by Linda Swain
When he reached the intersection he usually crossed to begin heading home, he took a hard right instead, heading down into a seedier part of town which had once been as much a part of Tim’s life as the club was now. Nodding to a couple of dark shapes leaning up against a street corner, Tim accepted a cigarette as it was silently extended from the fingers of one of the scruffy shadows, and everyone smoked a moment in companionable silence before Tim exhaled and turned his head to gaze at the shortest member of the group.
“Lookin’ for some information,” he said quietly.
“Oh, yeah?” The grubby hand that didn't hold his cigarette extended into the light, where Tim could see every rip and hole in the man’s threadbare shirtsleeves.
He recognized the gesture for what it was, however, and withdrew a single dollar bill from within his shirtsleeves, allowing the men to catch sight of the pistol holstered at his side and the outline of the switchblade hidden up his sleeve as he did so. “Yup. Pierre still around?”
The small group of men laughed in the carefully exuberant manner of the streets. “Sure he is,” the man who’d offered Tim a cigarette replied. “Not even Hell’s gonna take a bum like Pierre. What’cha need the Frenchy for?”
Tim smiled faintly. “Getting some information for Nick.”
Low whistles split the air. “Don’t tell me Nicky’s in trouble,” the short man said.
“If you call him that someplace where he can hear you, you won’t live long enough to find out,” Tim warned. “Where’s Pierre these days?”
“You need us to give him a message, Tim, we’ll do it – it’s just gonna cost ya a little more than one picture of Washington.”
Tim sighed and withdrew another dollar. “You guys are gonna send me to the poorhouse. Here.” He held the note out and watched as the bill quickly vanished up another man’s sleeve. “Tell him I want information. You know where to find me. G’night, gentleman. Thanks for the butt. Find Pierre for me, and there’s a sawbuck or two in it for whoever does it.” He tipped his hat in their direction and turned his back, keeping his ears and eyes peeled for any unusual movement behind him until he’d crossed the street and disappeared around a corner.
As a precaution, he wound a longer route home that night than the one he usually took. A couple of those guys might’ve run with us in the old days, sure, but you don’t live on the streets for as long as I did without learning to be damned careful. He blew out a long breath as he reached his own front door, shaking out his key and sliding quickly inside.
Tim played the waiting game for three days without saying a word to Nick, and then he was stopped on his way home that evening by a low, French-accented voice calling his name. He paused, shifting the knife he carried with an imperceptible shake of his arm, and turned. “Yeah?”
“You wanted information from me, I believe?” The hoarse voice, its words coated in a slurry French accent, carried lowly out of the darkness.
Tim relaxed slightly. “Pierre. Yeah, I did. What do you know about Ashton Montserrat?”
A low, derisive chuckle came from the shadows. “He is an … interesting man. I know many things about him, including the fact that he abandoned his country during her time of need. Perhaps you would care to be more specific?”
Tim narrowed his eyes. “I want dirt on his first wife. I don’t care about the politics.”
“Hm. Christine Montserrat? What do I know about her? Many things. She played with a great deal of men’s money, but once she married Ashton … Some say she found her heart’s delight, and yet others believe something quite … different. There were … how you say … mysterious circumstances surrounding her death, however, and one of the nurses was blamed.”
“I know all that,” Tim replied impatiently. “Nick found that out in about three seconds flat – how’s that worth my time?”
“Some people I know, they tell me that there is a new nurse with a strange, ‘Frenchy’ accent down at that new clinic on Tremont,” Pierre replied smoothly, emerging from the shadows. “She tried, it seems, to find suitable employment at many hospitals, but they would not take her because of her … criminal record.”
Tim’s eyes lit up, and he uncurled his left hand to reveal a neatly folded five-dollar bill. “That so? Well,” he considered, turning his head and coughing lightly. “I did want to have this ‘cough’ of mine checked out. Thanks for the skinny, Pierre.”
A tobacco-stained smile show-cased the remaining five or six of Pierre’s teeth as one gnarled hand snatched for the extended bill, causing it to disappear into one of the many folds of the older man’s clothing. “Bien sur,” he agreed, nodding his head. “Your health should always be your primary concern. It has been excellent doing business with you, Timothy. Bonne chance – I hope that you find what you are seeking.”
With a light step, Tim headed home and didn’t hesitate to slip away from the club after restocking the bar. Tremont Street wasn’t too much of a walk from Simply Blues; Tim figured he could make it there in time to allow for him to look around a little bit before Nick noticed he was missing. I’m not gonna have the boss part with his time and money if the lead’s a dead end and Pierre got the wrong gal, he thought. No way.
The clinic he entered when he reached Tremont Street was clean, even if most of the place had seen better days. Someone had attempted to brighten things up by pasting children’s drawings on the walls, but it didn’t distract even the most casual of observers from noticing that the chairs looked ready to collapse out from beneath their occupants or from the sight of the harried, skeleton staff as they called people into the back rooms.
As Tim watched, a worn out blonde nurse who had attempted to stop the passage of years, he noticed, with an over-application of cheap perfume and even cheaper cosmetics, spied him and gave him what was probably supposed to be an enticing smile. “Someone will be right with you, m’sieu,” she cooed in a thick French accent. Pointing to one of the chairs, she gave him a saucy wink. “Asseyez-vous, and we will get you seen very soon.”
Without saying a word, Tim nodded in her direction, hoping that someone would call her name. He’d found out from Nick that the indicted nurse had used the name Elise before she’d been shipped back Stateside. People change their names all the time, but if the name matches along with that accent, I’ll take it as a good sign.
Tim leaned against the doorway and waited. He appreciated the view that her ample bosom awarded him as she bent down to the slumped form of another patient, introducing herself in her ‘strange’ accent. Pushing his mind away from its eager contemplation of her generous form, he strained his ears and caught her words as she helped the man to his feet. “I am Elise, and if you will just come this way…”
Bingo, Tim thought, slipping out the door just as another person was coming in. Using the still-swift reflexes that had saved his skin more often than even Nick knew about, Tim narrowly avoided a collision and emerged into the late afternoon sunlight, humming a snatch of tune as he headed back up the street.
Once he’d returned to the club, he caught sight of Nick making his way slowly down the stairs. Taking one good look at his drawn face and bloodshot eyes, Tim spoke quietly, keeping his eyes casually on the glass he was wiping. “Hey, boss,” he greeted. ‘Long night, huh?” Tim knew there had been a lot of those nights in the last six months, and that they were also coming more frequently.
Nick grunted an answer, shuffling behind the bar and rooting around for the paper Tim had brought in with him when he’d arrived. For a few minutes, only the rustling of those pages broke the silence between them.
Choosing his words carefully, Tim set aside his last glass. “You know, Boss, people will tell me the damnedest things after they’ve put a few belts in them. They’ll tell me things that only a priest should know.”
And I’m no exception, Nick thought ruefully. None at all. I drank way too much last night. And the night before that. After his blowout with his long departed girlfriend, Nick had gone on a binge that
had been almost as bad as the one he had taken after Kat’s marriage. I bent his ears back so much that I’m surprised that can still hear.
But Tim had listened, quietly wiping down the glossy bar and clearing dirty ashtrays as Nick had rambled on. He hadn’t said anything at the time, but Nick knew Tim had heard – and probably even filed away – every word of his worries about Ashton’s temper and the strange circumstances which had come about concerning his first wife’s death.
“And sometimes,” Tim continued lightly, “I follow up on some of that stuff they tell me. Like the nurse you mentioned the other day, Boss.”
Nick slowly lowered his paper and gazed at Tim. It had always amused him that, after all their years together, Tim still refused to call him by his given name. It had been one of the few arguments that he’d had with Tim, but it was one he knew he would never win. But something in Tim’s eyes today made Nick look more closely at the wisecracking, fun-loving card shark he’d hired. That something turned him to a hard-faced, cold-eyed vision of a man who reminded Nick uncomfortably that he wasn’t the only one who remembered the fierce days of the streets. “Oh, yeah? What about the nurse?”
“You remember telling me about how she died after her kid was born and . . .”
“And Montserrat insisted that she died from neglect because of some damn nurse. Yeah, I was drunk, but not so drunk that I don’t remember what I said.” Nick smiled tightly. “I called in a few favors to find out about her, but I haven’t had much luck. What about it?”
“I found her. The nurse, I mean.”
Muscling from his chair, Nick held on to the edge of the bar as if it were the only thing anchoring him to the floor. He wasn’t about to ask unnecessary questions that he knew Tim couldn’t answer. Even on the streets, there were certain codes that neither of them would violate. “Just tell me where she is.”
* * * *
Her deep blue eyes grew wide as a pudgy hand patted hastily at her heavily waved bleached blonde hair. She had been told once that she resembled some American actress and that lie had been one of the few things that Elise Lambert could still hold fast.
The handsome blonde man that had just strolled into the clinic was far and above the usual drunks and derelicts that she usually saw. This man had class . . . and money. It was obvious from his well-cut suit to the scent of his cologne, that this was a man to whom she should be paying more than cursory attention.
“How can I help you?”
Fluttering her heavily mascaraed lashes, Elise prayed that for once, her accent would be alluring, rather than the usual distraction that most Americans found it to be. She watched as he sat on a wobbly wooden chair across from her, speculating that the cost of his caramel-colored coat was enough to pay her rent for an entire year. As his fingers worked over the buttons, casually revealing an exquisitely cute dark blue suit, Elise wondered if the angels were at last smiling upon her again. This man was very rich and if he wished to speak with her, then perhaps she could receive some of his largesse as a result. If I … play my cards correctly? Is that the American expression? If I do, perhaps I can … profit … as a result…
“Perhaps we can help each other.” Nick had charm when he chose to use it, and he was using every bit of it as he smiled. Eyeing her white uniform, and the cap that sat back on her hair, his smile beamed. “Even nurses take coffee breaks, and it doesn’t look as if you’re busy at the moment.” His voice was smooth with just enough appeal in it to make the nurse want to give him the world and anything else that he asked. “A pal of mine just opened a restaurant down the street. Perhaps you and I could sample the menu . . . after all, who would know a good baguette better than someone from France?”
Before she had a chance to think, Elise discovered herself wrapped in her threadbare coat, her hand tucked elegantly in the crook of his arm.
“It’s just a short walk,” he commented as automobiles whizzed past. Even with the rumble of mufflers and the ping of tires on the pavement, Nick recognized the sound of a stomach that hadn’t seen much in the way of food. “Perhaps some soup to go with the baguette?” He suggested quietly. “I’ve always had a fondness for a good onion broth.”
As they slid into the café, the aroma of good French coffee intermingling with the scent of fresh baked goods reminded Elise of the place she had always considered her homeland. Nostalgia descended, but alongside with it came a deep and unshakeable suspicion. One did not go through life and survive just on dreams, and no matter how magnifique the man was, good fortune, she had learned, never came without some form of sacrifice. So when Elise found it staring her in the eyes, reflected in the cobalt gaze of the man who sat before her, she resisted its siren call and tried to ferret out what might be hiding in her companion’s still features. She could find out nothing more, however; the man kept his purpose as well concealed as his emotion. She allowed him to remove her coat, draping it over the back of her seat, which he had gallantly pulled out for her.
When he ordered blithely from the menu without a second glance at the cost, easily charging their waiter to bring them more food than Elise had seen over the past week, she felt her heart beginning to race in her chest. He is buying me – and for what? Unconsciously, she smoothed her hands over the markings of her nurse’s uniform, shifting a little in her seat until a cup of excellent dark coffee was set down before her. Lifting the cup to her lips, she inhaled the sharp scent of the coffee, blinking away the wistful tears that trembled on her lashes.
Elise might have been born in America, but she considered her homeland to be France. It was back to America that she had been returned in punishment after the mockery of a trial she had suffered all those years before. Never could she return to her adopted country, at least not as long as that ludicrous charge remained on her records. Just the thought of that injustice renewed an anger she had fought desperately to suppress. She had done nothing wrong all those years ago, and yet she had been branded with a criminal’s record and sent back here to this uncivilized country! With an effort, she brought herself under control. With her dire financial circumstances, she could not afford any further encounters with the law, and she had seen too many of her patients put into her care simply because someone had lost their temper.
For now, she would focus on this man who had dropped so mysteriously into her lap. After all, he was as handsome as any cinema star, and if he was intent on paying for her lunch, perhaps he could be useful in other ways. Smiling, she inhaled the strong fragrance of her coffee again before leaning forward, displaying what she considered to be her best assets. “So, tell me my mysterious benefactor, who are you, and what is it that you want?”
“Want?” He chuckled lowly as he sank back in his chair, his eyes studying her calmly. “I doubt that even with your . . . admirable charms, that there is anything that I want. But I would imagine that there is plenty that you would like. Perhaps a fresh start where you’re not constantly looking over your shoulder. Some place where you don’t have to report your actions to . . . anyone. Perhaps where your years of service would be appreciated and . . . certain matters could be expunged.” He neatly avoided the matter of her first question; allowing her to have knowledge of his identity was not crucial to the information he was setting out to find today, and Nick had long since learned that saying less often resulted in gaining one more of what one wanted.
The warning bells that sounded in her mind were as loud as the bells of Notre Dame. Had that bastard Montserrat gone back on his word and broken his silence? Would he never allow her to live the remainder of her miserable existence without his presence?
Quietly, Nick added more sugar to his coffee than usual. “I can arrange for you to start over – to have enough money to go wherever it is that you wish.”
“You can do all this? And what exactly do I have to do to earn such . . . . generosity?” Elise was shrewd, and not as stupid as she looked. Whatever this man wanted was going to cost him, and cost him dearly.
Nick grew sile
nt, thinking of Kat and the child that she carried – his child. It was something that, up until that very moment, he had never realized that he wanted.
“Christine Montserrat,” he said simply, his voice suddenly sharpening with a dark edge that was anything but charming. Nick watched as the woman struggled to maintain her composure. If he were to be honest, he couldn’t blame her. From what Tim had disclosed, the woman, convicted of involuntary manslaughter, had only served a small part of her sentence before its remainder was mysteriously commuted with the addendum that she be immediately extradited to her home country upon the very day of her release. It didn’t take a genius to work out who had influenced the court, first on her conviction, and then, later, forced its leniency.
Reaching into the pocket inside his jacket, Nick pulled out a stack of bills that would have choked a horse. “There is more where that came from. That is, if you’re willing to tell me what happened that day.”
Elise’s eyes glittered with bitterness even as she reached across for the money that lay in front of her.
“That woman,” she spat, neatly pushing the curled paper notes into the crevice of her breasts. “She was no good from the beginning. She didn’t want the child. She moaned constantly how her pregnancy was ruining her figure. She was very concerned that her man would no longer find her desirable after the child was born.” She paused, her head tilting as her fingers drummed a tattoo on the table. “But why should all of this matter to you?”
Nick paused as she watched him; he’d read in her gaze that she was not nearly as foolish as he’d first anticipated, and that was why he had parted with as much money as he had. If you can’t confuse them with words, you blind them with greed.
He seems so familiar to me – I knew that from the moment he walked in. But he has not said his name, and he is no one I would think that Montserrat bastard would keep within his circle of friends – his money has been made, probably by himself, rather than merely given to him, as Montserrat’s was. Wait … Her faded blue eyes sprang wide. “Of course! Now I recognize you! I saw the photographs of you at the bastard’s wedding. I remember, there had been talk on the street how that woman had once been your lover.” Her eyes began to sparkle wickedly. “And now you want her back and need whatever I can tell you as leverage.”