Jim McGill 02 The Hangman's Companion

by Joseph Flynn

  He asked the woman, “Voulez-vous du champagne?”

  She pulled her tongue out of his ear and looked at him with a smile.

  “Oui.”

  He patted the leather seat to his left. She climbed off him, and to his relief the involuntary excitement he’d felt began to wane. The cleanup of the car would be easier now, and he wouldn’t have to burn his best slacks.

  He produced a bottle and two crystal flutes from a mini-fridge. He handed the stemware to the woman while he opened the bottle. He was careful with the cork, not letting it shoot off, and he kept the wine within the bottle until he poured, and then he was careful not to spill any.

  For a moment, the woman looked at the glasses in her hand, examining them closely. Keeping the sudden trill of fear he felt off his face, Bela wondered if this dim creature could possibly suspect what he hand in mind. Keeping his voice steady, he asked, “Is something wrong?”

  “In some ways I am very generous,” she said, giving him a wink. “In others I’m quite selfish.”

  He looked at her without understanding the second part of her comment. Then he saw she was comparing the measure of wine in each glass. She handed him the one that was a millimeter less full.

  “A votre santé,” she said raising her glass.

  He clinked his glass to hers and they drank. Both glasses had been coated with Amytal. Soon both he and Honi would be sound asleep. She would be on her way to confinement and, Bela fervently hoped, he and his tribe would reap a magnificent ransom. Meanwhile, falling unconscious, he would be rid of her repellent company.

  He shuddered to think where that vile thing she’d been rubbing against him had been.

  5

  “Where do you think you’re going, kid?” the doorman at Paradis Trouvé asked.

  In most cases, he greeted customers with a smile and bonhomie. His job was to lure as many suckers as he could. When a derelict without a centime or a young fool with nothing more than fuzz on his peaches presented himself, however, P’tit Henri sent him swiftly on his way. True, Henri was not large, but in his hand a knife became a blur, blood appeared, and scars followed.

  “I am looking for a woman,” Alexandru said honestly. “I have searched all of Pigalle.”

  That was true, too. He and Ana had gone home to nap after searching St. Germain. Then late in the evening they had headed out to Pigalle. Having learned from Alexandru that the woman they sought had large false breasts, not artfully done, Ana said she must be a sex worker of some sort. Where better to look for one such as that than Pigalle?

  They’d walked for hours, staring at display posters of dancers, strippers, and peep show models, looking closely at any woman on the street who might be a possibility, Ana photographing them with her phone. All they got for their trouble were tired legs, aching feet, and the feeling that something more than what they’d seen had to be available to people who really loved each other. They didn’t know how to articulate their feelings, so they simply felt depressed.

  Until Alexandru gently nudged his wife.

  “There she is,” he said quietly.

  Ana’s fatigue disappeared immediately and she whispered, “The woman we want?”

  “No, the one with the man who hired us.” He nodded up the street. “The blonde.”

  Ana saw her turn off the Boulevard de Clichy. “Do you think she knows?”

  Where to find their quarry, Ana meant.

  Alexandru said, “Let’s see. If she does, maybe we’ll have to steal the woman from her.”

  It never occurred to the two young gypsies, their combined weight barely two hundred pounds, that they’d be unable to overcome the resistance of two grown women. They followed Gabbi, hanging well back, their plan being they would embrace and kiss, leaning against the nearest stationary object, should they see their quarry start to turn around.

  She didn’t, and Ana said, “She looks as tired as us.”

  Alexandru nodded. Then he saw the bouncer at the strip club take notice of Gabbi, look surprised, and call out to her.

  “What did he say?” Alexandru asked his wife.

  “He called her Diana.” Ana’s ears were the sharpest in the tribe.

  They held their position, watched Gabbi tell the fellow he’d made a mistake. She walked off. Another fellow, coming out of the club, caught up to her, and stared down the barrel of a gun for his trouble. The two young gypsies gave each other a long look: a good thing they hadn’t tried any of their tricks on Gabbi. When they looked around, Gabbi and the man were turning a corner, no violence done.

  They didn’t know what that meant, but Alexandru had quickly figured out one thing.

  “The little man on the door, he knows the woman we want.”

  A bright smile lit Alexandru’s face.

  “What are you thinking?” Ana asked him.

  “Remember my joke? About us pretending to be Swedes?”

  She nodded, and he told her his plan …

  P’tit Henri told Alexandru, “You must have no money, mon ami. There are women in Pigalle who will pleasure young boys for the right price.”

  Alexandru kept the irritation of being called a boy off his face.

  “I am sure you’re right, m’sieur,” he said, “but I am looking for this woman.”

  He showed P’tit Henri the sketch the gypsy artist had done of their quarry.

  The man recognized the drawing. Alexandru saw that at once. But P’tit Henri scowled. “This one does not pleasure children.”

  “M’sieur, I mean the lady no disrespect. I do not seek her for myself but for my employer.”

  “Who is that?”

  “His name is Magnusson. Swedish. He saw the lady dance, but he cannot remember where. He had too much to drink. He would like to hire her.”

  “For the night?” P’tit Henri asked.

  “For three months, sir.” When the bouncer’s eyebrows rose, Alexandru continued. “M’sieur Magnusson is very rich. A businessman. Each summer he takes himself and his friends on a cruise aboard his yacht. The Mediterranean. The gentleman needs ladies to … dance. To keep him and his friends entertained. The ladies will be well paid and everything will be first rate. If you do not know this lady, I apologize, and I must be on my way to look for her.”

  Alexandru started to leave, but P’tit Henri caught his arm.

  “How much money for the woman?” he asked.

  “I do not know exactly, but thousands of euros certainly.”

  “For three months?”

  “Per month, m’sieur.”

  Alexandru saw the bouncer had risen to the bait.

  P’tit Henri was well aware that many customers of Paradis Trouvé and other strip clubs often had foggy memories. The drugs slipped into their drinks saw to that, made them far easier to rob. What surprised the little man was that this Magnusson fellow had any memory of Diana at all. But he knew that Diana was hiding out, knew where she was hiding. And if he were to put her on to a job that both took her away from Paris for three months and paid her a small fortune, he would be in for a big cut. Of course, if she got too much money, she might decide to stay away. So he would have to tell Diana he would find her and render her a gargoyle with his knife if she didn’t mail at least a third of her windfall to him by year’s end.

  He nodded to himself and patted Alexandru on the shoulder.

  “Where would your boss like to meet Diana?”

  “That is the lady’s name? I will give you a mobile number, m’sieur. If the lady is interested, M’sieur Magnusson will send his limousine to pick her up wherever she likes.”

  “His limousine?” P’tit Henri asked.

  “It goes with his yacht, and his helicopter, and his jet.”

  “Give me the number, boy,” P’tit Henri told Alexandru.

  He did.

  And now Alexandru looked at the woman the president’s henchman had set him to find. She was indeed on a boat. Not a yacht on the Mediterranean, but a barge moored on the Canal St. Denis. Sleep
ing peacefully. To be confined in relative comfort until every last euro could be squeezed out of James J. McGill for her delivery to him.

  Bunica Anisa had been delighted with her grandson’s scheme, how well it had worked.

  As for Alexandru, he was also well pleased, thinking his future was bright. That morning, he decided, he would go home to Ana and consummate his marriage.

  The Hideaway, Paris

  6

  Gabbi brought a hair stylist and a garment bag holding locally purchased clothes with her when she showed up at the pub. By that time, McGill was downstairs at the bar, having a cup of coffee, with just a drop of Jameson, trying to puzzle his way through the morning copy of Le Monde. Side by side photos of Patti and Jean-Louis Severin appeared on the front page above the fold. But as far as McGill was able to discern the paper was interested in what the two heads of state had planned for the world rather than each other.

  Harbin, as ever, was at his post, apparently still a bit grumpy from his encounter with Celsus Crogher, a not uncommon reaction. But even Harbin had to smile after Gabbi bussed him on each cheek. And when the young sylph Gabbi had brought along got up on tiptoe and did the same, McGill could see a twinkle in Harbin’s eye. Ah, Pah-ree.

  Gabbi walked over to McGill, gave him a smile but no kiss, and introduced him to her companion. “M’sieur Smith, Mademoiselle Caresse Montaigne.”

  “Caress?” McGill asked, going with the flow on his new alias.

  “With an e on the end, means endearing,” Gabbi explained.

  The young woman beamed at him. She had dark brown hair with red highlights done in a pixie cut. She carried a leather bag slung on a strap over her right shoulder. She offered McGill her hand and he took it.

  “Enchanté,” he said.

  The stylist put her other hand over his. “Enchanté, m’sieur. Parlez-vous francais?”

  “Seulement un peu.” Only a little.

  “Plus de chaque jour,” Gabbi said, and off McGill’s look: “More every day.”

  Caresse let go of McGill’s hand, gently took him by the chin, turned his head to her left and right. Studied his haircut, the shape of his face. Was tactful enough not to criticize the work of Eddie the Barber back in D.C.

  “Belmondo?” she asked.

  “Jean-Paul,” McGill specified.

  “Naturellement. Couleur?”

  “No,” McGill said. No color. A cut would be enough. But he didn’t know how to say that.

  Meanwhile, Gabbi overrode him. “Oui, couleur.”

  And remembering Celsus Crogher’s warning that he wouldn’t always be able to stroll down the sidewalk like an average Joe, McGill reconsidered.

  “Couleur,” he said with a nod.

  Who could say? Maybe Patti would like it.

  Caresse led him upstairs to begin his makeover.

  7

  “Très beau,” Caresse said, after she’d finished her work on McGill and he’d changed into French jeans, white polo shirt, and charcoal suede sport coat. His shoes were sporty black leather, comfortable as kid gloves, with rubber soles that would be good for running.

  “Very handsome,” Gabbi agreed.

  McGill slipped on a pair of Bulgari gunmetal sunglasses.

  “Ooh, la, la,” Caresse said.

  McGill laughed. He looked at himself in the mirror Caresse held up for him. It was a new look, he decided. He wanted Patti to see it, and almost said so, but he remembered he was M’sieur Smith to his stylist and refrained. Still, he’d have to ask Patti to give him an ooh, la, la every once in a while. It was good for a middle-aged guy’s ego.

  The president’s henchman leaned in to Gabbi and whispered, “You’ve taken very good care of the young lady?”

  “Mais oui,” she replied softly.

  McGill took Caresse’s right hand in both of his, “Merci beaucoup.”

  She kissed both his cheeks. “Mon plaisir.”

  Caresse gave Gabbi a wink and left with a bounce in her step.

  McGill lowered his glasses to the tip of his nose and looked at Gabbi.

  “She thinks we’re…what?”

  “Who knows what young people think?” Gabbi said. “But she doesn’t have a clue you’re married to the President of the United States.”

  Then she reached over and popped his shirt collar for a bit more continental flair.

  Quai d’Orsay, Paris

  8

  “Paradis Trouvé?” McGill asked as Gabbi drove him to a meeting with Yves Pruet at the magistrate’s office.

  “Your accent really is very good for someone just starting out, but you don’t pronounce the s at the end of a word unless it’s followed by a vowel.”

  McGill made a mental note of the rule.

  Returning to the story he’d just heard from his new partner, he said, “And you ran into Arno Durand after he came out of this strip club?”

  Gabbi didn’t mention pulling her gun on the reporter, only said, “He caught up to me as I was walking away from the place.”

  “But the club’s bouncer called out to you first, from across the street?”

  “Oui.”

  McGill considered everything she’d told him.

  Keeping her eyes on the road, Gabbi asked, “You think I made a mistake?”

  “Not you. Me … and probably Durand.”

  Gabbi said, “Your mistake was not thinking the girl and the beast knew each other.”

  McGill nodded. “My partner back home disabused me of that notion in a phone call last night.”

  He told Gabbi of Sweetie’s reasoning.

  “She’s smart,” Gabbi said.

  “Just one of her many virtues.”

  “What was Durand’s mistake?” Gabbi asked.

  McGill told her, “Maybe it’s different over here, but at home these days, any newspaper reporter of any weight — politics, sports, you name the beat — does TV work, too. Guys and gals who used to be perfectly anonymous scribes now have much higher public profiles. So if you were a creep involved in the death of a star athlete, and you saw a big-time sports reporter drop into your strip club, wouldn’t you get just a bit suspicious?”

  Gabbi pulled up at a red light. She stared off into space.

  When the light turned green, Gabbi nodded to herself and put the car in motion.

  “Durand told me he had to max out a credit card to get out of the strip club. Said he was lucky he didn’t have to sign over his apartment. Read between the lines on that and—”

  “Maybe The Undertaker was looking to grab him right there,” McGill said.

  “But he couldn’t be sure Durand hadn’t just come in looking for a cheap thrill or a little action, and if he did need to be taken out better to do it away from his place of business.”

  Gabbi pulled up in front of Pruet’s office building.

  Just then, McGill had a moment of doubt. He’d already made one incorrect assumption about the case. Maybe going after this stripper was another mistake. He asked, “You think this woman, Diana Martel, is really the person Glen Kinnard saw under the Pont d’Iéna?”

  “You tell me,” Gabbi replied. She pulled a manila envelope from under her seat. “Paradis Trouvé has a website with pictures of its dancers. I printed out the only one I thought resembled me at all.”

  McGill opened the envelope and pulled out an eight-by-ten color image printed on photo stock. The resolution wasn’t great, but it was good enough for a rough comparison. The dancer was younger than Gabbi, and fuller, some of that obviously the work of a surgeon. Honi Moon’s eyes didn’t reflect an intelligence that would ever land her a spot in the French Foreign Ministry. But her dyed hair was close to the shade of blonde Gabbi had naturally. The shape of her face was oval as was Gabbi’s, and the placement and size of her features was similar.

  “My gene pool from the wrong side of the chemin de fer,” Gabbi said.

  “Wrong side of the tracks?” McGill asked.

  “Yeah.”

  McGill slipped the picture b
ack into the envelope. His doubt had vanished. Kinnard had been the one, unprompted, who’d told McGill the blonde he’d seen resembled Gabbi. He’d even made accurate distinctions between the two. SOB or not, Kinnard had a veteran cop’s eye for detail. Diana Martel was the woman they wanted.

  “I’ll show the picture to Pruet,” McGill said. “See if he can find out if the lady ever posed for a police photographer.”

  “And I’ll call Durand,” Gabbi said. “Tell him to be careful.”

  Annandale, VA

  9

  Ricky Lanh Huu bopped down the street on his way to St. Magnus Church. He was thinking maybe it was time to think of a new surname for himself. Lanh Huu was just too Asian. He’d have to come up with something new that sounded tough and meant the same thing: street smart.

  Cutter was cool—Ricky Cutter—especially for someone good with a knife.

  But that didn’t say anything about being smart.

  Maybe Slick Ricky Cutter. Okay, that might be too much.

  Keep working on it, he told himself. The right name would come.

  He’d given the matter of choosing the right first name considerable thought. His first inclination had been to name himself after a soldier, some special forces dude who greased bad guys by the battalion. Then he realized that most of the bad guys in the media spotlight these days were either Arabs or Asians, the latter looking a whole lot like him. The special ops dudes were mostly whites, with a sprinkling of blacks and Latinos.

  That led him to think maybe he ought to swipe a movie star’s name. But look at what those dudes had for names these days: Ashton, Heath, Keanu. What the hell was with that? Even the older stars, the ones with all the action blockbusters, what did they have for names? Arnold, Sylvester, and Bruce. Damn!

  Not willing to forsake popular culture entirely, he looked next at rock stars. Again he was dismayed by the current possibilities: Gruff, Colm, and Thurston. It was enough to make him think he ought to move to France. Call himself Gaspar.