.”

  “Not well. He was shaking like a fricking leaf. Scared to bloody death. I got back just after all the coppers took off. I had to shepherd Sami in here and make him sit down and have a cup of tea to calm down. I thought he was going to crap out on me.”

  “Did you think his reaction was exaggerated? Or faked or something?”

  “It was real. But, yeah, a little over the top. Maybe he was afraid he’d be next. Not unreasonable when the cops find drugs in your place.”

  “Did he say anything about Reece, or the drugs?”

  “Just that he didn’t know anything about them. He kept saying that over and over.”

  “But he stayed there, right? Until the end of the semester.”

  “It was all but over by then but yeah, he hung around a few more days. Never saw him again after Christmas break though. Next thing I know there’s some new bloke in the flat and Reece and Sami are gone.”

  Francie looked up at her, putting on her most earnest face. “It would really help if I could talk to Sami. Do you have any idea where he is?”

  “Rumor is he transferred to another school. He couldn’t take being here after the raid.”

  “Somewhere in Paris?”

  “Not sure about that. Somewhere in France, I’d guess. His French was perfect, ya know? Better than his English.”

  “He’s from Tunisia, I heard. Is that right?”

  “Or Morocco, something like that.”

  Francie put away her notebook and pen. “What’s he like? Is he a good student? Smart, social—?”

  “Smart, for sure. Studied hard, serious. People say he ranked at the top of his class. Not social. No girlfriend that I know of, but I know he liked girls. He sometimes went to parties with Reece. I’d see them heading out late on a Friday sometimes. Reece had high spirits, you know? Not sure he even studied. Sami was more of a tag-along.”

  “Was he almost done with his schoolwork?”

  “Oh, yeah. Would have graduated about now.”

  “And he transferred with one semester to go?”

  “Weird, huh. I never understood that. It’s like that raid broke him or something.”

  “He didn’t seem like the sensitive type?”

  “Hell if I know. We weren’t friends or anything.”

  “Did he have any close friends here?”

  “Don’t know really.”

  “One more question about Reece. I understand he partied a lot. But did he strike you as a drug dealer? For instance, did he throw money around? Buy drinks for everyone, buy expensive toys.”

  “I never saw that,” she said. “But I didn’t really hang out with him.”

  Francie stood up and picked up her shopping bag. “Do you think it would be okay to put up a poster in the lobby? Asking for information about Sami?”

  “Don’t know why not.”

  After effusive thanks for her help, such as it was, Francie trotted over to the University of American Business to locate one of her signs. The bulletin board on the main floor was a jumble of new flyers. Hers was either buried or gone. She went down to the basement to check the board by the ladies restroom. There her flyer was only partially covered. She rearranged the thumb tacks, took it down, and quickly returned to Reece’s building. There was a small notice board near the mailboxes. She did a little tidying up, threw away some old flyers, and found enough room at eye level for hers. None of the number tabs had been removed.

  As she walked back to the Mètro station her cellphone rang. She dug it out of her pocket and saw that it was another blocked number. That was quick, she thought. Should she answer? She paused on the sidewalk. “Hello?”

  “Miss Bennett? Walker Crum here, at the embassy. I just wanted to say how sorry I am about how things worked out yesterday. I had no idea I was setting someone up. Well, I did, but I didn’t think anyone would get killed. I should have known better.”

  “It was bad, wasn’t it.” Francie sighed. “By the way, did you ever find out anything about Sami Amoud. The roommate?”

  “Nothing came up.”

  “Really? He should at least have an immigration entry.”

  “Do you have a middle name or initial?”

  “Just ‘Sami Amoud.’ That’s all I have. I talked to a student who thinks Sami was going to graduate number one in his class at the University of American Business. And that he may have transferred somewhere else in France.”

  “Did you say ‘Aboud’?”

  “With an ‘m.’ Amoud.” She spelled it for him.

  “I’ll start again,” Crum said. “Will keep you posted.”

  Before she could hang up, she got another call. This one made her smile. It was Dylan Hardy.

  Twenty-Eight

  They met at a sidewalk café on Boulevard Saint-Germain, one of those crusty but still hip places made famous by literary lions of old. At least that’s what Dylan was explaining to Francie as she sipped her tea in the late afternoon sunlight. The play of gold and shadow on the buildings was mesmerizing. The cane chairs and marble-top tables were perfect. Everything was just as it should be, even being here with Dylan, which by itself was a small miracle. The harassment case back home pinged in her mind then evaporated like the steam off her cup. How could she feel this calm when all around her plans were going down the drain?

  Dylan looked tanned and relaxed in a way she didn’t remember. He was so anxious in law school, running between classes and his job as the late shift assistant manager at an office supply store. For Francie law school was hard but fun. Her sisters had blazed the way for her, given her insider tips and professor recommendations. She had a job on the weekends at her parents’ country club, waitressing. She saw then, and now, what a token job that was, barely paying her gas to get there. Her parents, Bernadette and Jack, had socked away tuition funds for them years before. Annie and Merle had both gotten scholarships. Not Francie though, she was a little less committed to her studies.

  Law school hadn’t stressed her out. For Dylan, on his own dime all the way, there was major stress. But looking at him now, sipping café au lait at a chic spot on the Left Bank in Paris, you’d never know it. He had truly made it, on his own, and was now enjoying the fruits of all that labor.

  “What are you smiling about?” He squinted at her.

  “I can’t get over how different you are. I mean, you’re so much the same too, but— how long have you been doing this Paris thing?”r />
  “Five years. It didn’t help my marriage. Then, after the divorce, I signed up for longer stints. This isn’t your first time in Paris, is it?”

  “I’ve been a couple times. More lately since my sister inherited the house in the Dordogne.”

  “What’s that like?”

  “Charming times six. Poky little rooms, kinda dark, but with a big, luscious walled garden in the back. Somehow the garden was taken care of, all the years the house was empty.”

  “I’d love to see the Dordogne someday.”

  “It’s not very far. An hour or two on the train.” Was he just waiting for her to ask to take him there? It wasn’t the worst idea she’d heard inside her head. “Paris agrees with you, Dylan. I can see why you signed up for it. And it must be popular in the law firm, right? So they like you.”

  “You have to speak French. That’s a rule. There are only five of us out of forty. Plus the wives and children thing. There’s a single partner, Lucy Friedman, who comes over a lot too.”

  Francie felt a twinge of jealous curiosity about Lucy Friedman suddenly. How silly. “What are you working on now?”

  “Corporate merger. Big global company based here. There’s a team of lawyers from a bunch of firms, representing the different arms of the two companies.”

  “Widgets?”

  He smiled. “Close. Industrial manufacturing.”

  Francie sat back, closed her eyes, and listened to the murmur of passersby, table talk, clinking dishes, chairs scraping, waiters, bartenders, dog walkers. It was a melody of Europe, of cosmopolitan city life, with the occasional taxi and motorcycle. Then a vision of the terrorist attack flooded her mind, people gunned down, murdered, sitting just like this, out in the open, targets as they relaxed, Paris-style.

  Her eyes flew open and she swallowed hard. She glanced around the café. No one else seemed tense or concerned. She realized her French adventures, the worst of them when she was kidnapped and held in a barn and almost burned to death, were not quite behind her yet. She let her adrenaline tamp down, telling herself to stop imagining the worst. Dylan didn’t seem concerned. He was idly gazing down the street at a pair of attractive women and playing with his napkin.

  “Do you ever think about that ISIS thing? The attacks?” she asked quietly.

  He leaned forward. “Sometimes. Hard not to here, just like New York. Are you thinking about it?” She nodded. “Have you already told yourself it’s unlikely to happen again the same way?” Another nod. “Have you told yourself there’s nothing you can do to stop an attack?” Again. “Then there is only one thing you can do. Act Parisian.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Be a fatalist. The worst will happen. We will all die. Nothing can be done. I might as well have another glass of wine and enjoy myself, right here, right now, because tomorrow may turn to shit.” He signaled the waiter and ordered them something that sounded like wine.

  “My oldest sister says that all the time: right here, right now. She’s a Buddhist.”

  “And a smart Buddhist at that.”

  Two glasses of a buttery white wine showed up and their coffee cups were whisked away. “This is Sancerre. My favorite white,” he said, holding it up to the golden afternoon light. “Sunshine in a bottle.”

  Francie had been to the region the year before, and had some Sancerre just the other night at the dinner party, but she sipped then ooh’ed and ah’ed for him just the same. “It’s Sauvignon Blanc, right? But better than the California version.”

  “I like it better. Seems not so minerally. But maybe that’s because I drink it when I'm here.”

  Francie raised her glass and he raised his. She said: "To tomorrow, may it not be merde.”

  An hour later they were still sipping the same delicious glass of Sancerre, talking intermittently but mostly enjoying the long silences. It was so easy with Dylan, strange but comforting. Normally long silences made her do something wacky, tell a stupid story or a lame joke. But not with Dylan. She got up to find the ladies room and texted Merle while she was there: Out with Dylan. See you later. Merle texted back: Yay. Enjoy. And added too many emoji hearts.

  Back at the table Francie proposed a stroll along the Seine. “I don’t know when I’ll get to see it again. And there’s something about the evening light that makes me a little giddy.”

  Dylan got a funny look on his face, downed his wine, and paid the waiter. As they walked he muttered, “I can’t wait to see you giddy.”

  She swatted him. “You’ve seen me giddy. And stupid. And laughing like a hyena. I try not to do that anymore.”

  “Why not? I love hyenas.” He chuckled, hands in his pockets. “Let’s go down the stairs.”

  Francie had a weird flashback of Dylan laughing. The sound was guttural and wrapped you in its basso profondo. They were somewhere, not his place— where? No idea. Anyway it was murky and dark and they were laughing so hard about something. Tears streamed down their faces. She wished with all her heart she could remember what was so funny.

  “When do you go back to the US?” she asked as they walked the cobblestones next to the river. Anything to prevent the heartache of not remembering.

  “Saturday. I can’t believe this is my last week. But I’ll be back next month for a week or so to wrap up the contracts. I do a lot of proofreading.” He rolled his eyes.

  “This Saturday? Me too. Out of Charles de Gaulle?”

  “When do you leave? Maybe we can share a cab.”

  They discovered that they were on the same flight, leaving in late afternoon. They looked at each other for a moment until Francie chuckled and blurted: “Kismet?”

  Dylan smirked. “Or karma.”

  “You mean this is my punishment for avoiding you, for dumping you, for forcing you to marry some random redhead?”

  He spun her toward him then, pinning her tight against him as she laughed— like a hyena actually. Hey, he asked for it. “I’ll show you punishment, Bennett,” he mock growled.

  “I don’t believe you,” she said, flirting in the old way.

  So he kissed her.

  After dinner at a typically fabulous bistro, one that Dylan said he frequented, he walked Francie back to the apartment. She could tell he had more in mind. But she kissed him hard and told him good night. They should take it slow, she thought. She liked him— of course she did. But the intensity of their last romance had left her a little breathless. She didn’t want to feel that way again.

  As she closed the door and walked up the stairs to the flat, she floated on the feeling of being adored by Dylan, then pulled away with the feeling of danger. What the hell was she doing, getting involved with an old boyfriend? Well, that was easy. He was older now, spoke French, was dashing and cosmopolitan, and still into redheads.

  She unlocked the door and found Pascal and Merle sipping tea in the sitting room. “Hey, you two.” She flopped into the armchair.

  Before they could answer her phone rang in her bag. She hopped up to retrieve it from the kitchen. Not a blocked number for a change, but not one she recognized.

  “Hello?”

  A breathy pause, then, “You looking for Sami?” An odd accent.

  “Yes, I am. Who’s this?”

  “Never mind. I just want to say he is not well. He is in hospital. You must leave him be.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. He’s ill?”

  “Very ill. He needs time.”

  “I see. Do you know what hospital he’s in?”

  “You cannot see him. He is very ill.”

  The line went dead.

  Pascal and Merle stared at her. “What was that?” Merle asked.

  Francie stared at her phone. “At least I have the number this time.” She sat down. “I moved one of my posters to the apartment building where Reece lived. Somebody called and said Sami— the roommate— is in the hospital. He’s ill and can’t be visited.”

  “No name?”

  She shook her head. She held out her cell phone to
Pascal. “Can you track that number?”

  He took her phone and Merle’s laptop and started tapping keys. Merle said, “Were you out with Dylan?”

  Francie nodded again, distracted by the call. “I went to the apartment building and talked to a girl who lives down the hall from Reece’s place. She said Sami was really shook up by the raid. She said she thought he was going to crap out on her, whatever that means.”

  “Collapse? Like emotionally?”

  She shrugged. “He was supposed to graduate soon, at the top of his class. Maybe he transferred somewhere else. I hope so.”

  Pascal shut the laptop. “That is a public phone in the University of American Business main building. Sorry.”

  “It could be anyone.” She took back her phone. “Do you think he might be hospitalized for psychiatric reasons?”

  “Possible,” Merle said. “Maybe he had a breakdown after the raid.”

  “Do people really have nervous breakdowns?”

  “Like a severe panic attack, I think. Anxiety, depression, stress. He was a good student, right? So maybe he obsessed about his grades, putting a lot of stress on himself.”

  “And the raid pushed him over the edge. I can see that. I was just thinking how easy I had it in law school compared to Dylan. Did you know he worked a full-time job and went to law school full-time? Talk about stress.”

  “How is Dylan?” Merle asked with a smile.

  “He’s fine. Honestly, we’re taking it slow. But he’s fun to be with, I’ll give you that.”

  Merle held up both hands. “That’s enough for me.”

  “Listen, Pascal.” Francie sat forward. “There’s more to this.” She explained the disappearing heroin that was found a day later, the explanation not quite making sense. The call Walker Crum had made for weed that was fulfilled by a guy selling heroin.

  “And where would an Australian in Paris get a gun?”

  He shrugged. “Where does anyone? A guy knows a guy. . ..”

  “This guy worked in a tea shop. He sold Earl Grey and Darjeeling. He looked like a red-haired surfer with a sweet face. But I’ve been fooled before.”