“Fuck you!” he screamed back. Max picked up the bills that were now scattered about the ground and walked across the street to a Burger King. He bought a chicken sandwich, fries, and a large Coke. He came back out and handed the guy a paper bag with the food. The bum snatched it roughly and held it to his chest like a treasured belonging.
“It’s about fucking time, asshole!” he yelled at Max, capable of communicating only in shouts and screams. He turned on his heels and ran, weaving down the street, barely avoiding a collision with several pedestrians before disappearing down an alley.
“Yeah, asshole, you could have been a little faster with that,” I said with a giggle.
“That’s not funny.” The look on his face let me know that it wasn’t something I could joke about.
We continued on, walking a few blocks through the crowd before coming to the granite steps of the Musée des Beaux Arts. It was a large, square building with columns lining the front entrance and draping flags advertising various exhibits.
I looked around to find the appraisal shop. It was across the street on the left side of the museum. Max was already headed in the right direction, and I quickly followed.
Outside of the appraisers, he turned to look at me.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
“As ready as ever,” I replied. I didn’t like to actually interact with people on jobs. I was a real whiz with objects, engines, cars, things I could take apart and fix, but when it came to people, I usually let Max handle things.
He took my hand and we walked into the shop. A young woman dressed in a neat black suit stood behind the counter and smiled at us.
“Bonjour. Puis-je vous aider?” she asked professionally. I approached the counter while Max casually walked around the store, observing everything.
“Bonjour. J’ai deux bagues. Je voudrais savoir combien ça coute.” Did I just ask her how much it costs? I cringed. My French was terrible, the grammar and vocabulary all wrong, the accent so American that it was a miracle she understood me. Max spoke French way better than I did, but he wanted me to distract her while he had a look at the shop. At once, she switched to English.
“Do you have the rings with you?” she asked. I handed her the box. She opened it and looked at the contents, then took out a note pad. “Is this for insurance reasons or is it to sell?”
“Oh, I don’t want to sell them. I just want to know what they’re worth.”
She nodded and made some notes. “I’ll be right out.” She picked up the box and walked through a door marked Accés Reservé au Personnel. She left the door open a crack, and we could see into the back room. Max looked pleased at this bit of luck and craned his neck to get the best peek he could.
The woman quickly came back out.
“I am sorry, but our jeweler is out at the moment. If you would like to make an appointment to see him next week, we would be happy to do business with you.” She gave an apologetic smile and took out a date book.
“That would be fine. Thank you.” I made arrangements to meet with the jeweler the following Tuesday. When we were done, I thanked her and we left.
“Well, what did you think?” I asked Max when we got out to the street.
“Perfect,” he said and grinned.
16.
For dinner, we arranged to meet Frank at a crêperie on Rue St. Denis in the Latin Quarter. The restaurant looked like it came right out of the French countryside, with stone walls and exposed beams. The air inside was warm and sweet. My stomach growled in anticipation.
The hostess seated us at a table and left us to look over the menu. We ordered aperitifs, kir royale for me, cognac for Max and Frank.
“So, Frank, what are you going to do with all that money?” Max asked.
“Probably put it away.”
“Come on. There’s got to be something you want to buy. Maybe a new car?”
He thought about it a moment, then nodded. “Yeah, a new car.” I could tell he agreed just to get Max off his back. He wasn’t really interested in a new car. “What about you?”
“I’ll pay off all my debts, then, maybe I’ll call Roger, get some new passports made for us, and take Ellie on a nice trip somewhere tropical.”
“That sounds nice. Ellie, what are you going do?” Frank looked at me from over the top of his menu.
“I’m also going to put mine away. That way when Max racks up a new debt, I can pay it off for him.”
“Hey!” Max feigned offense, then chuckled. “What are you really going to get? A new plane?”
“No way! Papy Volant has character. You can’t buy something like that these days.” It was old and small, but it was unique. “There isn’t anything I want, just a nice quiet life where I don’t have to worry about money.”
“I agree,” Frank replied.
“That’s not an answer,” Max said. He wanted me to give him something concrete.
“I don’t know. I don’t really need anything.” I wasn’t materialistic, so items didn’t mean nearly as much to me as buying my freedom.
“You like cars.”
“Yeah, but I have a nice car. I don’t need another.”
“It’s not about what you need, it’s about what you want. Something just for you.” His eyes flashed with the excitement of a future with endless possibilities.
“Do you know what I want? I want you. I want our house. And I want to be left alone. That’s it.” Frank laughed at my answer. He was of the same mind.
Max sighed and raised his hands in defeat. “Okay. I give up.”
The waiter came and took our order, each of us getting the house specialty gallette stuffed with ham, potatoes, and cheese. We ordered the traditional drink that went along with our meal: a bottle of hard cider served in ceramic bowls. After half a bowl, Frank stuck with coffee; I didn’t know how he could drink it in the quantities that he did.
Max went a little heavy on the alcohol, the only indication that his calm and collected demeanor on the surface was a bundle of raw nerves underneath. He ordered a second bottle and consumed most of it himself. He was starting to get a rosy glow. After only two bowls, I was well on my way. I’m a lightweight.
We finished dinner and went on to the best part of a meal -- dessert. I ordered a crêpe with chocolate sauce and bananas. Frank got his with ice cream. Max didn’t bother with a confection, but ordered a glass of brandy instead.
He drained his glass of the amber liquid then looked at both of us. “I think we should go out and do something. There are some good clubs up here.”
“Max, it’s already past my bedtime,” Frank said as he looked at his watch. It was only 10:30. “I want to get a good night’s sleep before tomorrow.”
“Come on, Frank! Don’t be such a wet blanket.”
“I can’t keep up with you like that.” Frank shook his head. Once his mind was made up, there would be no way we could drag him out with us.
Max turned to me. “What about you? I don’t want to go back to the room and watch TV. We can do that at home.”
I shrugged. “Sure. Why not?”
The waiter brought the check, and both Max and Frank took their wallets out.
“Let me get it,” Frank said and reached for the bill.
“No, this one’s on me.” Max picked up the black leather receipt holder and looked at the check. He placed the money inside and folded it closed. I was pretty sure that was the last of his cash, his generosity allowing him to spend more than he could afford. At least I still had a good amount tucked away in my wallet. Besides, after the next day’s adventure, money wouldn’t be a problem anymore.
We strolled back to the Omni Mont-Royal where Frank was staying, savoring the cold night air. Frank lit a cigarette and inhaled the blue smoke, sighing with pleasure. He smoked as we walked and talked, the three of us content, full, and enjoying each other’s company. The leaves had all fallen off the trees, and the bare branches reached to the crisp, clear night like hands trying to pluck the tiny, jew
eled stars off the black velvet sky.
We reached Frank’s hotel and said good night to him as he walked into the lobby. We continued down the street then turned the corner to head to the infamous Rue Ste. Catherine. It ran parallel to Sherbrooke, a few blocks away. Ste. Catherine had all of the best sex clubs.
The red neon sign outside of Club SuperSexe lit the street with a warm glow. We went inside and paid the cover, found a table to sit and each ordered a drink. The music was loud, sending thumping vibrations through my rib cage, and the atmosphere crackled with an electric charge of raw and dirty sexuality. We got a lot of curious stares from the patrons, all envious that Max had a girl willing to enter a club like that.
I openly stared at the dancer on stage. I liked to see naked people, men or women. I truly found the body to be a fascinating subject and loved to get a look at what people usually kept hidden under their clothes. She was gyrating to the music, nimbly twisting herself into intricate poses as she pulled off each article of clothing. She flipped her long red hair to the side, and I got a good peep at her face.
I looked at Max just as he looked at me, the same realization dawning on his face.
“Isn’t that . . .?” I started. He nodded, distaste crossing his features.
It was one of Raphael’s bimbos, the one he’d taken to the bar in Burlington a few years before. She had moved up here and gotten herself a job as a dancer. That seemed fitting, probably the only thing she could do with success. Suddenly, the club didn’t seem so interesting to me. It had the same effect on Max.
“Do you want to leave?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
We headed back to the hotel, a bit disappointed by our nightlife experience, but still in a good mood, ready to party in our own private way.
As we passed through an area with a curious mix of architecture, Max stopped and pulled me aside. Pointing to an enormous gothic edifice, he whispered, “That’s Hashimoto’s house.”
It looked like a giant had picked up a chateau and dropped between two modern city buildings. Made of stone with a copper roof that was now faded to green, each side of the four-story mansion had a rounded tower. The third floor held a balcony accessed by French doors. A warm glow radiated from behind the glass and melted across the elaborate stone banister.
A dark figured passed in front of the light and stepped out onto the balcony. We stood quietly watching him as he lit a cigar. A few moments later, another figure sensuously slid next to him to nestle her nude body against his. Quicker than I could blink, the romantic scene was broken apart by Hashimoto’s violent temper. He grabbed her by the throat and slammed her against the wall. He slapped her twice then threw her to the floor. We couldn’t hear what he was saying but his body language spoke volumes.
Max stiffened next to me. I could feel the anger radiating from his body. “I want to go up there right now and knock his teeth out,” he murmured.
“Hey, chill out. We’ll get him back tomorrow,” I said. “Come on, let’s go back to the room. I’ll even let you do that thing.” I gave him a suggestive wink.
His smile suddenly returned. “What thing?”
“I don’t know. Whatever thing you want to do.” I tugged on his hand and we started walking again, his attention now on me.
When we got back to the hotel room, Max opened the mini-bar and rooted around. He pulled out a bottle of Veuve Clicquot champagne, its distinctive orange label catching the light.
“Shall we try some of this?” He held it up and wiggled his eyebrows.
“That thing probably costs $75!” The mini-bar prices were astronomically marked up.
“So? You never pay the mini-bar bill.” He was right about that. “Besides, we need to celebrate!”
“Shouldn’t we wait until tomorrow night to celebrate?” I’m not superstitious, but celebrating a day early seemed like a bad idea.
“No, let’s have it now. We could get hit by a truck and never get the chance to drink another bottle of champagne again. We’ll get a new bottle tomorrow.” He unwrapped the top and popped the cork. Then, referring to an old Muddy Waters song we once heard, he asked, “How about a little ‘Champagne & Reefer’?”
“No reefer. Not after all this alcohol. Are you trying to make me throw up?” I laughed, but kept my foot down on that. I didn’t mix the two. I could drink a beer and smoke a joint at the same time, but getting piss drunk then smoking was a bad idea.
We didn’t bother with glasses and drank straight from the bottle. I turned the radio on and played with the dial until I found something good to dance to. Stevie Wonder was singing “Superstitious,” just the kind of song I wanted at the moment. I started grooving to the music, shaking my ass and waving my arms in a display of complete surrender to my drunken state. If someone ever videotaped me dancing, I’m sure I’d never do it again.
The bubbly went to my head. I was more than buzzed. So was Max. He was as inebriated as I was. Not only that, he was absolutely giddy with excitement over the next day’s activities.
The song changed to “I’ve been Loving You Too Long” by Otis Redding. It was a slow one, not what I was looking for. I was tempted to flip the station, but Max started singing, and it was too funny to interrupt.
Using the champagne bottle as a microphone, he sang along with the radio. He was no Otis, the melody shouted more than sang. He thrust his hips to the horns as I rolled on the bed laughing at his antics. As the song progressed, he got louder.
There was a bang on the door accompanied by an annoyed voice on the other side. “Shut up in there!”
Max continued, belting it out at the top of his lungs as if to antagonize our neighbor.
“Shhh,” I said and giggled. “You’re going to get us kicked out.” I stood on the bed and leaned over, placing my hands on his shoulders. It was a rare occasion that I didn’t have to look up to meet his eyes. There was only one way I could think of to shut him up. I grabbed the front of his shirt and kissed his lips. He wrapped his hands around my waist, and we swayed to the music together.
He howled one more time then collapsed on the bed, pulling me down on top of him in a fit of laughter.
We both felt like shit the next day. It wasn’t anything a little Advil and coffee wouldn’t fix, but, for the billionth time, I swore off alcohol.
We slept until noon. Frank was coming at 1:30 to pick up Max, so I ordered room service, scrambled eggs and toast, coffee, and orange juice. I always craved orange juice after a night of drinking. Max ate quickly and headed to the bathroom to prepare for the day. I could hear him whistling. He took forever in there.
I sat on the bed, reading The Grand Design by Stephan Hawking. I was engrossed in a mind-blowing theory about how the universe sprang spontaneously out of nothing when Max finally came out of the bathroom. I looked up and almost fell off the bed in surprise. He was clean-shaven, his hair was neatly combed, and he was wearing a charcoal gray Armani suit.
“You look like James Bond!” I giggled.
He struck a pose for me, hands together, index finger pointed up, and thumb cocked out like a gun, eyebrow raised in a sexy scowl, and said, “Shaken, not stirred.”
I burst out laughing, hopped off the bed, and put my arms around him. His after-shave gave off a spicy aroma and I inhaled deeply. I stood on my toes and kissed him before a knock at the door interrupted us.
“That’s Frank,” he said and pulled back, looking at me with a grin, then kissed me again, fiercely, his tongue teasing mine. He tasted minty and sweet. “I’ll get you later.” He winked, then ran to the door and opened it to Frank.
“Hey, Frank!” Max was so happy his enthusiasm spilled over.
“How are you?” Frank said as he entered the room. Max grabbed him in a tight embrace and lifted him off the ground.
“Today’s the day!” he said. “We’re going to be rich!”
“Max! Don’t do that. Put me down.” Frank looked a little self-conscious, but managed to crack a smile.
“S
orry. I’m just excited. Should we go now?” He was already walking out the door. He turned and ran back to me, giving me one more kiss, what I hoped was a preview of what I’d get later. “Bye, Ellie!”
“Max, be careful.”
“You bet!” he said, as he picked up the architect’s tube with the fake painting enclosed in it and walked out into the hallway, pulling the door shut behind them.
17.
Max and Frank were late; an hour and a half late.
I paced my hotel room back and forth between the bed and the bathroom door, the flutter in my stomach getting stronger as the clock ticked by the minutes. I counted the steps compulsively. One, two, three, four; turn and spin. One, two, three, four . . . Again. I shuffled across the carpet so many times I could have electrocuted myself with the static build-up.
The door swung open abruptly and I jumped, surprised by the sudden entry. To my relief, it was Max.
“Finally . . .” I started, a hint of annoyance playing in my voice.
Then I got a good look at him.
He was visibly shaking as his eyes wildly rolled in their sockets. Blood splattered his face, smudged in places where he had wiped a hand. His once-white shirt, now red and soaked, clung to his body. His suit coat was ripped, and his tie was missing. A sour, garbagy stench emanated from him, and a mustard yellow blob smeared across the dark fabric of his pants.
“Shit! That’s a lot of blood! Are you okay?”
“It’s not mine,” he said and mechanically walked past me to the bathroom, taking his gun from his pocket and tossing onto his backpack. “At least not all of it.” He unconsciously touched his eye, which was now starting to puff up and swell to the color of eggplant. “I need a shower.”
“What do you mean ‘not all of it’? Are you hurt?” I followed him and watched as he started to strip from his ruined clothes. He winced as he pulled his coat off. He peeled the now-red dress shirt from his shoulders and dropped it to the floor with a wet smack. There was a gash in his upper left arm across the triceps. He fumbled with his belt buckle, but his hands were shaking too hard to manage it.
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