by Pete Hautman
“You think everything is perfect.”
Hyatt jabbed the air between them with the pencil. “Not true,” he said. “A wedding reception with Swedish meatballs is not perfect. Sometimes you have to compromise.”
17
When your mind is elsewhere, go there.
—Crow’s rules
CROW FELL ASLEEP FULLY dressed on the sofa. He dreamed himself back to Paris where, amazingly, he found that he could speak French after all. He was looking for Debrowski. Everyone he asked remembered her, but wherever he looked, she had just left.
Shortly after sunrise he woke up with a headache and a tongue that tasted like a bad oyster. Two cups of instant coffee did not help, nor did three. Milo made an attempt at being sociable, butting his head repeatedly against Crow’s shins, but received no encouraging response. Crow stared out the window, morning light pouring into his eyes but leaving no impression on his mind. He felt as if his head was full of sludge, the tailings of too much second-hand tobacco smoke and adrenaline. It didn’t seem to matter whether he won or lost at cards—either way, his body exacted a price. He stared out the window, replaying last night’s big hands in his memory.
After an unmeasured period of time—it may have been only a few seconds, or as long as half an hour—he got up and packed his gym bag. He wasn’t looking forward to seeing Bigg.
On the other hand, he could hardly wait.
Crow found a parking space beside one of Bigg’s limos. He parked in close and pulled the door latch back, paused for a self-conscious moment, and threw his weight against the door, slamming it into the side of the limo. Crow climbed out and examined the resulting dent. Satisfied, he locked his car. When he looked up, he saw Flowrean Peeche sitting in her red Miata, looking at him, wearing a bemused smile. She quickly turned her head away and pulled her car into a parking space at the other side of the lot.
Bigg Bodies was crowded with reasonably normal-looking men and women getting in a workout before going to their jobs—a slightly more ambitious version of the after-work crowd. It was still too early for the gym rats and serious bodybuilders. Arling Biggie sat behind the front counter, filing his nails with an emery stick. Neither man spoke.
Crow went through his routine with robotic precision. At one point, after a set of deadlifts, he looked at the mirrored wall and found Flowrean Peeche’s reflection watching him, still with that smile. Embarrassed, Crow finished his workout with six brutal sets of leg extensions. On the way out, he knocked on Bigg’s office door and stepped in. Bigg was sitting behind his desk reading Muscle and Fitness.
“What the hell do you want?” He looked pale. His eyes were bloodshot and yellow.
“I just wanted to see if you were hiding in your closet.”
“Screw you.”
“And to make sure you got that date. It’s August ninth.”
Bigg glared. “I got it.”
“Good.” Crow felt an unexpected knot of sympathy for the man. Bigg had lost a nice chunk of cash, he was suffering from a hangover, and he owed a debt to someone he despised. Crow had been there. “I’ll see you,” he said.
Bigg made a grating noise in his throat and returned his attention to his magazine.
The Latin Quarter bistro, half a kilometer from the Louvre, was packed with tourists. Most of them had chosen to sit outside in the hot sun, drinking Heinekens and waving flies away from their croque-monsieurs. Even in July, in Paris, the tourists found charm in al fresco dining.
Laura Debrowski sat inside behind a small round table near the air conditioner and lit a Gitane. She no longer minded the tourists, no longer felt self-conscious to be recognized as one of them. After two months, she had made a kind of peace with this city. It was doomed to be neither more nor less than what it was, and so was she.
During her first weeks in Paris, Debrowski had worked hard to merge with the city, observing its residents with fierce concentration, forcing her tongue to mimic their words and accents, training her body to move the way the Parisians moved, memorizing their hand and facial gestures, and buying herself a pair of the odd-looking canvas shoes that were popular with the Latin Quarter students. Three years of French classes percolated through her brain. She challenged herself to speak only the native tongue and proudly proved her ability to blunder her way through the basic communications necessary to get from one end of the day to the other. She was embarrassed by her Americanism, unable to forgive herself for being herself, and angry with herself for giving a damn. During those early weeks she had attempted to embed herself upon the city like a virus attaching itself to a cell, mimicking its proteins, hoping to become a part of it.
A narrow-featured, bearded garçon approached, flipped open a tiny pad, mumbled, “Pour vous, mademoiselle?”
“Un grand noir, s’il vous plait,” Debrowski rattled off. Her accent was nearly perfect—she had listened to the words dozens of times, practiced them endlessly, even going so far as to tape herself at SuperSon, the recording studio where Les Hommes Magnifiques had been laying down tracks for their CD. She knew the waiter understood exactly what she had said, and what she wanted: a large, black espresso. She had ordered it as would a Parisian: one large black, please. An efficient, elegant use of the language.
The waiter frowned at his pad. “Espresso double?” he asked, feigning confusion.
Debrowski sighed and tapped the ash off her cigarette. “Oui,” she said. “Un double.” This waiter—and every other waiter in this city—knew she was no Parisian. At best, they would think her some other variety of European. She would never be permitted to order her morning coffee in the Parisian manner, but would now and forever be required to order her coffee as would a tourist—in clumsy guidebook French or, should she prefer, in English, German, Spanish, or Italian.
The garçon gave a sharp nod, whirled, and headed for the bar, where the only locals in the bistro, a group of working men, stood sipping pastises and grand noirs, their short, broad backs turned on the seated tourists.
Any one of the men could have been Crow, with his French laborer-type body. But Crow was gone, back in the States.
Debrowski fastened her lips on the Gitane and inhaled the powerful blue-brown smoke, bringing it down deep. That goddamn Crow. She’d known he was going home as soon as he’d started talking about his cat.
During Crow’s three weeks in Paris he had not uttered a word in French, which had irritated the hell out of Debrowski. She’d worked so hard to fit in, yet had found herself in the company of this—this unrepentant American. What really got to her was that Crow, who refused to take on even the faintest tint of local color, was repeatedly mistaken for a native. People on the street would approach him speaking rapid French, to which he would reply in English. Worse yet, despite his blatant refusal to even attempt to speak their language, the French seemed to like him. She remembered one conversation that had begun when a short man with a wide nose had stopped them on the street and asked Crow—in French—for directions to the nearest RER depot.
“Sorry,” said Crow. “I don’t know what you’re saying.”
The man cocked his head. “You are American?” he said, switching effortlessly into English.
“That’s right,” Crow said.
“Your family, you must be from France, no?”
“My family’s mostly Irish, actually.”
“Ah!” the man grinned, showing much gold in his teeth. “I love the Irish!”
Nettled, Debrowski had said, “He wants to know where the RER depot is, Crow.”
The man had ignored her completely, apparently having lost interest in catching his train, and proceeded to recite his favorite lines from William Butler Yeats.
Crow had left Paris nearly two months ago. At first, she’d felt a sense of relief, as if shrugging off a heavy pack. Then she’d become angry at him for leaving her there. And now? Now she missed him. She wished he was there to see her learning to relax. Making the transition from wannabe Frenchwoman to American tourist. Sh
e hoped to get to the point when she could walk into any restaurant in town and blithely order a burger and fries in English, giving the words the full nasal force of her Midwestern twang. One day she might even dare to order a cup of “American coffee”—espresso diluted with hot water—or, better yet, a hot dog for breakfast as she had once seen a Japanese tourist do. A hot dog and a Coke.
The waiter’s hand appeared and disappeared, leaving behind an espresso double. Debrowski unwrapped a sugar cube, dipped it into the coffee, sucked on it—a Parisian habit she had picked up. She frowned at her affectation, dropped the cube into the cup, took a large drag from the Gitane, let the smoke drift from her mouth and nose. For a moment, her head swam in a warm nicotine fog. A cool tentacle of air reached out from the air conditioner and exploded the cloud.
It was hard for her, to be an American in Paris. But it was possible, at least. Laura Debrowski considered her options as she absorbed the remainder of her cigarette and coffee. Leaving twelve francs beside her coffee cup, she walked out into the midday heat, located a credit card phone, and entered in a long sequence of numbers.
Known to certain of her coworkers as “Princess Peach,” the Flowrean Peeche who worked at Solid Sam’s Real Food Restaurant was a different person from the Flowrean Peeche who worked out at Bigg Bodies. Flo the waitress was neat, she was clean, and she smelled good. Her wild mop of hair was pulled back and woven into a precise braid. She wore the same black-and-gold polyester outfit as the other waitresses and, except for her well-defined forearms and callused palms, she did not look like a bodybuilder. When she spoke to her customers she came across as pleasant and even friendly, and if one of them copped a feel, she refrained from breaking his arm.
Flo recognized that holding a good job required certain sacrifices and compromises. She did not mind being called “Princess,” but the treatment of her surname—more properly pronounced “Puh-shay”—disturbed her. Nevertheless, for the sake of the job, she tolerated the title. The hours were flexible. She never had to miss a workout. And the tips were excellent. On a good night she could take home an easy hundred and twenty dollars, money she needed. Payments on her condo downtown ran nine hundred a month. Protein supplements, amino acids, organic vegetables, and vitamins cost another six hundred. She’d paid off her Miata, but it was four years old and might break down at any time. Money was important. Self-respect was important. The respect of others, that was optional.
Flo understood that she was loathed by the other waitresses. They hated her because she was the best damn waitress Solid Sam Champlin, former Minnesota Viking, had ever hired. They hated her because she was always on time, because she got the best tips, and because she treated the rest of the waitstaff as if they did not exist. And they hated her because Solid Sam, who was by all accounts the nicest three hundred forty-pound ex-linebacker on the planet, was clearly and desperately in love with her. Flo understood all that, but she didn’t let it bother her. She showed up and did her job. She flirted with the cooks, ignored the dining room staff, fended off Sam’s advances, and provided her customers with flawless table service. Lately, while she did all that, she devoted a significant portion of her thoughts to Joe Crow.
Three images came back to her repeatedly. First, she thought of Crow facing down Beaut Miller, that dreamy expression on his face. That had been a beautiful thing, a moment that made her heart jump in her chest. Second, she remembered looking up one time after screaming her way through a particularly painful set of squats, three hundred sixty-five pounds on the bar, to find Crow staring at her with frank admiration. When she remembered that moment she grew little shivery bumps all over her arms. Her third picture of Crow was of him slamming his car door into one of Bigg’s limos. That one got her right between the legs.
She was playing that memory, waiting for a chili fries appetizer to come up, when Solid Sam glided past her—amazing how smooth and quiet he could move for such a big guy—and let his ringed fingers drag lightly across her left glute. The synergy of having Crow in her mind and Solid Sam’s fingers on her ass made her knees buckle.
Quickly recovering, she snapped, “Next time you do that I break a finger.”
Sam, moving away, chuckled, saying over his shoulder, “I wear you down, baby. I wear you down.”
“In your dreams, niggah,” Flo muttered, hiding a smile. Her chili fries appeared under the lights; she grabbed the plate and walked them out to the waiting four-top. Sam was a nice guy. She even liked him, most of the time. But he reminded her too much of her mother’s boyfriends. Also, he was not so solid as he had been during his gridiron days. The thought of his rubbery embrace frightened her. She might be absorbed and digested.
Crow, by contrast, was small, hard, stoic, and impenetrable. He was separate. His otherness tugged at her with the force of gravity. The more she thought about him, the more she wanted to get inside that shell.
Crow had once asked Debrowski whether she ever astonished herself.
“Every day, Crow.”
“No. I mean, do you ever do something and it’s like you’re watching yourself, and you just can’t believe that you are doing it?”
“Yes.”
“Like what?”
Debrowski’s eyes lost focus for a moment. She said, “One day last week I was getting dressed. I had my jacket, and I was putting on this—” She fingered a thin silver chain that hung from her earlobe to the epaulet of her scarred-up leather jacket, where it was fastened by an antique brass padlock, one of several that adorned her person. “—And I thought, what the hell do you think you’re doing? All of a sudden I saw myself as this weirdo, this poseur, this silly little twit in black leather and chains trying to make a fashion statement. A fashion statement, I mean, what the hell is that? Am I telling people, hey, look out for this chick because she is obviously a dangerously self-involved, tasteless idiot? I felt like a complete fool. Do I ever astonish myself ? Hell yes.”
Crow said, “You mean you were astonished at the way you were dressed?”
Debrowski gave him an injured look. “It was the thoughts that astonished me, Crow. I dress how I want.”
Crow was rarely astonished by his own thoughts. His acts, however, were a continual source of amazement. Every time he remembered putting that dent in Bigg’s limo, he became confused. Vandalism was not and had never been his style. The weirdest thing was that it had felt so good. It had put his relationship with Arling Biggie back in balance. A dent for a dent.
Such were his thoughts as he climbed the stairs to his apartment door. He had just inserted his key into the lock when he heard the tinny sound of an incoming message on his answering machine. He pushed the door open and strode quickly through the apartment, trying to reach the phone before she hung up. Milo materialized between his feet and wrapped his body around Crow’s ankle. Crow lost his balance trying not to crush the cat, whacked his knee on an endtable, and fell headlong on the hardwood floor.
His cheek pressing against the somewhat gritty floorboards, Crow heard, “Au revoir, cheri.” The machine gave forth a squawk and clicked off, leaving behind only the sound of Milo purring somewhere in the dark.
“Goddamn cat,” he muttered as he climbed painfully to his feet. This was not turning out to be one of his better days. He limped to the phone and played back the message.
“Allo allo, Crow, you must be out playing cards, you rascal. What time is it there? You aren’t still in bed, are you? Did you get my postcard? You better not be out chasing women, Crow. I think we’re getting close to wrapping things up here, but René is being a jerk—ça me fait shier. It’ll be good to get back. I’ll call you tomorrow, same time, same station. Au revoir, cheri!”
Once again, she didn’t leave a number where he could call her back. At least the message had been upbeat. Crow rewound the tape and listened to it again. He liked that she didn’t want him out chasing women. He liked her calling him “cheri.”
18
It is the test of a good religion whether you
can joke about it.
—Gilbert K. Chesterton
“YOU STILL REEK OF that shit, man.” Charles “Chuckles” Thickening rolled down his window and turned up the air conditioning.
Charles “Chip” Bouchet turned his head and glared. The two men were sitting in Chuckles’s yellow Corvette, watching the front door of a Dunkin’ Donuts.
“You ever hear of bathing?” Chuckles asked.
“I took a shower.”
“Yeah, well you still stink.”
Chip Bouchet crossed his arms and scowled. Smaller, denser, and more rigid than Chuckles, Chip’s blocky body moved with robotic precision and inflexibility. He wore his sandy hair in a military buzz cut, carried his chin thrust up and forward, and spoke with minimal lip and jaw movement, which made him difficult to understand. Chip might have been considered a handsome man, in a squinty-eyed Aryan sort of way, were it not for the fact that his nostrils pointed forward rather than down, a feature which, during his brief stint in the Marines, had earned him the nickname “Rooter.”
Chip had been with the ACO almost since the beginning. Hyatt Hilton had originally hired him to work the early Extraction Events. Back then, Rupe and Polly and Hy had formed a triumvirate, each of them exerting more-or-less equal power. Those were, in Chip’s mind, the good old days. He had seen himself as the Archangel Gabriel, carrying out the wishes of the trinity. His devotion to the church had been boundless. Recently, however, certain church practices had begun to erode his faith. He had found Hyatt’s excommunication disturbing, and the recent hiring of Chuckles was a very bad sign.
Chip’s job title was “Security Chief.” Chuckles, who had come on board just three months ago, had been given the title “Head of Security.” No one had yet told Chip who worked for whom. He was afraid to ask. So far, they had managed to work together without confronting the issue, but it weighed on Chip’s mind.
Chip and Chuckles were waiting for Hyatt Hilton to emerge from the Dunkin’ Donuts. They had been following him since he’d left his house that morning, waiting for a chance to talk to him up close and private. Chip was not looking forward to doing this job. The butyric acid thing had been bad enough, and now this.