Give Him the Ooh-la-la

by Lise McClendon

  The biggest up-and-coming scams were in China where the rising middle class had discovered the cachet of a fine French wine. Auction prices had skyrocketed, and so had the demand for fine reds like Pomerols and Lafite-Rothschilds. If a good bottle of red in a fine year cost $8000, a fake one in the original bottle could run $150 and up. The market in used bottles was brisk.

  But how this related to Weston Strachie’s wine importing was unclear. Was someone using his company name as provenance, a so-called source of wine to make their counterfeit product look legitimate? Did Weston forge labels and sell cheap wine as the good stuff? Had it been sitting around all these years? Who was selling it?

  There was no evidence to show that Strachie Wine & Spirits held onto any wine after the company dissolved. No one sued for non-delivery after Weston died. There were no claims upon the estate that Merle had found in the paperwork. She picked up the desk phone and called Troy Lester at the law firm. He confirmed that no business had made a claim against the estate. Strachie appeared to operate a clean company, except for that little ‘inferior goods’ suit.

  “That company is still in business,” Troy added.

  “Bayside Wholesale?”

  “Not far from the Levittown address.”

  Merle searched the net again. They’d changed their name slightly to Bayside Liquor Distributors. Their building was hard upon the railroad tracks in an industrial district in Brooklyn. Merle scribbled the address on a slip of paper and went back to her search of fraudsters and con artists in the wine game.

  Tristan roused himself at last and took a long shower. Merle kept an ear on the hallway, listening to him sing in the bathroom and hum as he dressed. She shut down the computer and met him at the stairs in time to propose lunch. She was laughing at something he was trying to say with his mouth full of bread when her cell phone buzzed.

  It was a text from Francie: “Bosom Drearie’s contact details — please send. Need her for this function!”

  Sixteen

  Le Coquin stumbled down the escalator and skidded to a stop near baggage claim at JFK International. His eyes were slits and a gob of cheese hung on his lip. He turned this way and that, peering at men in suits holding signs for arriving passengers.

  Pascal put a hand on his arm.

  “Monsieur LeBlond?” he asked although it was impossible to mistake the bear of a man, disheveled, stringy black hair in his eyes, the huge belly. “Bienvenue aux États-Unis.”

  The welcome was met with a grunt. LeBlond rubbed his beard and pushed a lock of hair from his eyes. “Who are you?” he asked in French.

  Pascal introduced himself, offering a hand that was ignored. The stale smell of body odor, piss, and wine emanated from the man.

  LeBlond nodded slowly as if quick movements might be death. “Where is the car? Bring my bags. I need air.” He lurched toward the exit.

  Nearly an hour passed before Pascal, seething, located all the man’s luggage, having to wait until everyone else on the jumbo jet had claimed theirs. LeBlond couldn’t remember how many bags he’d brought. Eventually he settled on three, not four, and they got underway. Pascal rode in the front with the driver, a lanky Russian named Serge.

  Stretched across the back seat LeBlond snored softly. Pascal jabbed a chubby knee to ask what hotel he wanted to go to. He snuffled, confused, then pulled a sheet of paper from his black leather jacket. Pascal unfolded it and told Serge: “Waldorf Astoria.”

  *

  A full complement of the valet staff, plus Pascal and Serge, were required to get the big man and his luggage extracted from the vehicle, registered, up the ornate elevators, and into his suite on the ninth floor. Predictably he was unhappy with the view and everything else. Serge and the valets disappeared. LeBlond began pawing through open suitcases, looking for clothes. As Pascal checked his messages Mateo dropped his trousers and everything else and headed for the shower.

  Merle had texted. Her sister wanted Bosom Drearie’s contact info, the one thing that he did not have. He sent a quick ‘sorry, no info’ back to her.

  He intended to drop off Le Coquin and go about his business in the City. He had two more wine auction houses to explore. Plus the man was a disgusting boor. He had no intention of babysitting him. Sounds from the bath coalesced into a tune. Pascal’s head popped up. The sound of Mateo’s baritone, his sudden resurgence of energy and particularly the song he was singing, made Pascal hang back. Maybe the man could actually have a conversation. This could be instructive.

  The warm, scented steam from the bathroom seeped around the door. At least he would smell better. The sumptuous suite was as large as a Paris apartment, with a well-furnished sitting area with fireplace, done in blue and gold in traditional French style. Gauzy curtains let in pale morning sun. Pascal looked into the bedroom. Mateo had already destroyed the luxury feel of the massive bed with mounds of clothing exploded from his luggage. A glass decanter lay nestled in an open suitcase. Pascal took a step closer and saw it was cognac, Rémy Martin’s Louis XIII, but looked different, a sleek black crystal bottle with an ornate stopper. Ah, Black Pearl, he’d only heard tales about it. Sold by invitation only and way out of his league. It was half empty.

  Pascal retreated to the sitting room and eased into an armchair by a window. He listened to a frantic message from Antoine Girard, wondering where he was and what had happened to Mateo. He deleted it. If Girard was so worried he could have picked up the beast himself. He looked at his watch. It was almost noon. He hoped he didn’t have to eat lunch with Le Coquin. The thought of it turned his stomach. Maybe he would go after all.

  The bathroom door opened with a crash. Mateo emerged, damp, hair toweled and uncombed, but looking better. His face had color again. He wore jeans, high-top basketball shoes, and a blue suede jacket. He glanced at Pascal while putting on an expensive-looking gold watch.

  “Ah, Pascal, is it?” He began pawing through his clothes again, looking for something, possibly the Rémy Martin. “Call me a cab. I have a lunch appointment with a special lady. She may not wait for me, you know?”

  “I heard you singing Blossom Dearie, am I right?” Pascal asked. It was the same song the drag queen had sung, well-known in France among jazz aficionados.

  “Was I? The taxi. S’il vous plaît,” he added bitterly, as if asking the help twice repulsed him.

  “If Napoleon at Waterloo la la…” Pascal made himself actually sing. In a falsetto.

  Mateo grinned. “Had an army of debutantes…” He swung his hips like a schoolgirl. “To give those British the ooh la la.”

  Pascal watched him make an idiot of himself. The more he played babysitter the more he’d get to see this. But he made himself say the words tunelessly: “He’d have changed the history of France.”

  Mateo let out a gust of a laugh. “Too bad Bonaparte was such a stick, eh?”

  “Have you ever seen that man who plays a woman — what’s her stage name? The one who sings Blossom songs? She does that one.”

  Mateo straightened, focusing on Pascal now, giving him a good look up and down. “You’re a fan then? I should have guessed. Those boots.” He shuddered dramatically.

  Pascal ignored the jibe, trying not to smile. “I’m trying to find her other persona, the wine consultant. For our investigation into your family’s suspect vintages.” Pascal waited for him to remember the reason for his trip. It didn’t happen. “Monsieur LeBlond, do you know Denis Toulemonde?”

  Mateo hesitated a second too long. “Who’s that?”

  “The singer in real life. The wine consultant.”

  “Quoi? What?” Now he appeared genuinely confused.

  “You didn’t know? The drag queen’s real name is Denis Toulemonde.”

  A creeping redness appeared at his collar. He glanced back into his pile of clothing. “I have no idea who you discuss.”

  “The Police Nationale believe Toulemonde is connected to the fraudulent vintages your estate is so eager to discover. And you know him, don’t you
?”

  Mateo found the Rémy Martin, unscrewed the cap, and took a swig. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and growled, “Did you call for that taxi?”

  Seventeen

  The Soho restaurant was French, of course. Tucked into a side street she’d never seen before, Merle stepped inside and stopped as the familiar scents of French cuisine hit her like ocean waves: garlic, bread, rich sauce, grilled meat, mushrooms, lemon, chocolate. Somehow they mingled, tantalizing, marching together into her psyche to send her back to the countryside. She closed her eyes for a second to picture Les Saveurs, her favorite restaurant in Malcouziac. Luscious.

  The holiday season and all sorts of work-related business luncheons had prevented her from actually going on a date for months. A date: that was a funny word at her age. A dinner out with a man then. There had been too many microwave dinners.

  Then there he was. Pascal stood at a table, wearing the same striped shirt from this morning, waving his napkin at her. The hostess saw him too and led her through the white tablecloths and clinking flatware. He kissed her on both cheeks and a third for luck, pulled out her chair, took her coat, and settled her in. It felt good. His manners, after the embarrassing months with ridiculous James, made her feel safe and respected. If that’s what manners were for there should be classes.

  He looked different, she noticed. He was smiling, really smiling, looking around the big room with its crowded tables and bustling wait staff.

  “It’s very French,” Merle said, putting her napkin in her lap as the waiter poured water into goblets.

  “I’ve ordered the wine,” Pascal said. “They have a nice list.”

  It appeared just like that, a bottle of red, a Château Margaux, on the arm of young hipster in white. “Are we celebrating?” she asked. That wine was expensive, no matter what year.

  He squeezed her hand, silent until the sommelier had finished pouring their glasses and vanished. He picked up his glass, looked in her eyes, and said a simple “Santé.” Their glasses clinked.

  “Mmmm. Very good.” Merle set her glass down. “What’s going on?”

  “First we order.” Heads together, they discussed the menu, talking up the merits of duck confit or warm goat cheese salad, chicken pailliard or foie gras. It all sounded good so they ordered too much, happy with their extravagance.

  “All right, we’ve ordered.” Merle turned to him as he refilled her wine glass.

  He looked at her expectant face. “I have had a break in the case.” She smiled and waved him on. “I have not told you that I know the real name of this singer, Bosom Drearie.”

  “No. Did you know it before?”

  “Not at first. The man tries very hard to keep his identities separate, as you might guess.”

  “What is his other identity?”

  “He is a wine consultant. He arranges sales of vintages for rich clients, he buys wine for them at auction, and the like. If you are a millionaire you can trust the housekeeper to buy the groceries but not stock the cellar. For that you need a consultant.”

  “And these clients don’t know that he’s a drag queen on the side?”

  “Absolutely not. Mon Dieu.”

  They paused as the mousse arrived and was tasted. Then Merle squeezed his knee. “Continuez, s’il vous plaît.”

  “My superiors were aware that the singer Bosom Drearie knew how to contact the wine consultant whose name is Denis Toulemonde. That is why we went to the nightclub, to speak to the performer. My bosses didn’t know that they were the same person.”

  “How did you figure it out?”

  “When it was so difficult to get phone numbers for either of them, especially for Toulemonde. That seemed strange, why would a wine consultant be so private? Doesn’t he want business? No advertising? Is he a secret criminal? Why would he not give his phone number to the auction houses he deals with? Why are all his rich clients sworn to secrecy?”

  “Because at minimum he’s notoriously private,” she guessed.

  “Exactly. Then the question, why? Once that got into my head I was able to track down photographs of them both. I had my superiors run the photos through face recognition software. An exact match, despite the wig and lipstick.”

  “Is he a secret criminal?”

  “That remains to be seen. No outstanding warrants.”

  “So you’ve put them together. Is this the break, figuring out the two identities?”

  “Ah, no, madame.” He smiled mischievously. “There is more.”

  *

  Over dinner he told her about Mateo LeBlond, today’s airport pickup and French playboy. Merle had never thought much about the word, playboy, beyond the Hugh Hefner references. But a man who is still a feckless boy, who does not work but still plays: that was the way Pascal said it with a curl to his lip. Zee Play Boy. It sounded like a children’s toy. He also called LeBlond an idiot, a rascal, a rogue, and a waste of space. He sounded delightful.

  But he wound up being accidentally useful.

  “The family, the Frères Celice, sent him over to keep the investigation alive. They thought, rightly, that it was going nowhere. Mateo’s father, Florentin, is just like him, fat, a bully, but he is into the French aristocracy up to their eyebrows. He knows everyone, everyone owes him or wants to. He suffers no fools, except his oldest son Mateo. He has a blind spot there.”

  “So he’s not all bad,” Merle said.

  “Just typique, the rich who get whatever they want.”

  “Back up now. Mateo helped you?”

  Pascal told her he heard Mateo singing ‘Give Him the Ooh-la-la’ and asked him about the drag queen. When he mentioned Denis Toulemonde though it was obvious he was one of those left in the dark about the weekend action in sequins. But he knew Denis, that was the most important part. He probably had his phone number.

  It took Pascal all afternoon, sitting in Antoine Girard’s outer office, to get someone in the Frères Celice family to give authority to get Mateo’s contact list off his cell phone. He guessed correctly that it was a company phone. They finally agreed but wouldn’t give all of it. The French are privacy freaks, something Merle already knew. But all Pascal needed was one number. Finally the cousin in charge of the business side of the winery— and most disgusted with Mateo for his extravagances— gave the okay.

  It only took the directeur général of the Police Nationale to call, that’s all.

  “Wow,” Merle said, eyes wide. “You have friends in high places.”

  “It wasn’t me,” Pascal said. “The French ambassador in Washington called him. They are old school chums.”

  “Of course.”

  “With Florentin LeBlond, I mean. No one wanted to poke that sleeping giant so they worked around him. I don’t care how they did it. I have a phone number now.”

  “Have you called him?”

  He nodded. “We have an appointment tomorrow.”

  “What will you do?”

  “Gently ask him if he is a wine scammer.” He grinned and plunged a spoon into a chocolat pot de crème.

  As they left the restaurant Merle took his arm and whispered, “We’re only a few blocks from that nightclub.”

  Pascal looked at her and smiled. “You want to see the lovely Miss Drearie again, don’t you? You’re into that Ooh-la-la.”

  “Let’s just walk over there. Francie wants his — her manager’s name or something, for the breast cancer benefit.”

  Pascal was reluctant. He didn’t want to do anything that would scare off Denis Toulemonde tomorrow. Recognizing him from the nightclub would qualify. But they walked over the five blocks, Merle promising they wouldn’t go in. The building was dark again, quiet. Upstairs the windows were still boarded up. The block had a sad, hollow feel.

  “You stay here,” she said, patting his arm. “I’m not going in. I just want a business card from the doorman.”

  Pascal backed into the shadows to watch as she stepped down to the lower level and rang the bell. She waited,
shoulders back in her wool coat, purse over her arm like a matron. She rang the bell again then put her ear up to the door.

  In a minute she returned to the sidewalk, shrugging. “Deserted.” They walked back to a busy street, looking for a taxi. “What is the rascal doing tonight?” she asked.

  “Le Coquin? I can only imagine.”

  Eighteen

  At exactly 8:13 the next morning both the phone in Merle’s kitchen and her cell phone still in her bag from last night rang simultaneously. She had a cup of coffee halfway to her lips and a man at her kitchen table looking rumpled and sexy. He looked up.

  “Want me to get that?” Pascal asked.

  She set down her cup and dug her cell phone out of her purse. “The thing will pick up — the answer machine.” If in doubt go with the cell phone first. That was her brand new motto.

  It was Francie. “Have you seen it? On Page Six?”

  “Of the Times?”

  “No, silly, the Post. Page Six is online now. Turn on your computer, or something. Call me when you see it.” She hung up.

  “What is it?” Pascal asked, those worry lines between his brows.

  “Something in the paper. Come on.” She waved him upstairs to Harry’s office and turned on the computer.

  “Probably Le Coquin. They’ll be calling me next. I think I’ll turn off my phone.”

  “Were you supposed to escort him around?”

  “That wasn’t happening,” he growled as they watched the website pop up. “What is it? Who’s that?”

  Some Kardashian. “Never mind.” She scrolled down the photographs. Six photos down, there it was, a blurry nightclub shot of, without a doubt, Bosom Drearie. She wore the same pink sequin dress and whipped topping wig. And who was she squeezing? None other than Mateo LeBlond.

  Pascal groaned. “How does he manage it?”

  “Where was this? How did he find her?”

  “Maybe they send out a blast to everyone who signs up. Something like a flash mob.”

  “Do you think Mateo told her, told Denis Toulemonde, about you?”