by Pres Maxson
She shot him a look. “Same thing is going to happen to you if you shoot him too,” she answered with a nod to the revolver. Pistache was still pointing it at me.
“What happened here?” Peukington repeated. “Where is the coin? Renard, untie me!”
No one moved.
“Julian,” Pistache said without breaking his stare at me. “Save your breath. I’ll fill the rich man in.”
“Renard, get me out of here,” Peukington hissed. He didn’t notice that Victor still stood closely behind Renard.
“So you shot this poor American tourist,” Pistache began for Peukington. “… And then his wife kicked your ass with a chair. At least that was her description.”
“I said that I beat his ass with a chair,” Janie said. “You can’t kick an ass with a chair. How are you supposed to kick with a chair?”
Pistache thought for a moment. “Funny. Anyway, we tied you up so you wouldn’t try to murder anyone else while your lackey here traded fisticuffs with our former bartender. He’s a tough bird. While all that was happening, this tourist guy here comes back from the dead. It turns out that he’s had the coin all along. So that’s something. Anyway, here we are now. He was about to give it over to me when Victor and Julian here decide to tell me that it’s worth nothing.”
“Like hell it’s worth nothing,” Peukington spit. “It belonged to Napoleon.”
“If you believe in fairy tales,” Victor answered with soft hiss.
Pistache ignored Victor. “That’s what I told them, Peuky. If it’s worth nothing, then why did everyone show up here tonight for it?”
“Exactly,” Peukington agreed. “For once, pickpocket, we are in complete agreement. How about you untie me now.”
“Nice try,” Pistache said with a smile.
“Renard!” Peukington exclaimed. “Get me out of here! Grab that coin, and let’s go. Enough monkeying around.”
Victor silently moved to Peukington. Without a word, the old bartender wound up and delivered a swift and powerful fist to Peukington’s face. The businessman once again slumped and fell into silence.
Trudel and Fleuse jumped back a little. Janie and I were stunned.
“Victor?!” Trudel shrieked.
Renard rolled his eyes, and Victor looked back at him.
“What?” The bartender asked Peukington’s man. “It’s not like he was actually helping anything here. I got thrown off a bridge, and that American guy got shot! He’s better off knocked out!”
Renard sighed. “It’s going to be so much harder to convince him not to kill you now.”
Chapter XXI.
Victor Lacquer was still not ready to be seen. He glided along familiar streets and felt a subtle sense that he didn’t belong. Almost two weeks had passed. Sarah had been more than accommodating, but he’d needed to join the world of the living again. Walking through the town he knew, he felt as though something had changed. It was as if Paris no longer belonged to him.
Victor pushed his way through a park, passing a long string of bicycles chained to a fence. A small flock of birds parted on the path as he walked by, annoying a woman with birdseed on a bench.
Just outside the park, Victor glanced at his reflection in the windows of a café he knew well. He saw a face wracked with worry. Once he arrived at the Bon Parisien, he figured he could say hello to the management, apologize, probably pick up one last check, of course see if the coin was still there, and get out of town. He thought of Fleuse and Jacques. Trudel knew about their secret as well. Did she find a way to get herself wrapped up in this mess? What about the man who’d thrown him off a bridge?
Victor took a turn one street early. It wasn’t a shortcut, but the path up the alleyway afforded a glimpse from a distance of the Hôtel des Bretons. He enjoyed approaching the bar this way. The archway at the end of the alley perfectly framed the Bon Parisien’s windows across the street.
But today, Victor noticed something was different. At the end of the alley, a dark shadow blocked Victor’s view of the hotel. It was a character.
At first, the bartender assumed it was just another Parisian leaning up against a wall on the sidewalk, rolling his own cigarette. But as he approached the person’s backside, something was different. He could tell there was no cigarette. In fact, the character’s body was rigid and alert. He was watching for something and was transfixed by the Hôtel des Bretons. Victor immediately softened his step, recognizing the man who’d thrown him from a bridge. Victor quietly approached Julian Renard.
Without thinking, he seized the man’s jacket and whipped him around, pressing him into the brick alleyway wall. With Victor’s hands firmly around Renard’s neck, Peukington’s man both choked and gasped with surprise at once.
“Victor!” He managed in pain.
“That’s right, motherfucker.”
“But I threw you off the bridge. You’re alive!”
“I’m back from the dead,” Victor snapped as he couldn’t control his temper.
Renard struggled for breath, still pinned.
“Why on Earth should I not kill you right now?!” Victor yelled as he reinforced his grip on Peukington’s henchman.
“Keep your voice down!” Renard hissed in pain. “I’m hiding here.”
Ignoring him Victor answered, “Let’s hear it. Give me one reason.”
Renard squirmed. “We’ll make a deal!”
“You think you can buy me off? Really? After throwing me off a bridge?!”
“Listen,” Renard struggled. “You chose to play this game. Getting thrown off a bridge, or worse, is part of the risk you take. Let go of me, and let’s work this out.”
Victor thought for a moment, but didn’t relent. “What can you offer me?”
“No, no, no,” Renard squirmed, grabbing Victor’s hands. “You’ve got it all wrong. The question is, what can you offer me?”
“Are you serious!?” Victor again was yelling. “I’m the one with his hands on your throat. You think you’re in a position to negotiate?”
Renard winced and grunted, tightening his grip on Victor’s wrists. “I bested you once old man. Do you have enough fight in you to try again?”
Victor knew that if he tried to out-muscle Renard, he’d lose the fight.
Renard continued, seemingly sensing weakness. “So I’ll ask again, what are you going to do for me?”
The bartender released the man, and took a step back.
“What the hell are you talking about? Why would I do anything for you?”
Renard fixed his sport coat and cleared his throat. “That’s better. First things first: How are you?”
“Cut the shit,” Victor spat, slightly short of breath. “Just answer the damn question. Why would I do anything for you?”
“Well let’s see,” he answered. “I already killed you once, and frankly, I’m not afraid to do it again.”
Victor winced.
“So,” Peukington’s man continued as he gestured toward the Bon Parisien. “Right now all your friends are in that bar. I don’t know what’s happened yet, because no one has come out. That tells me that they either can’t find the coin in there, or they are arguing over who gets to keep it.”
Victor craned his neck to see into the bar’s windows, but he couldn’t make out the details.
“So unless you have a better idea,” Renard said, “here’s my plan. I would like to kill you again, drag your body in there, and remind them what happens to people when they take things that belong to other people. Specifically, Lavaar Peukington.”
Victor’s shoulders dropped. “Okay,” he answered with a deflated tone. “Counter offer. I just run away. You never hear from me again.”
“Well that’s a nice thought,” Renard said. “But, Monsieur Peukington will always want me to hunt you down. That’s the kind of man he is. Are you willing to live your life with a target on your back? Can you hide out forever?”
Victor felt as though he’d already lost. “Okay, what can I do?”<
br />
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” Renard answered calmly. “I’m going in there. If anyone comes out other than me, you get the coin from them. I don’t care how.”
Victor nodded.
“If an hour or so goes by and I haven’t come out,” Renard continued, “then you have my permission to come in, but only under one stipulation.”
“What’s that?”
“Not only do none of them know that you are alive, but they don’t know that we’re making a deal. They’ll be surprised, but they can’t know that we talked. They have to believe that you are still working as a team with Fleuse and Jacques.”
“So what happens if I get the coin?” Victor asked.
“Simple. You can give it to me, and as a reward, I’ll tell Peukington not to kill you.”
“Will he listen to you?”
“You had better hope that he does,” Renard answered with a laugh. “Listen, Monsieur Peukington is a businessman. He will recognize this deal. I can’t say he’ll be so lenient with your friends.”
Victor thought for a moment. “What happens if someone kills you in there?” Victor asked.
“Really!?” Renard asked, entertained. “Do you think someone in there is capable of that?”
“You never know,” Victor said coldly.
“In that event,” Renard mused, “You’ll have to return the coin to Monsieur Peukington yourself and explain our arrangement. The only other outcome is you getting thrown off another bridge or something.”
“I guess I really hope that no one kills you,” Victor mused with a defeated shrug.
“Good plan,” Renard said. “Where have you been, anyway?”
“Why would I tell you,” Victor asked. “If something goes awry, I’m going to need a hiding place. You didn’t even know I was alive.”
“But, I wasn’t looking. Trust me, when Lavaar Peukington wants to find somebody, he always does. Dead or alive.”
Victor looked again at the bar, and then to Renard. “Fine. I’m still not telling you, though.”
“I can live with that,” Renard laughed. “Hang on to that if it makes you feel better. So, are you ready?”
“One last thing,” Victor added.
“Go ahead,” Renard said.
“I’m going to hit you when I get in there.”
Renard clenched his teeth. “Don’t do anything stupid. You need me on your side, bartender.”
“I’m not asking. If we have to pretend this conversation never took place in front of all of them, I’m going to have to really sell it. And I’m pretty annoyed that you threw me off a bridge, so an apology would be great at some point.”
Renard waited a moment and extended his hand. “Victor, I’m glad you aren’t dead. Now let’s go finish this thing, huh?”
“Don’t patronize me,” Victor grunted. “Save the act for the bar.”
“If things were different,” Renard continued undeterred, “I sincerely believe that I would have enjoyed a whiskey with you.”
Victor averted his gaze, but shook the man’s hand anyway. “Yeah,” he answered.
“See you soon, my friend.” Renard buttoned his sport coat and crossed the street for the Hôtel des Bretons.
* * *
The safe hit the floor with a thud. Pistache could feel himself starting to sweat. Once it was discovered that he held the coin, there’s no telling what Renard would do. As long as the safe remained locked, Pistache assumed that Renard would be preoccupied and the pickpocket would be out of harm’s way. It would buy him time to strategize.
Just as he was thinking it, he heard Renard splinter the leg of a chair as he wedged it against the combination dial. Pistache looked up from the card game.
“That didn’t work,” Fleuse said.
“That’s true, Monsieur Newman. Thank you,” Renard said, annoyed.
“I am going to need another drink,” Pistache thought out loud. He didn’t realize that his glass was empty as he taught the pretty American girl the Sailor’s Revenge. She was still attempting the move, and Pistache found her clumsiness charming. The girl was catching on slowly, though.
Of course, none of this had changed the fact that he still needed an exit strategy. He’d slowly come to terms with the fact that he wasn’t going to be able to simply walk out of the place with the coin. He needed to re-hide it somewhere. Preferably, somewhere out of the way. And to do it, he might need a distraction. He had the answer almost as soon as he’d begun thinking about it.
“Wait a minute!” he exclaimed to the American bartender. “Can you make a Feu du Saint Denis?”
“I have no idea what that is,” the tourist answered. His French pronunciation was laughable.
“It’s a flavored whiskey shot, but the top of it is on fire,” Pistache excitedly announced. He knew it was a little risky, but fire causes chaos. He needed that to guarantee that no eyes were on him.
“Who was Saint Denis?” the American asked.
Pistache had no idea. Who cares? “He was a saint.”
“Huh, okay,” the American answered, looking unfulfilled. “Let’s try and keep the lighting of fires to an absolute minimum.”
“Well, think about it,” Pistache pressed on. What if there was a way to somehow use the fire to open the safe?” He knew that fire might damage the safe, which would be in his favor. If it was never opened, the coin in his pocket might stay a secret.
“That’s a terrible idea,” Renard said, overhearing the conversation.
“Why not? Maybe we weaken something that can give way in the lock,” Pistache tried.
“Or wind up melting it shut,” Fleuse added.
Damn you Fleuse, Pistache thought.
“Fleuse is right,” Trudel said as she looked over her hand of cards.
“Thank you,” Fleuse said with a smile at Trudel.
“Well for whatever it’s worth, I don’t love it either,” the pretty American girl said.
Pistache noticed her absentmindedly flipping the bottle cap between her fingers. “No one asked you, American. Go back to working on your bottle cap trick.” He looked to Trudel. “Keep your new friend quiet.” Pistache felt the bottle cap lightly hit his arm. He remembered how much he hated most American girls.
“Well, it looks like your chair thing is working really well,” the pickpocket went on sarcastically. “So, maybe you should keep going with that while I make a Feu du Saint Denis for everyone here who likes me.”
“Let’s just hear him out for a second,” Fleuse surprisingly suggested. “Okay Jacques, what do you propose?”
The pickpocket was pleased. He asked the tourist, “Do you mind if I join you?”
“No, come on back.”
Feeling his victory closer at hand, Pistache ventured behind the bar. As he explained the dangers of poison du poisson, his eyes darted between the bottles. The hiding place for the coin should not be in plain site this time, he thought.
Pistache lined up the shot glasses, always keeping an eye on Renard. He lit the drink, immediately realizing that he needed more fire. If a distraction was really going to work, the situation must truly be out of control.
As everyone drank, Fleuse added, “Let’s see just how hot this booze burns and its effect on intricate metalwork. We might be able to tell if it will cause more harm than good. We can use my watch.”
Pistache couldn’t believe his luck. Here someone else had perfectly set up a dangerous-sounding situation. In that brief moment, the pickpocket wondered if Fleuse could actually hear his thoughts.
As some voiced their objections, Pistache watched Renard. He was consumed with the safe but not inattentive to the happenings at the bar. The pickpocket continued his plan undeterred. He was sure that Renard would not catch him with the coin. As Fleuse laid his timepiece out on the bar, Pistache liberally dumped the booze all over it.
“Okay, hang on,” the tourist said. “You can’t light that now. You’ll ignite the whole place.”
“So?” Pistac
he couldn’t help laughing. That might actually be handy. If he burned the bar down, he might be able to disappear into the night with the coin.
The American bartender continued to protest but finally caved in. He stood at the ready with wet towels as Pistache threw a lit match on to the bar.
It wasn’t enough, and Pistache was disappointed. The situation was not nearly chaotic enough to keep Renard from noticing Jacques as he handled the coin. The American bartender jumped in with a towel, but the pickpocket was determined. He threw the towel back at the American, and poured more booze over the flames. The pickpocket really needed to go for the gold.
Bingo. The bar top practically exploded.
“Jesus, are you crazy?!” the American yelled.
“Honey, your arm!” The pretty girl shouted as her husband’s shirt caught fire.
The American bartender jumped in front of the pickpocket to douse his sleeve in a sink. Pistache dove out of the way, and simultaneously slipped the coin into the front pocket of Victor’s old shirt behind the bar. Peukington’s man never saw him. The deed was done.
“Smooth, Jacques,” Fleuse muttered sarcastically.
He didn’t know how right he was, the pickpocket thought.
Chapter XXII.
Pistache took a step toward me, rededicated to aiming the gun in my direction. I tried to focus my eyes on the barrel, but all the night’s alcohol kept my vision from working properly.
“I see what you’re trying to do here, Victor,” Pistache said with an icy stare in my direction. “You think that by telling me the coin is worth nothing, I’ll just walk out of here.”
“It’s worth nothing,” Victor said flatly.
“Do you think you’re saving this American’s life?” The pickpocket said. “I call your bluff. If you’d known the coin was worthless, you wouldn’t have come back here tonight.”
Everyone looked to Victor. The former bartender sighed and admitted, “Okay, well it’s not worth nothing. But, it’s not worth one million euros.”
Finally, Pistache broke his stare. “I’m through with taking your word for it. When this tourist hands me the coin, I’ll get a second opinion.”