Bender at the Bon Parisien (A Novel)

by Pres Maxson

  Victor grunted in defeat.

  “Nice try, friend,” Renard said to the old bartender.

  “I’m not your friend,” Victor snapped.

  “Don’t forget,” Renard hissed. “You need me.”

  Pistache interrupted their sidebar. “Maybe it’s just worth a little, and maybe it’s worth a lot. Either way, it’s time, American. I’ll take it now and be on my way.”

  I stared into the pickpocket’s eyes. His look was unwavering, and his hand was steady. Concluding that he might actually pull the trigger, the coin suddenly felt heavier in my sweaty palm.

  “Go ahead, honey,” Janie said softly to me. I’m not sure if anyone else heard. I looked at her, and she seemed to have a reassuring, confident gaze. The last thing I wanted to do was bring her any more distress.

  I took one last glance at the coin, and flipped it in the pickpocket’s direction. As it spun away from me in the air, I saw my dreams of riches go with it. It had been fun being a millionaire, if only for a moment.

  He flawlessly caught it with his non-gun-wielding hand and immediately pocketed it inside his jacket. Janie smiled sympathetically at me.

  “Thank you very much!” The pickpocket said pleasantly as he instantly stashed the gun as well. “How about one last drink for the road, tourist? A toast in celebration, really.”

  I didn’t move.

  “What exactly are we celebrating?” Trudel asked irreverently.

  “Me, obviously,” the pickpocket answered.

  “I’ll pass,” Victor hissed.

  “Suit yourself, old man.” Pistache shrugged and swiftly moved to the bar area as everyone stood by watching. Snagging a random whiskey bottle from the myriad of glassware that we’d left on the bar at various points in the evening, he poured himself a highball.

  Janie winced. “Eww.”

  “What?” Pistache asked.

  “Um … you’re not even going to use a clean glass?”

  “My dear, I’m not that worried about it,” Pistache exclaimed with a cheery tone. “After all. I’m rich now.”

  “Where are you going to go, Pistache?” Renard violently snapped.

  Pistache smirked and laughed as he took a sip. He didn’t answer further.

  “Do you think we won’t find you?” Renard added.

  “Actually, yes. I do not think that you’ll find me,” the pickpocket answered. “See, this time I won’t have these two to share the prize with.”

  Victor stood in silence.

  Fleuse hadn’t said anything in quite a while. He listened to the verbal sparring and occasionally shifted his gaze to Peukington’s body in the chair.

  “Cheer up, Fleusie,” Pistache sneered. “I’ll send you a few euros from my beach-front hut in South America.”

  “Fitting, I guess,” Renard said. “One of your friends here already sold you out. Seems right you’d do the same.”

  “Like I was given a choice,” Victor answered snidely. The others seemed to already know, or at least didn’t seem to care.

  “I’ll put it to you,” Renard continued to Pistache. “Hand me that coin right now, Jacques, and you walk out of here without a care in the world.”

  Pistache huffed in amusement. “I’m already walking out of here without a care in the world,” he said as he took another drink.

  “I’d say you’re walking out of here carelessly. There’s a difference,” Renard said as he walked toward the bar. He grabbed a glass and poured himself a little brandy. “Just ask your friend here.”

  Victor huffed softly.

  “Let me save you all the trouble,” Pistache said with a grand gesture. He had the gun back in hand. “You throw Victor off a bridge, and that’s supposed to scare me? Let me tell you. Jacques Pistache has been thrown off a bridge before. Actually, more than once.”

  “Why am I not surprised?” Trudel muttered.

  “I know everything you are about to tell me,” the pickpocket continued for Renard, “and I get it. You’ll hunt me down. Blah blah blah.”

  Renard just stared.

  “Come find me if you can,” Pistache continued. “I showed up at that party unafraid, and I’m not afraid now either.”

  “If that’s the way you’d like it to be,” Renard said plainly.

  “As for the rest of you,” Pistache took another drink. “Our goodbyes can be more cordial.” He looked around the room and settled on the old bartender. “Victor, I don’t blame you for taking Renard up on his deal to walk free. You’ve got some fight in you, but you are a numbers guy. Don’t get discouraged, you’re not meant for this kind of stuff.”

  Victor looked at the ground.

  “You ran a good ship here,” Pistache went on. “This American guy here did alright, but you were the crown jewel of the Bon Parisien. I trust it’ll never be the same, but I won’t be here to find out.”

  “If you ever do come back,” Victor answered, “these guys will be waiting. And, so will I.”

  “I don’t doubt it, friend,” Pistache answered, not sounding threatened by the former bartender. He turned to the opera singer. “As for you Trudel, I’m sorry that I never got to hear you sing.”

  “Rot in hell,” she snapped.

  The pickpocket smiled. “From one performer to another, I think you should keep at it. You might make it one day.”

  Trudel took a drink and stared at the man with distaste.

  “As for you two,” Pistache said with a turn to Janie and me. “You’re okay, American. I don’t detest you. And if I may say so, your wife is beautiful.”

  Janie rolled her eyes.

  “My little flower,” Pistache said as he danced toward Janie. “If you’d met me before him, I assume things would have been different.”

  “Right,” Janie said.

  “Send me off with a soft embrace,” he said as he opened his arms to her.

  Much to my surprise she actually leaned in and gave him a small hug with a pat on his back. When Pistache lingered, she shifted awkwardly. Finally raising her eyebrows and rolling her eyes again, she sighed, “Okay, Pistachio. That’s enough.” Leaning away, she shook her head and shot me a smirk.

  He smiled as he backed off. “That was all I needed, my sweetheart,” he said. “Travel safely on your way home, and always think of me when you think of Paris.”

  I scoffed. “Get the hell out of here, man.”

  The pickpocket turned to Fleuse. “And Monsieur Newman, what more is there to be said?”

  Fleuse stood silently.

  “Like I said, cheer up. I’ll see you again someday. We’ve been through so much, and I’ll always count you among my closest and best friends.”

  “Okay, Jacques,” the clockmaker managed.

  “Of course,” Pistache continued, “I’m very sorry that you’ll have to find a new jewel man. I think you’ll discover that my talents are not easily replicated in others, but I believe that you will make do somehow. Good luck, my friend.”

  “Sure,” Fleuse said without luster. He was clearly offended by Pistache’s betrayal.

  “Everyone, check to make sure you still have your watches before he goes,” Renard jabbed. He sounded like he was kidding, but I absolutely checked my watch and wallet.

  “Good one, Renard. I’ll miss you too,” Pistache said before addressing us one last time. “So that’s it, everyone.”

  He dramatically finished the last drop of his drink. He winced and looked at the bottom of his empty glass. “Well, it was no Esprit de la Nuit!” He tossed it into the wasteland of broken tables and chairs. It shattered as it landed, piercing the quiet that had settled over the room.

  The pickpocket moved to the curtain. Turning to the rest of us, he patted the coin through his coat pocket and took one last deep breath of satisfaction.

  “Adieu, mes amis,” he said as he theatrically opened the curtain. And in another flourish, Pistache and the coin were gone.

  * * *

  The group stood in silence for several moments, excha
nging looks and digesting the finality of the events. My head was spinning. I knew it would hurt in a few short hours. I couldn’t believe how much booze we’d consumed. How were we still standing?

  “So that’s it?” Trudel asked.

  “It’s over,” Victor said.

  “Not for me,” Renard said with a shrug.

  “Is Peukington going to come after us?” Trudel asked.

  “No,” Renard answered. “At least as long as none of you help Jacques from here on out.”

  “We don’t even know that guy,” I said.

  “You have the least to worry about, tourist,” Renard said.

  “Thank god. Why’s that?” I asked.

  “Because,” Janie said with a brave step forward, “this guy shot you.” She nodded at the chair. “Not to mention, he did it in front of five people.”

  “Well, luckily,” Renard answered her, “no one is hurt. That being said, Monsieur Peukington appreciates your silence on this entire matter.” He’d begun untying the unconscious man. As soon as he did, Peukington moaned and shifted in the chair.

  “What happened?” Peukington groaned.

  “I’ll fill you in, sir,” Renard answered as he helped him to his feet.

  “Where’s Jacques Pistache?”

  Janie and Trudel took a sip.

  “Like I said, I’ll fill you in, sir. But in the meantime, we have to get you out of here.”

  “Where’s the coin?” Peukington grunted.

  Renard didn’t answer him as he hoisted the man’s arm around his shoulder and neck. The two started for the curtain. Peukington stumbled with nearly his full weight on Renard. When they reached the doorway, they both leaned heavily on the frame as Peukington’s man turned his head.

  “Remember,” Julian Renard said. “We appreciate your silence. Stay away from Jacques Pistache.”

  Janie and Trudel took another sip.

  Renard swept the curtain aside and the men limped through.

  Everyone remained silent for several seconds and finally exhaled when it was evident that they were gone. I took a look around the bar. The place was trashed.

  “We are in so much trouble, honey,” I said to Janie.

  “Maybe we should slip out before the concierge starts for the day? We’ll tell him that we left before any of this happened.”

  “That’s not a half-bad idea,” I said.

  “Well, I think I’ll call it a night,” Victor said, walking toward the bar. He began raking up as many of his coins as he could carry. “If everyone is done stealing things for the night, I think I’ll take what’s left of my coin collection with me.”

  “Here, I can help you,” I offered.

  “Don’t touch anything,” the old bartender snapped. “I can take care of it myself.”

  We all watched as he stuffed his pockets and finally turned toward the curtain.

  “Where the hell are you going?” Trudel said.

  “I’m disappearing. I don’t trust those guys for one second not to try and come after me.”

  “They said they’re after Jacques, not us,” Fleuse said.

  “Still,” Victor said, “I’m not taking my chances. I’m making myself scarce.”

  “Don’t you think you owe me an explanation?!” Trudel screamed.

  “Trudie,” he snapped. “They threw—”

  “I got it,” she snapped. “They threw you off a bridge. Who cares? You didn’t die or anything. What about us?!”

  “No thanks,” Victor said coldly. “See you around, Fleuse,” he said with a nod. He parted the curtain and walked through. I doubted that the Hôtel des Bretons would ever see their bartender again.

  Tears began to swell in Trudel’s eyes, but she didn’t let the emotion take her. There was a moment of silence, before she composed herself.

  “I, too, will be leaving,” she managed.

  “Trudel,” Fleuse said.

  “Oh god,” she said with an exasperated tone. “What?”

  “Please let me take you to dinner.”

  “Dinner?! Fleuse, it’s almost breakfast time.”

  “Anything, madame,” he answered.

  She thought for a moment, and looked at Janie and me before answering him.

  “You may walk me down the street toward a café. I’ll decide when we get there if I’m going in,” she said with her nose in the air.

  Fleuse was very pleased. They started for the curtain before Trudel turned around.

  “One more thing, American.”

  “Yes?” I asked.

  “How did you get the coin?”

  I looked to Janie.

  “I have no idea. Truly I don’t. I checked the shirt earlier, and I swear it wasn’t there.”

  “Well, if we’re retracing steps, you all must suspect that I removed it from the clock,” she admitted.

  “When?” Fleuse asked.

  “Before you arrived. I was going to leave, but you showed up too soon. I have no idea when I lost it, though,” the opera singer said.

  “Jacques,” the clockmaker sighed.

  “God, I hate impressionists,” Trudel grunted. They turned, Fleuse pulled back the curtain for her, and he followed her through it.

  Janie and I were finally alone again in the room.

  “So,” Janie said. “This has been fun!”

  “I can’t believe I got shot.”

  Janie came over to hug me. “I can’t believe you’re not even hurt,” she said.

  “Maybe I should go to the hospital or something. Just to be sure.”

  “Let’s just go get some breakfast and let this night sink in.”

  I nodded. In truth, I was starving and feeling drunk. As we walked toward the curtain, I turned to take one last look back at the wreckage. The bar looked just as beautiful to me as it had the first time I’d seen it twenty-four hours earlier. We poked our heads through the curtain to scout the area and scurried to the door unseen.

  Chapter XXIII.

  Outside the Hôtel des Bretons, morning light gently crept over the city neighborhood.

  “Were we really in there all night?” Janie asked.

  “Guess so,” I answered. We began to walk toward the river. Twelve hours in the Bon Parisien was already fading into memory. Somewhere deep in my skull, a small headache was gently sparking to life.

  “I can’t believe that just happened,” Janie muttered with a little laugh. She must not have been feeling the drinks the way I was.

  “I know.”

  Café lights made the sidewalk glow in the next block. “Let’s stop up there,” I added.

  “No, let’s put off breakfast just a bit longer. We could watch the sunrise over the river from the Pont des Arts.”

  Despite my hunger and the tiny headache, I let the moment win my attention. “You’re right. When are we going to be able to do that again?” We turned to pass through the Tuileries.

  Fine stones on the path crunched softly underfoot. For the first time, I realized exactly how exhausting the all-nighter had been. Shadows along the ground and in the trees exaggerated dimension. Colors seemed abstract and inexact. Lack of sleep does that. This was the same feeling from the morning before as I looked out our window. Paris is perfect for that type of surrealism. You know it’s really out there, but you can’t believe it.

  We arrived at the bridge, hearing the wooden planks knock under our feet. Listening to the rhythm of our steps mingle with the lapping of small river ripples beneath, Janie and I made it to the center of the bridge without exchanging a word. We rested our elbows on the rails.

  Sunlight was visible as a gentle glow, still under the horizon. Silhouettes of structures created a jagged line between city and sky.

  Gradually, the light grew and turned up the heat on the navy blue morning. We only needed to wait for a few quiet minutes before the sun peeked over the ancient city like a match being struck in the distance, and the Seine was seared white with its reflection.

  “I can’t believe we made
it,” I said.

  “I know,” Janie answered.

  “There were points in the night when I didn’t believe we’d get to see this.”

  “I know,” she said again with a nod.

  I threw my hands up. “And you know what?”

  “What?”

  “I forgot to take the gift you stole for me from the bar.”

  “The little Balzac?”

  “Yeah,” I uttered. “Feels like that happened days ago.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about it.” Sunrise light made Janie’s face glow, but she was beaming anyway. “It doesn’t matter. I got you something else.”

  “Okay?” I asked, unsure of what she could possibly have taken.

  Janie stuffed her hand into her pocket and fished something out. When she opened her palm, my stomach turned and my eyes popped. There it sat, a piece of Paris with near mythological history. The much-sought-after trophy during our bender at the Bon Parisien rested in my wife’s tiny little hand. She had Peukington’s coin.

  “Jesus!” I yelled as I jumped. “Where the hell did you get that? How did you …?” My voice failed me.

  “Pistache never should have taught me the Sailor’s Revenge,” she said with a sly smile.

  I was speechless.

  “And he never should have offered to hug me before he left,” she added.

  I frantically looked up and down the bridge, believing Renard or Peukington himself would leap out of nowhere to hurl us over the side. Luckily, we were alone.

  “I don’t believe this, honey,” I stammered. My disbelief took a few moments to fully sink in. I searched my memory for the moment of Janie’s lift. I suddenly remembered it all: the hug, her look, and her shift.

  “Plus, he really doomed himself in the end,” she continued.

  “How’s that?”

  “So, I watched him make that last drink as he said his goodbyes.”

  “The one with the dirty glass? So what?”

  “No one noticed,” Janie continued, “but he emptied the bottle of poison du poisson into that glass and downed it right in front of us.”

  “The crazy stuff that makes you black out?”

  “Yep. He said it himself. It looks and tastes like normal whiskey. He’ll have no idea what happened tonight. He might not even realize that he thinks he left with the coin in the first place.”