Bender at the Bon Parisien (A Novel)

by Pres Maxson

  “Another of the same, please,” the stranger ordered his drink, as he turned and once again made eye contact with Pistache.

  As if a nail had been driven into his sternum, the pickpocket suddenly recognized the man. He knew in that instant that this was the man from Lavaar Peukington’s party. He stood instinctively, feeling the full gravity of the situation wash over him.

  As the American bartender and Peukington’s man had a mindless conversation about the drinking game, Pistache was flooded with certainties about his new perspective on the situation.

  This man was not here by accident. All the subtle looks and smiles from the stranger at the table throughout the evening had not been only the observations of a good-natured bystander. In fact on the contrary, Pistache was now disheartened to know that his every move had probably been watched. This man was also looking for the coin and perhaps even knew that Pistache had it.

  The pickpocket knew he wasn’t leaving without engaging this man somehow.

  “So tell us, my friend,” Pistache exclaimed, already knowing the answer. “What brings you in tonight?”

  “Well, I wanted a drink. I happened to see this place as I was walking by. It looked as good a spot as any,” Renard lied.

  Pistache squinted at him, and a corner of the man’s lip rose.

  “Well, you couldn’t have chosen better, my friend.” Pistache weighed his options and wondered how quickly he could make it to the door. He noted that this stranger had actually placed himself in the way without appearing to threaten to anyone. Pistache tried to steer the conversation in a new direction. “What are you reading?”

  “It is a book of poetry. I found it at a book fair recently.”

  “Very cool,” the pretty girl, said.

  “Oh yes? Who wrote it?” Pistache asked, never taking his eyes off the stranger. No time now to hit on the American girl.

  “Various authors,” the man said with a roll of his eyes, as if he knew Pistache didn’t really care.

  “I’ve never heard of him,” the pickpocket answered laughing.

  “I liked the picture on the cover. Poems are short. They are easy to read,” Peukington’s man pressed on.

  “I have actually always thought the opposite. They are kind of cryptic,” Pistache said. Would he be able to find any way out at all?

  “That’s the beauty of them. I like to search for the subtle hints at meaning,” Renard answered.

  “That always just frustrated me.”

  “Not me,” he answered with a step toward Pistache. The man was glaring at the pickpocket through his own words. “It’s what I do. It’s like a code to decipher or a treasure to uncover. I like the hunt almost as much as I like the eventual feeling of discovery and release.”

  Pistache hated this man. “Aren’t you a deep one?!” he roared.

  The pickpocket couldn’t ignore the double meaning. If it’s a challenge this man wanted, then Pistache would give it to him. He continued, “Have you read one yet that you don’t understand?”

  “No. Eventually, I always figure them out.”

  Arrogant prick, Pistache thought.

  The stranger picked up his drink and smiled but didn’t take his eyes off of Pistache. The pickpocket had to make a move.

  “Well, this brief exchange has gone on long enough without knowing each other. Jacques Pistache,” he said, introducing himself through his teeth. “It’s a treat to meet you, finally.”

  “Julian Renard, and it certainly is.” Neither man sounded at all sincere.

  Pistache knew that this evening was far from over.

  Chapter XX.

  Janie stood over me in hysterics. My eyes could barely open. The lighting was suddenly too bright. With furiously ringing ears, I somehow sensed the room raged on the other side of the bar. My entire upper body was throbbing, and the dirty floor seemed to pull at the skin on my face.

  As soon as she saw my eyelids flutter, Janie exploded even further, this time with a bright look on her face. I clutched my chest at the center of the pain. I became aware that I’d been mumbling fiercely. My heart hit my chest three times harder than it ever had before.

  “Honey! You’re alive! Are you okay?!” Janie screamed as I felt her tears drip onto my face. I raised my hand to wipe them from my cheeks. I forced my eyelids open. For the first time, my eyes focused.

  “I’m not bleeding,” I rambled a few times, looking down for the source of the pain. My face felt hot. “My chest hurts. My back hurts too. My legs feel heavy.” Voices rung simultaneously like bells. I couldn’t tell if they were in my head or coming from the other side of the bar.

  “You were shot! I thought you were dead!” Janie said through more tears. “I can’t believe it.”

  “Where is all the blood?” I asked again as I glanced around. I craned my neck from my crumpled position on the floor behind the bar. Slowly, my equilibrium was returning to balance.

  “I have no idea,” she said through sniffles and nervous laughter. “It’s a miracle.”

  I moved to sit myself up. Incredible pain, and I again grabbed my chest.

  “Stay down,” she said over sirens in my head. “They were fighting, but it’s mostly over now.”

  I didn’t listen. Adrenaline rushed me into a rage. Code red. I pushed myself up again, reaching directly for the rifle underneath the bar. Without thinking, I grabbed it and climbed to a standing position. My eyes focused, and Janie clung to my side, still sobbing. As quickly as I could, I clamored over sinks and glassware onto the bar top. Janie looked on in horror. From my vantage point high above the room, I took hold of the trigger, and carelessly aimed the gun at the ceiling.

  BANG.

  The room immediately froze. Sudden silence. My eyes had finally cleared. Peukington sat in a chair, unconscious. Pistache and Fleuse were in the middle of propping him up and tying him into a seated position. Where had they gotten rope? Another chair lay in hundreds of splintered pieces on the floor nearby. Victor was holding Renard’s arms behind him, clearly struggling before I brought the room to a standstill. Trudel panted, as she clutched a wine bottle. I noticed that it wasn’t broken, so I pictured her clubbing someone with it. I imagined that must have hurt. A wine bottle is a dull instrument.

  A few ceiling tiles fell near me, a result of my gunshot.

  “Are you positive that was necessary?” Pistache said with an eerie calmness.

  “ARE YOU SERIOUS?!” I shouted at him. “That guy shot me! Do you think that I’m overreacting!?”

  “Where is all the blood?” Trudel asked, echoing my initial thoughts.

  “Good point,” Pistache noticed. “Zombie?”

  “Listen up,” I said, asserting my place over the room. “My wife and I just came here for a good time tonight, but somehow we ended up in the middle of this! We have never even wanted to find this thing! It’s all of you who forced us to stay! How am I the one who wound up being shot?!”

  I heard Janie sniffle again, but she wasn’t cowering when I looked back at her beneath me. I could tell she was mad.

  “Now this has gone on long enough!” I shouted. “I probably should have found a way to get us out of here a long time ago, but I guess I’ve learned my lesson. I have this rifle. It’s time this ends right now! Which one of you has this damn coin?!”

  Still silence. They all looked at each other, waiting for someone to speak up.

  “Seriously?!” I screamed. “I just got shot over this thing, and you guys still are trying to hide it from each other?!”

  Still nothing.

  “Really, why aren’t you bleeding?” Trudel asked again.

  “I don’t know!” I shouted. I couldn’t stop yelling. “We’ll worry about that later! Seriously, who has this coin?!”

  With every breath, pain shot across my chest. Again I clutched the area in which I’d been shot, but something felt different. I ran my hand over my chest, and felt a small hard object in the left front breast pocket of the old black-and-white checkered fl
annel from behind the bar.

  Momentarily distracted from the room, I reached into the pocket and closed my hand around a small piece of metal. I removed the object, and opened my palm. There, sitting in the center of my right hand, was a gold coin.

  “Oh my god,” Janie whispered as she covered her mouth.

  “That’s the coin!” Fleuse gasped.

  “How long have you had that, Peter?” Janie asked, completely shocked.

  I checked my shirt and torso again, and looked back at the coin. Just as it had been described, it was scuffed with bullet markings and somehow maintained a dull, antique magnificence. For a brief moment, I truly felt as though I was holding a wealth of history in one hand. Suddenly, I believed it all unquestionably.

  “I can’t believe I got shot in the coin.”

  Fleuse stood open-mouthed. “He got shot in the coin?” He echoed.

  “Do you know what this means?” Pistache said in a whisper loud enough for everyone to hear. “The Napoleon story is true.”

  “Of course it’s true,” Renard muttered.

  “Is there some kind of magic linked to that thing?” Pistache muttered in disbelief.

  “A historic, magic coin,” Trudel muttered.

  “No wonder everyone who’s possessed it has been filthy rich!” Pistache mused.

  Victor and Renard still stood in silence, but I noticed Peukington’s man roll his eyes at the others’ suggestions of magic.

  “Honey,” Janie started. “Seriously, how long have you had that?”

  “I … I have no idea,” I stammered, finally able to lower my voice.

  “He’s been hiding it the entire time!” Fleuse exclaimed.

  “Or maybe the coin is cursed,” Trudel added, still lost in thought. “This is not the first time that someone has been shot with the coin in their pocket.”

  “Don’t be an idiot,” Pistache snapped. “It’s not like they die.”

  “Well true,” she answered. “But it drives people around it crazy. Look at all of us! We’ve been mad over this thing for weeks! Monsieur Peukington shot this tourist over it.” She looked toward Renard. “Does he do that often? Shoot people?”

  Renard thought for a moment. “Actually sometimes, yes.”

  “Huh. I was hoping that wasn’t ordinary behavior,” she answered.

  “You American rat,” Victor grunted at me. “Stealing from my bar.” He was clearly not buying the magic coin discussion. Either that, or the magic coin was cursing him and driving him mad to the point that he couldn’t pay attention to the idea.

  “I didn’t steal anything from your bar!” I shouted.

  “Except that little guy that your wife took,” Pistache pointed out.

  “I know a thief when I see one,” Victor hissed.

  “Didn’t you steal the coin in the first place?” I sharply retorted.

  “Yes, he did,” Renard snapped.

  There was a moment of silence as everyone digested the situation.

  I looked down at the coin in my palm again. For the first time, I pictured myself sipping a martini on the plane ride home, sitting first class. “I’m going to be rich!” I whispered to myself from my spot on top of the bar.

  Janie was watching silently until my daydream became obvious. “Honey, please.”

  “Do the right thing here.” Renard snapped, finally wrestling out of Victor’s grip. The old bartender didn’t try to restrain him. “Give me that coin, and we’ll be all set.”

  “What makes you think we’re letting you leave with that?” Pistache asked Peukington’s man. “You are severely outnumbered.”

  Renard ignored him. “I assume that you will return it to its rightful owner. Besides, you said you didn’t even want the coin.”

  “Well, I didn’t,” I countered. “But, excuse me for feeling like you all owe me something. I’m the guy that got shot on vacation in the middle of your whole mess!”

  “Well, the coin protected you,” Pistache said. “So it’s really nothing, right?”

  “Nothing!? Are you kidding me?!” I exploded.

  “It’s not nothing,” Renard conceded, taking a deep breath. “Monsieur Peukington is very sorry about that.”

  “Sorry?! What’s to stop me from calling the police right now about this whole thing?! In fact,” I thought aloud as I looked at Janie, “I probably should call the cops, right?”

  “Yeah. Actually, how have they not shown up yet?” Janie wondered aloud. “Especially after a couple gun shots.”

  “Actually, no one’s calling the police,” Renard said. “Monsieur Peukington will not be found at a crime scene.”

  “You know, Renard,” Pistache interjected. “The guy is going to be found pretty much anywhere Fleusie and I decide to leave him right now.”

  Renard rolled his eyes again. “Okay, enough. Untie him please,” he said as he took a step toward the unconscious man in the chair.

  Victor reached out and grabbed Renard’s shoulder. Trudel lifted the wine bottle, and Peukington’s man backed down.

  Victor hissed at Renard, “You may have thrown me off a bridge, but I got you now. And I have these two to help if I need it.”

  I had a tough time believing that Fleuse and Pistache had ever been too much help in a fight.

  “Peukington stays in the chair,” Victor said frankly.

  “I know he’s supposed to be somebody,” I added cautiously, “but he did shoot me. I think we really have to call the police.”

  “C’mon. What a rookie,” Pistache muttered, tightening up the tie-up job on Peukington. “You don’t see any of us diving for the phone do you?”

  Everyone ignored the question.

  “An unfortunate act,” Renard said through gritted teeth. “One that renders you deserving of compensation, I imagine. Monsieur Peukington will absolutely want to see you cared for, in exchange for your discretion of course. And the coin.”

  I looked at Janie. She raised her eyebrow.

  “If you are offering to buy it back from me, then let’s make a deal,” I said, trying to hide my fear of the situation. “Otherwise, I’ll just keep the coin. That would be compensation enough.”

  Renard shook his head, and the others in the room all made various sounds of exasperation.

  “I thought you didn’t want the coin,” Renard said.

  “Well I didn’t, at first. Then, I GOT SHOT.”

  “You have no claim to it,” Pistache blurted out, ignoring me. “The rest of us have been grappling over this thing for weeks.”

  “Excuse me?!” Renard leapt a little as he spoke to Pistache. “Are you insinuating that the rest of you have a legitimate claim to the coin?! You stole it!”

  “Well this American idiot shouldn’t walk out of here with it!” Pistache yelled back.

  “He’s not going to. Everybody take it easy!” Victor jumped in.

  “Wait!” I yelled over everyone. “What makes you think I’m not leaving with the coin? I have a gun. I’m pretty much doing whatever I want right now!”

  The room was quiet for a moment.

  “Your gun is useless, barkeep,” Victor said calmly.

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s a single shot rifle,” Renard answered for Victor. “It’s just a prop now.”

  Feeling silly, I sighed. My entire upper body ached with the breath. I managed, “Oh, okay.”

  “Come on down here, honey,” Janie said reaching for my hand. At least I’d stopped the brawl earlier.

  “So,” I announced in a much less threatening tone as I descended the bar top. “Thank you to whomever wailed on this Peukington guy with a chair. Based on the broken one on the ground, I assume that’s what happened.”

  Trudel spoke up. “That was actually your wife.”

  I looked to Janie. “Seriously?”

  “Well, he shot you. I lost my mind,” Janie said with a shrug.

  “It was pretty awesome, actually,” Trudel added.

  “Quite a girl,” Pistache s
aid.

  “Oh, okay,” I said. “Wow, honey.” We moved out from behind the bar. “Well, should we call an ambulance or something? I mean, Monsieur Peukington probably needs medical attention, so …”

  “Who cares if he needs medical attention? He didn’t care about killing you,” Janie answered coldly.

  “I hate to leave you all,” Pistache interrupted without too much grace. “But I believe the night has dragged on long enough.” He turned to me. “Bartender, give me the coin and I’ll be on my way.”

  “Gimme a break, man,” I said in English with a subtle laugh. “After all this, why would I just hand it over?”

  “Because,” he answered as he reached into his sport coat pocket. “You have to.”

  I heard the ‘click’ as Pistache cocked the revolver. My heart sank. It went without need for explanation that he’d removed it from Lavaar Peukington at some point during the struggle.

  “And this one isn’t out of ammunition,” Pistache added mockingly.

  Renard sighed and took a step backward.

  “Wait, Jacques,” Victor managed.

  Pistache didn’t move. I was frozen, immediately aware that there was a chance I was about to get shot for the second time in a night. Janie arrived silently at my side.

  Victor continued as he stepped forward, “It’s not real.”

  Momentarily distracted from the coin, Pistache answered, “What do you mean it’s not real. The coin’s a fake?”

  “No, the coin is very real. It’s authentic absolutely, but the story isn’t.”

  “Napoleon never owned it?” Trudel asked, echoing the thoughts of the room.

  “What is going on here?” A voice suddenly awoke. Every head turned. Peukington sat in the chair with his head up.

  “When did you wake up?” Pistache said in a sarcastically cheery tone.

  Peukington looked around. “What happened?”

  Janie took a step forward and spoke very seriously. “You shot my husband. So, I beat your ass with a chair.”

  I smiled, but tried not to let Peukington see it.

  “Wow,” Trudel said. “Look out for her, am I right?”

  “You’re still mad about that?” Pistache asked Janie in jest.