Brainquake

by Samuel Fuller

  Father Flanagan didn’t use the word murder lightly. Zara was not on his death list. She was an obstacle. He’d had to act fast. He’d had to make sure the bloodhound wouldn’t find the two fugitives before he did. Had she, Mr. Hampshire would have been furious at him. He knew the importance of nailing that bagman.

  All the same, Father Flanagan felt like vomiting on his empty stomach. He should have bypassed Zara. He should have cornered the two fugitives alone.

  Never had he hit an obstacle.

  It was not a hit but a murder. And in murdering Zara he had become emotional. It degraded him.

  He couldn’t think himself out of that emotion.

  He had to cut that emotion out of his system or throw in the towel.

  He attacked his lamb chops, watched the women at nearby tables. A blonde, a brunette. Forced himself to see them nude. Rarely did he have to force himself. Normally it happened naturally, and it always gave him comfort, seeing the women around him as naked. Often just picturing them naked in his mind was more satisfying than actually seeing them naked in a bedroom. This one, the blonde, in the flower-print dress, with the heavy breasts and prominent chin—what would she look like undressed, her brassiere unhooked, her breasts released to swing freely? And her friend, slightly older, her hair cut short as a man’s, no ass to speak of, barely any bosom, would she look boyish underneath, or did that shapeless dress hide a woman’s shape after all, a quivering wet snatch and gem-hard nipples? His mind traveled over this imagined landscape and his breathing slowed to normal, his feelings of shame forgotten, quelled.

  He was roused from his reverie by a taxi, forced to brake not far from his front-row table. The driver honked angrily for the traffic jam up ahead to clear.

  Father Flanagan heard the driver telling his passengers the worst drivers in the world were Paris drivers. One of his passengers laughed, a huge gray-haired man in sailor’s cap and jacket.

  The woman by the window, holding a baby, was darkerskinned, looked Mediterranean. Black hair. Giant earring. Funky black-and-orange striped blouse. The baby was holding some kind of toy. Next to the woman was a bearded man with his hair in a ponytail. Next to him was the sea captain.

  The impatient honking of the taxi driver was joined by a chorus of honks and shouts behind him. The toy fell from the baby’s hands and it began to cry. The beard bent down, picked up the toy, gave it to the baby.

  The toy was a monkey with a long tail.

  The murder in Central Park crossed Father Flanagan’s mind. He saw the beard looking at the baby, who had now stopped crying. The man’s eyes startled Father Flanagan. They looked familiar. They were strange, lifeless eyes. Looking into them was like looking at gray clouds.

  Father Flanagan tried to imagine the face without the beard, the way he’d imagined the women without their clothes on.

  What he saw was the picture of Paul Page on the front page of newspapers and on TV.

  The beard was the bagman.

  The disguise made sense. Paris was exploding with music fans for the festival. Smartest thing the two fugitives could do was blend in with the sea of ex-hippies and young people in funky gear.

  The traffic jam broke. The taxi lurched forward. Father Flanagan memorized the license number, threw a handful of francs on the table, dove behind the wheel of his rental, and tailed the bagman, widow and baby.

  He would wait until they were alone. He didn’t want to kill the old sea captain as a witness—no collateral damage this time. He kept a couple of cars between them. Traffic was thick. They couldn’t go fast to lose him.

  He ruled out crucifixion. He never used a gun on the job. He didn’t trust guns. They often jammed at the wrong moment, like a condom breaking at the wrong moment. He’d have to use the switchblade he detested. It had no class. A knife was so goddam amateurish. Messy. Used only in an emergency.

  But that’s what this was.

  * * *

  In the taxi the baby kept tugging at the monkey’s long tail. Michelle regretted she couldn’t find a moment to phone Eddie. The crowd at the track would have been a perfect place for Eddie to do his act. Perfect and safe.

  Staging Eddie’s performance today would have helped the momentum in her plan. But tomorrow night’s event would make up for it.

  * * *

  Lafitte was worried. “Hank, if you score on that long shot in the third race, are you going to move on?”

  “No. We like the barge.”

  “You’re welcome to stay as long as you want.”

  “Thanks.”

  * * *

  The track’s parking lot was packed. Father Flanagan joined the line of cars, each hunting for a space. He spotted Paul and Michelle getting out of the cab. Without being obvious, he studied their clothes. Her black-and-orange striped blouse would be as easy to follow as Paul’s faded red shirt hanging over rumpled Levis. Both were wearing beat-up sneakers. Lafitte slipped the rucksack on his back. Paul put the baby in it. The baby was hanging onto the monkey.

  “Pardon me, Father.” The cop saluted. “It’s illegal to park here. You’ll find space over there.”

  “Thank you, Officer.”

  The cop saluted again.

  Father Flanagan found a space, locked the car, moved swiftly through the crowd swarming toward the ticket booths. In the distance he spotted the tall sea captain and the baby on his back.

  Then he lost sight of them.

  He pushed through to the ticket booth. Spotting the priest, people stepped aside to let him pass.

  “Thank you,” Father Flanagan said. “I’ve got to find a lost soul…a parishioner of mine…if he loses today, his wife will leave him.”

  He bought a ticket, plunged into people. All kinds. Teenagers. Couples. Elderly. Young gamblers. And plenty of people from the music festival. The colors worn by the young music fans made him dizzy. Many were dressed like the fugitives. Some carried babies and guitars on their backs.

  The first race was announced. A roar from the crowd blasted Father Flanagan’s ears. He lost his targets. Several times he thought he located them. Located a couple, anyway, but on second glance they were not dressed quite the same as the fugitives. Orange and black, red over blue…

  Horses thundered toward the home stretch. The crowd went wild. He spotted the sea captain again.

  Then, not far away, Paul and Michelle, backs toward him.

  He knifed both of them. They fell. A woman’s scream was drowned out by the roar of the crowd. Another woman screamed. She was heard. People pushed the priest aside. He was close enough to make sure they were dead.

  But the ponytailed man in jeans and the woman beside him were not the bagman and the widow.

  38

  That night in drunken shock Father Flanagan wandered through Place du Tertre in Montmartre. People were blurs. The long flame blown out of the mouth of an entertainer was a blur. Hands seized the priest, pulled him away as he came close to walking into the second blow of flame.

  He slumped into a chair outside a café, asked for a whiskey, planted his arms on the table, dropped his head on them. The glass of whiskey was placed in front of the sleeping priest. The sleep was short-lived. Sleep couldn’t alibi that he had fucked up. The first time in his life he had hit the wrong targets.

  Christ!

  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.

&nbs
p; 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.

  39

  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—M
ontmartre, 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.