by Jack Batten
“Sure, sure.” Trum’s interest hadn’t picked up.
“Well, there you go. I imagine French courts are very receptive to arguments based on a man standing up for his honour. You know, European machismo and all that.”
“I imagine.”
“Not to mention the sanctity of marriage. It works in Archie’s favour. Your brother ought to make plenty of yards with that one.”
“Crang.” Trum’s expression was deadpan. “You don’t get it yet, do you? The reason why my brother’s flying red-eye to Nice.”
“Because your father’s tied up?”
“I’m not kidding.”
“Well, to represent Archie’s interests in particular, and in general to oil the wheels of justice.”
Along with the deadpan expression, Trum seemed to have added two very cold eyes. He said, “My brother’s coming over mainly ... no, make that exclusively ... to be sure the lid stays on.”
The waiter was a short, dark guy in a long smudged apron. He had a voice that made him sound like he was broadcasting from the bottom of a rain barrel. Annie engaged him in the usual French palaver.
“I ordered us a large socca,” Annie said to me after the waiter left.
“I ate here twice before, three counting today,” Trum said. “Had the cannelloni every time.”
“Socca’s the house specialty,” Annie said.
“Really?” Trum said.
“From the name. The place is called Nissa Socca.”
“I figured that was just the owner,” Trum said. “You know, like Pierre Socca.”
Annie shook her head.
“Not that I know what the hell socca is.”
“Trum,” I said, “how do you mean your brother’s making sure the lid stays on.”
“It isn’t complicated. I mean Archie’s heading home soon’s the doctors okay him for a pair of crutches.”
“Your brother isn’t going to negotiate with the French cops?”
“That’s what he’s being paid to avoid.”
“Goddamn it, Trum.” I could feel two red spots beginning to burn on my cheeks. “Archie killed a guy.”
“No doubt about it.”
“And you’re going to let him walk without even a trial? Without a peep out of any of you? Out of you or your brother or Swotty?”
“Look, fella, don’t go getting yourself all hot and bothered,” Trum said. “Just think the thing through. Sure, Jamie’s dead. But the guy was a useless tit anyway. Stole from C&G. Left messes wherever he stepped. So he’s dead, but the French cops got it down as an accident. That’s the status quo, and there’s no reason to disturb it. No sensible reason. What the hell, if Archie went to trial, he’d get off for the reasons you just said, provocation and whatnot.”
“You’re leaving something out, Trum.”
“No, I’m not.”
“You’re leaving a lot out, but one item in particular.”
“Not even that one particular item. Swotty and me got there ahead of you.”
“Archie took a run at killing somebody else. Me, for Pete’s sake, me. And when he did it, it was not in defence of the family or marriage. The son of a bitch was looking to stick me with a knife about the size of Excalibur because he knew I knew he’d done in Jamie.”
Trum pushed his chair back. It bumped the man sitting behind Trum. The man spilled some of the wine he was drinking on his suit jacket. He gave Trum a dirty look. Trum noticed none of the small drama behind him.
“You go home, Crang,” Trum said, “you go down to your office, you look through the mail, you open an envelope that’s got no marking on it, no return address, you open it, and in your hand, you got your fingers on a bank draft.”
“I’m trying to pretend I’m not hearing this.”
“Twenty-five thousand dollars’ worth of bank draft.”
“Ah, jeez, Trum.”
“Twenty-five thousand.” Trum repeated the amount very slowly.
“This is for keeping my mouth shut?”
“The way Swotty phrased it last night,” Trum said, “he said, ‘Crang deserves compensation for the time he expended on this unfortunate episode.’ His exact words.”
Trum got up and left the restaurant.
“Holy mackerel,” Annie said.
“Très chaude, m’dame,” the deep-voiced waiter said from behind Annie. He was holding a large platter with both hands on a wooden handle. The food on the hot platter was light brown and looked like an enormous pancake. Annie used her fork to break off a piece and lift it to her mouth.
“Ambrosia,” she said.
The waiter came back with a litre of white wine.
“What would you think of this?” I asked Annie. “What would you think of stretching the holiday? Staying here longer? Two more weeks maybe? Whatever it takes?”
Annie hesitated for a bit. Her mouth was full of the stuff from the platter.
“It’ll need some arranging with the radio station back home,” she said. “But you don’t have to twist my arm.”
“Swell.”
“What’s up?” Annie said. “And, listen, you’ve still got those red spots on your cheeks. Not that I don’t understand. That was disgusting, what your friend Trum just laid on you.”
“Could you ask the waiter with the impressive lungs if he’s got a phone book I could borrow?”
“Sure,” Annie said. “But eat some of this socca.”
It didn’t taste like a pancake. It had a texture and consistency and flavour that reminded me of a weird combination of pasta, cake, and bread. Except it was more refined than those three. I might not have been giving the socca my full attention, but my taste buds seemed to be enjoying themselves.
“You want me to look up something for you?” Annie asked. She had the phone book on her lap.
“It’s simple enough. I can handle the job.”
I leafed through the listings for Cannes.
“When it comes to the actual phoning,” I said to Annie, “I’ll need you to lead off.”
“A phone’s over there on the wall. I think the drill is, a customer makes the call and pays the waiter afterwards.”
I got on the right page of the phone book and ran my finger down to the listing I needed. There were six digits in the number.
“Okay,” I said to Annie, “dial this number and get through all the operators and minions, and I’ll take over when you have my party on the line.”
“This party speaks English?”
“Enough.”
“What’s the name? Who do I ask for?”
“The guy I mentioned to you the other day.”
“Yes?”
“Inspector Farinaud.”
Copyright © Jack Batten, 2016
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise (except for brief passages for purpose of review) without the prior permission of Dundurn Press. Permission to photocopy should be requested from Access Copyright.
All characters in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
First Published in 1990.
Design: Courtney Horner
Cover design: Laura Boyle
Image credits: © Maksim Evdokimov/123RF.com<
Epub Design: Carmen Giraudy
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Batten, Jack, 1932-, author
Riviera blues / Jack Batten.
(A Crang mystery)
Issued in print and electronic formats.
ISBN 978-1-4597-3328-2 (paperback).--ISBN 978-1-4597-3329-9 (pdf).--
ISBN 978-1-4597-3330-5 (epub)
&n
bsp; I. Title. II. Series: Batten, Jack, 1932- . Crang mystery.
PS8553.A833R5 2016 C813’.54 C2016-904847-0
C2016-904848-9
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