Bender at the Bon Parisien (A Novel)

by Pres Maxson

  “I’m not through with you, Pistache,” Peukington added without removing his gaze from me. Pistache fell silent. “I’ll ask again, and hopefully this time I won’t be rudely interrupted. Are you a thief?”

  “No! Of course not!” I was panicking.

  “He is!” Pistache yelled despite the instruction from Peukington.

  “American, you say that you don’t know anything,” Peukington noted coldly, ignoring Pistache.

  “I don’t, and I’m not a thief! I have no clue what Pistache is talking about! I’m just on vacation!” I exclaimed with my hands in the air.

  “So give me the coin,” Peukington stated coolly.

  “I said I don’t have it,” I pleaded with desperation. “My wife and I were in here just to get a drink and things have gotten way out of hand.”

  Peukington looked analytically for a moment.

  Pistache lowered his brow. “He is a liar too,” he said softly. Peukington looked to Pistache.

  The pickpocket continued, “I pulled this off him.” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the small statue from earlier in the evening. I was so nervous and flustered that it took a moment for my eyes to focus on it. It was mini Balzac.

  “What is that?” Peukington asked as he kept the gun pointed at me.

  “It usually sits on the shelves behind the bar,” Pistache explained with an evil tone. “But, he had it in his pocket.”

  I barely knew him, but I was instantly feeling betrayed.

  “So you lied,” Peukington said to me.

  “I can explain that,” I stammered.

  “No need,” Peukington said with an eerie calm. “It will be easy to check your pockets for the coin when you are dead.”

  “No!” Janie interjected. “I gave it to him! As a present!”

  “So you’re a thief too?” Peukington asked, now addressing Janie. I felt somewhat relieved though, knowing that he hadn’t moved the gun off me. “Is this some sort of criminal convention in here?!”

  “No, it was just something, an innocent little gesture. Something to remember tonight by!” Janie pleaded. “We thought we would have been out of here hours ago. We would have actually been back and asleep by now. The figure was nothing. Just a little souvenir!”

  “I doubt you’ll be needing a souvenir to remember tonight,” Peukington said with a smirk. It was as close to a smile as he’d come so far.

  “It wasn’t supposed to be a big deal!” she again shouted.

  “Kind of feels like a big deal now, though doesn’t it?” he answered.

  “Well, you guys can have it back!” I started again. “See, no harm, no foul! It’s not like it’s worth a million euros!”

  “True, but it’s the entire principle of the thing,” Peukington went on calmly. “Now that I know you two are criminals as well, how do I know you didn’t take the coin either?”

  “We didn’t even know about the coin!” Janie yelled.

  “Well, something tells me you didn’t know about that little Balzac either when you walked in here, but you saw him and took him. Maybe you saw the coin and slipped that in to your pocket as well.”

  “I didn’t!” I shouted.

  “Believe me,” Janie added. “We would have given it back and gotten the hell out of here by now.”

  “Yeah,” I added. “I know you all say it’s worth a lot, but we’re on vacation. We were at the Louvre today for Christ’s sake! We’re not involved in some kind of international get-rich-quick scheme!”

  “I’ll tell you what,” Peukington said. “If you give me the coin right now, you can both head off into the night and get one last drink at some all-night club. I’ll even send you on your way with a few euros to pay for it.”

  “We don’t have the coin,” Janie answered, “but can we do that anyway?”

  Immediately steering the focus off of us, Peukington addressed the room with a voice that shook like thunder.

  “Ok, that’s it. I’m not asking any more questions.”

  Renard finally lifted his head. It looked as if he was bracing himself for something.

  “Listen American,” he said to me without lowering the weapon. “You seem nice, like a little bunny. But since you apparently know nothing, I won’t lose any information if I lose you. Plus, I hate bunnies.”

  I saw the muscles on the back of his hand twitch, and I heard the gunshot. As if shoved backwards, I felt the bar shelving thrust into my back. My spine shifted. With ears ringing, the immediate fire that comes with pain swelled so intensely that my eyes were forced closed. My knees gave way. Trying to fight my seized face, I forced an eye open just in time to see the bar rise as I sunk to the floor.

  Chapter XIX.

  The American bartender clumsily played the piano, but Jacques Pistache had barely noticed. He’d only been in the Bon Parisien for a few minutes, but the pickpocket’s mind was on other, more important matters. He eyed the clock behind the bar. The ornate face once seemed elegant and artistic, but without the coin he thought the piece was gaudy. Someone here had to have removed the item.

  “In the words of the Bard,” he whispered into his glass as he took a drink and allowed his body to sway to the music. “The game is afoot.”

  Fleuse sat at a table, distracted by Trudel, who appropriately was having nothing to do with the man. The pretty American girl was encouraging her husband’s horrible music, and Pistache felt free to roam the room and think.

  Did Fleuse or Trudel have the coin? Did each one suspect the other? One or both would surely know that Jacques didn’t have the coin if someone already nabbed it. So far, no silent conversations were being held through stolen glances or looks. Fleuse really seemed completely engaged by Trudel’s words, and the latter seemed equally involved in her energies to keep him at bay.

  Then what about the tourists? Did they have any idea what was going on? They seemed drunk. The American bartender’s playing was becoming increasingly loud.

  “Okay, that’s enough of that!” Trudel shouted.

  “Let him play!” Pistache answered, feigning interest. He had his actor shoes on.

  Trudel ignored the pickpocket. “I just finished my drink, and I need another. What kind of bartender are you?”

  “The tourist kind,” the American said with a laugh.

  “Honey, get her a drink,” the pretty girl said.

  Pistache’s eyes darted around the room. Perhaps no one had the coin and it was hidden somewhere else. If that was the case, he didn’t have a good idea of where to start looking. There were so many trinkets and nooks and crannies that the coin could almost have been anywhere.

  The music stopped. “Aww,” Pistache groaned, faking disappointment. “What shall I dance to now?”

  “I didn’t come to my favorite bar in the world tonight to not drink anything,” Trudel squawked. “Here it’s been closed for a few weeks and this is what I have to return to.” The very sound of her voice annoyed Pistache to his core.

  “He is doing his best,” the hapless Fleuse remarked. The pickpocket watched him. If he had the coin, he would surely have signaled something to Pistache.

  Fleuse continued, “It’s better than serving ourselves.”

  “Is it?!” The opera singer snapped.

  Everything about the woman repelled Pistache. She was entitled and devious. Worst of all, she may have been a vital distraction for a member of their team, Victor.

  He decided to stir the pot. Perhaps if he engaged the two more, he’d be able to decipher if one of them had the coin.

  “If you can tell me,” Pistache mused to Trudel, “how to make something as simple as a martini, then I will buy your next drink.”

  “Go to hell,” she grunted.

  “That’s what I thought,” he answered with a leer. He was trying to see directly past the conversation and into the subtext of her speech, but she was proving unreadable. “You couldn’t serve yourself if you tried.”

  Nothing. Pistache was beginning to be frustrat
ed.

  “Oh, I think I could take another beer,” he said aloud as he thought about entirely different matters. But almost as soon as he’d absentmindedly said it, a new idea dawned upon him.

  Fleuse hadn’t silently signaled that he’d taken the coin. Pistache didn’t believe that the clockmaker was bright enough to hide it from him anyway. The Americans likely didn’t even know about the hidden object, so Trudel could really be the only one who had it.

  All Pistache needed to do was put his skills to work and check her pockets for the coin. But, Trudel had had her guard up from the moment he’d arrived. The opera singer had made her distrust of him very evident with every step in the conversation. A distraction would help.

  “Here’s an idea,” he announced, pleased with himself. “We should play a drinking game.”

  “We’re listening,” the pretty girl said smiling.

  “Well,” Pistache began confidently, inventing the game as he went. “I’m thinking maybe something that says ‘welcome to Europe’ for both of you.”

  The bartender’s pretty wife was smiling.

  “Perhaps,” the pickpocket tried with the rise of an eyebrow and a look to the young woman, “something that involves the loss of clothing.” The coin would be easier to find if everyone were removing clothing. Then again, the thought of a lumbering and naked Trudel made the pickpocket shudder.

  “No,” the tourists answered in concert.

  “Okay then, new idea,” Pistache improvised. “Does anyone have a deck of cards? I assure you, all clothes will stay on.”

  The American behind the bar began to rummage around for the item under the ineffective direction of Fleuse. Pistache looked around the room at all the players. Trudel would be his target, but he could not simply invade her personal space immediately. It was then that he noticed the pretty girl’s necklace.

  “Got it!” The bartender shouted proudly as he produced a shoebox, followed by a deck of cards. Pistache moved toward the man’s wife.

  “Perfect, let’s see the cards. Everyone gather around up here.” Pickpocketing is easier in crowds.

  “Didn’t you say you did a little magic?” the pretty girl asked. Her French was better than he’d imagined.

  “I did,” Pistache answered, maintaining his act. “But, card tricks aren’t really my thing. That is, unless you have another card hiding behind your ear.” The swift touch of the girl’s chin and a wink proved enough distraction to flip the clasp on her necklace. He pocketed the prize.

  “Back off, man,” the temporary bartender said, oblivious to the actual circumstances. “Really, that’s enough.”

  “Sorry, my friend,” Pistache answered, acting apologetic and a little drunk. “I get carried away. Okay, here’s the game. There are five of us here, so we deal out nine cards each. Jokers included.”

  The pickpocket dove headfirst into the explanation of his game. He was proud of the fluidity with which he was able to describe the rules, especially considering there had been no advance planning.

  The instructions of the game were rather basic, and the collected group made it easy for Pistache to brush against their pockets. Obviously, he cared more about the others busying themselves than the game itself at all. Although he’d already managed the necklace from the pretty American, Trudel would still be a difficult target. He’d need every advantage.

  “And the jack?” the opera singer asked, snapping Pistache’s concentration.

  “The jack is in the blind!” the pickpocket exclaimed, pleased with his recovery. “Whoever has the queen, produce it and drink!”

  Just then, a man entered. All parties turned to see the stranger, who appeared with a pleasant look on his face.

  “Good evening, sir,” the American bartender said. Pistache thought the tourist was a fool, pretending to be a real Parisian bartender.

  “Good evening. How about a beer?” the stranger answered.

  Something was familiar about the man to Pistache, the sound of his voice, his face. Even his gait rang a bell, but he could not place the man.

  “Sounds good,” the American replied.

  Pistache knew he had to think fast. Now that there was an uninvolved bystander in the room, could he proceed as he needed to? Did he invite him to play? Would not inviting the stranger look too suspicious?

  “Looks like you are all in the middle of a card game,” the man said.

  “Yes,” the pickpocket answered. He only had one real choice on handling this unexpected patron. The pickpocket would need to ignore the fact that the man was somewhat familiar. Devoting any more mental energy to searching his memories would be too distracting, especially if it unearthed some trivial encounter on a metro or in this very bar.

  “In fact,” Pistache continued. “I was just explaining the rules to my friends here. Would you like to join? It could be easily arranged.”

  “No, thank you.”

  Pistache felt relieved.

  “I brought a book, so I’ll be comfortable somewhere over there, thanks,” the stranger finished.

  Pistache refocused. It would be easy to continue with the stranger removed from the moment. As the man went to his table, Pistache maintained character and announced, “So we continue! Where’s the king of spades!”

  Little did he know, a game-changing move had just been made.

  * * *

  The card game progressed, and Pistache was beginning to feel as though his chances of getting close to Trudel were running out. She was becoming friendlier with drink, but as the rounds kept piling up, the game seemed to drag on.

  At various points in the action, Pistache would glance in the direction of the stranger. He knew from experience to be aware of his entire surroundings, and he was unnerved when he looked the way of the man at the table. The man seemed to be peering back. Maybe it was just Pistache’s imagination, but he even felt as though he detected a smirk at times.

  No matter the circumstance, Pistache knew he needed to find the coin. Growing frustrated still with Trudel, he moved to Fleuse, who was looking rather weary with drink.

  “Are you running out of steam, my dear man?” Pistache asked, hoping the new tactic with Trudel’s suitor would change the opera singer’s demeanor.

  “Don’t give up now,” he continued. “You just need a little pick-me-up.”

  Pistache moved so quickly to Fleuse that the clockmaker barely had time to resist being drawn into a somewhat intimate embrace. Pistache hummed a lullaby, but kept one eye on Trudel.

  The opera singer seemed mildly entertained for a moment. She took a sip of her drink and dryly commented, “You two are strange.”

  Fleuse protested. Pistache checked the man’s pockets as they danced. Unsurprisingly, no coin. He lifted Fleuse’s watch, a momentary distraction. The pickpocket couldn’t help himself. The man didn’t seem to notice, nor did any of the other patrons for that matter. He told Fleuse as he walked away, “You move well, my man.”

  “Did you like my dancing?” The clockmaker asked the opera singer softly.

  “You were hating it yourself in the moment,” Trudel said. “Now you are proud of it?”

  “Of course he’s proud,” Pistache said, creeping closer to her. Sensing a change in mood, the pickpocket was ready to pounce. All he needed was a second. “We were good together just now.”

  “Who has the three?” the American bartender asked.

  Trudel looked to her hand, and Pistache considered leaping in, but he hesitated just long enough to miss the opportunity.

  “What happens if consecutive cards are in the blind?” the bartender piped up again.

  Slightly annoyed, Pistache just wished the tourist would not care about the card game. Without making too much effort to pretend the game was in fact a real one, Pistache blurted out “then everyone takes a drink!” He shrugged lightly and yelled “Pistache!”

  “You’re making that up,” Trudel said.

  The pickpocket inched closer.

  “Yes I am. Are you no
t having fun?”

  “No, actually, I am.”

  Finally sensing an opportunity, Pistache lit up inside. “I knew it, Madame von Hugelstein!” he exclaimed. He could almost reach her handbag. But no, he knew she wouldn’t put the coin there. It was too precious, and she’d know others would be looking for it. It had to be on her person.

  “But,” she added, holding her finger up to make an exception. “That doesn’t mean I find you at all funny!”

  Pistache felt as though she was almost flirting with him. It was the moment he needed.

  “Madame von Hugelstein, I must tell you!” The pickpocket bellowed as he thrust his arm around her and swiftly managed his hand underneath her scarf, into her inside jacket pocket. “I have met my match!”

  It was a lucky, albeit educated guess. There, inside the cozy darkness of the opera singer’s breast pocket, Pistache closed his fingers around a weighty, cold piece of thin precious metal. The coin had been found.

  The lift was nearly flawless as Trudel instinctively leaned away from him and ducked from beneath his arm. Pistache did everything he could to hide his elation, but after an entire evening of charades and plotting, he felt victorious. He slipped the coin into his own pocket and immediately took a drink in an attempt to hide his smile.

  “Let’s have a break from the game,” the tourist finally announced.

  “Yes, I’m good with that,” his wife agreed.

  “It was just getting fun!” the pickpocket exclaimed, clutching the prize in his pocket.

  * * *

  Pistache knew he couldn’t leave immediately. That kind of behavior would likely arouse suspicion with Fleuse and Trudel. He assumed that Trudel hadn’t left earlier for the same reason. The pickpocket had sat himself at a table with Fleuse to let his nerves calm as he planned his exit. It should seem casual, even if maybe a little abrupt.

  Fleuse was droning on and on about something, completely oblivious to any subtext in the room. Trudel also seemed totally unaware of the circumstances. She thought that she still had the coin. Pistache took a quick moment to revel in his success. He quietly drank to his talents.