Sinclair sighed like a tired father answering a child’s persistent question for the tenth time in an afternoon. “Ze line of Baron is extremely influential. Zey do what zey want, and zey can get what zey want. ’Owever, most of ze time zey do not know what zey want. My line, ze line of Cormac—”
“Who’s Cormac?”
“We’ll get to zat, my impatient little avenger. My line doesn’t ’appen to be particularly influential. People don’t like us for reasons unbeknownst to me. But we’re idea people. We are smart, cunning, and good at zinking a’ead. Ze line of Baron needed idea people like us to be able to fully reach zeir potential, and of course when all is said and done, ze ones who came up with ze idea deserve most of ze reward.
“We don’t like to zink of it as manipulation. Instead, we like to zink of it as two sorts of people playing on zeir own talents for ze advancement of boz parties. We needed a face to put to our ideas and Baron’s line—Notmie’s line, zat is—needed ideas to put to zeir face. Zroughout ze years, people from boz bloodlines ’ave tried to swim against zis current, zis way of doing zings, but we’ve always been able to persuade zem to change zeir minds.” Sinclair fell silent, letting the last words linger menacingly in the air.
“You asked about Cormac,” Sinclair said, “’Ee was my great-to-ze-six grandfazer. I’m sure you’re well familiar wiz ze story of ’ow zis curse came to pass, skewed as your stories may be, so I won’t bozer repeating zem to you. I will, ’owever, tell you an epilogue of sorts to finish zis tale.
“After your great-to-ze-sevenz grandfazer Phil ’ad been coldly refused ’elp by Notmie’s and Melono’s great-to-ze-sevenz grandfazer, Baron, ’ee ’eaded for ze nearest town to seek medical attention for ’is snake bite. Finding no ’ospital, ’ee went to ze next best place: ze local pub. ’Ee limped zrough ze doors, and asked if anyone ’ad any chewing tobacco for ’is rattlesnake bite. All ze strangers in ze bar were far too cold-’earted and poor to waste tobacco on someone else. All, zat is, except for one. Zat one man was an Irishman named Cormac McCormac. You know zose Irishmen, always coming up wiz silly little names… oh, ’ow I detest ze Irish.” He raised his fist and shook it threateningly at everything Irish. “But zat’s beside ze point. Back to zis man Cormac. ’Ee was a ’usky Irishman ’oo just recently came to America looking for work. Finding none, ’ee ’ad left ’is wife and child behind in Georgia wiz ’is sister and ’eaded to Texas to die. When ze stranger ’ad entered ze bar asking for ’elp only to receive cold rejection, Cormac was moved to compassion, ’aving felt ze same sort of disparity ’imself for ze past few years during his quest to come to Texas and die (which was proving ’arder zan ’ee ’ad expected). Cormac offered Phil some tobacco and zey began talking about zeir lives. Phil miserably recollected ze tale of ’is encounter wiz Baron, and Cormac, being Irish and naturally well versed in curses, realized ze gravity of ze situation. ’Ee also realized ’ow zis could work to ’is own personal gain. Cormac asked Phil where Baron’s ’ouse was and as soon as Phil was on ’is feet again, Cormac set out to look for ’im.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hold on one second,” Captain Alex interrupted, waving his hands through the air to emphasize that he wasn’t buying what Sinclair was selling. “Phil was paralyzed from the waste down from the snake venom. Your story’s flawed!”
“No, it’s not. Shut up because you know nozing. It wasn’t a snakebite zat left ’im crippled, for you see, Phil and Cormac kept in close contact for year and years. We’ve gazered most of ze letters zey ever sent to one anozer and so our story is obviously ze most correct. Not to mention, Cormac maintained an accurate diary and meticulously kept track of everyzing related to Phil from ze moment ’ee left ze bar. Like I said, ’ee understood ze significance of ze curse.
“Phil was paralyzed from ze waste down when ’ee fell off a sheep ’ee was riding during a drunken stupor only a few monz later. ’Ee confessed zis to Cormac, but decided zat ze rest of ze world would find it much more ’eroic if a snake bite was to blame, and since ’ee already ’ad a scar from ze snake bite, ’is story always checked out.”
The Captain bought that explanation just fine; his family had a long-standing sheep-riding tradition that dated back to times unknown. He motioned for Sinclair to continue.
“So, after Phil ’ad spilled ze story to Cormac at ze bar, Cormac ’eaded straight from ze bar to Baron’s ’ouse, arriving near dusk to find zat Baron was no longer sitting on ze porch, rocking in ’is chair and zrowing rocks. Cormac knocked, and a stubby gray-’aired woman answered ze door. It was Baron’s wife and she invited ze stranger in for some supper. She was a nice woman, and seemed very intrigued wiz ’is story of leaving ’is wife and kids to come to Texas to die, but overall she talked too much. Zis ended up working out to Cormac’s advantage as ’ee collected all ze family ’istory ’ee could, including ze names and towns of all zeir daughters, ze youngest in particular.
“Cormac could barely contain ’is excitement when ’ee realized zat zis youngest daughter was expecting a child in less zan a week. ’Ee knew ’ee didn’t ’ave much time, so after a filling supper, ’ee zanked Baron and ’is wife and said ’ee really should be getting on ’ome. Zey congratulated ’im on ’is cool Irish accent and wished ’im ze best of luck wiz dying.
“Cormac eventually found where Baron’s youngest daughter, Gwyneth, lived. ’Ee witnessed, along wiz ze rest of ze town, ze most miraculous birth Texas ’as ever seen. Gwyneth ’erself was a plain girl, and on ze day of ’er child’s birz, ze doctor ’oo delivered ze baby announced ’is retirement from ze medical field. ’Ee said ’ee would never be satisfied delivering anozer baby, for none could be as beautiful as zis one ’ad been. Indeed, ’ee began writing poetry in all ’is waking hours, trying to successfully capture ze essence of what ’ee ’ad seen. ’Ee was eventually driven into madness by ’is pursuit, but zat’s really of no importance. Ze rest of ze town was in an uproar. Some claimed witchcraft was to blame for zis baby’s unearzly beauty, ozers claimed it was God. ‘Immaculate conception’ was used in reference to it more zan once, but never too seriously; zey all knew zis baby was better looking zan Jesus, and Gwyneth’s ’usband took credit for getting ’er pregnant every chance ’ee could get.
“Son of God, or no Son of God, eizer way Cormac knew ’ee was going to be able to cash in on zis. ’Ee sent word to ’is wife and kids to come down to Texas because ’ee ’ad finally found a job and ’ad given up on dying for ze time being. From zat point on, Cormac kept a close watch on ze bloodline of Baron until ze day ’ee died—which was only zree years later from a gruesome horse-drawn carriage traffic accident. Cormac’s son discovered ze records and took ze task upon ’imself. It was passed down from generation to generation until today, where I now ’ave it.”
“Then how come you’re French and not Irish?” Captain Alex asked, viciously trying to poke holes in the story.
“Cormac’s wife was French. Zeir son, ’aving been raised mostly by ’is mozer while ’is fazer was down in Texas trying to die, ’ad acquired ’er accent while learning ze French language perfectly. Ze son married a French woman and ze rest is ’istory.”
“You’re an excellent story-teller,” said Notmie honestly yet cautiously. He’d decided he would risk the compliment, even though there was still the lingering threat of being severely fruited, if not gunned.
Sinclair instinctively reached for a mango upon hearing Notmie speak, but slowly lowered it back to the bowl once Notmie delivered the compliment.
“Thanks,” said Notmie, staring at Sinclair’s hand as it released its grip on the mango.
“But of course,” Sinclair replied meekly.
“Can I say something else without being injured?” asked Notmie.
Sinclair gave Notmie permission to speak with a flourish of his hand. “Go a’ead, Monsieur Job.”
“Well, I have a confession. While Melono was talking to Nathan in the limo, Captain Alex and I sort of… kind of…”—pausing, he looked toward The Captai
n for confirmation that this was the time to fess up. There was no confirmation. Captain Alex’s eyes were wide with forbiddance. But Notmie knew that this was the time to say it, so he tried to make it less painful by finishing the sentence quickly. “We-looked-through-Melono’s-journal.”
“See, Alex? I told you!” Melono erupted.
“ Shut up! I never gave you permission to speak!” Sinclair barked at her. Letting Notmie talk seemed benign enough, but Melono, she was smart. “What journal do you speak of?” inquired Sinclair, changing quickly into menace mode.
“The one Larry wrote for her,” Notmie answered. “The one where he wrote a bunch of stuff that was going to happen.”
“Ah! What a clever idea of Larry’s. I would like to take credit for such an idea, but I cannot. I ’ave much respect for Larry, and wouldn’t dream of taking credit which is owed to ’im.” Sinclair instantly turned a suspicious eye to Notmie. “Why do you mention zis now? What is it you read?”
A thought struck Notmie; a sort of thought that had never once in his life struck him, but which made total sense: Get the upper hand.
He had to play his cards right. He realized now that he was the only one who could save them from what Sinclair had in store. Why? Because he was the one Sinclair had underestimated. Well, perhaps Sinclair hadn’t underestimated him, but he certainly hadn’t overestimated him either. He’s just estimated him, and since the bar for that estimation had been set so low, there was more room for Notmie to improve and therefore pin Sinclair into an underestimation. Notmie knew he was capable of doing smart things every so often, even if it did include collapsing or feeling like he was in the midst of a brain hemorrhage.
That’s it! That’s my upper hand! I know I can be smart when I try to be and Sinclair just thinks it’s luck! Now all I have to do is be smart and the upper hand is mine!
“Wait,” Notmie spoke, “what do you know about the notebook?”
Sinclair shrugged, “Nozing more zan what you ’ave told me mixed wiz speculation based on my knowledge of ze way Larry operates.”
“And that means…”
“The journal was obviously intended to ’elp guide you ’ere. And it worked; yes, no? ’Ere you are. Larry is a brilliant man. Now tell me about what it is you read, Monsieur Job.”
Notmie took a deep breath and gave himself time to think before replying. “It was an introduction letter to Melono. I didn’t get to finish it all, but he was apologizing for his part in all this.” An idea drifted into the forefront of Notmie’s mind. “It also told us how to break the curse without killing The Cap’n.”
Captain Alex’s jaw dropped upon hearing this lie. He couldn’t figure out why Notmie would tell it. Then suddenly, he realized, and his realization shocked him even more than the lie had.
Sinclair’s jaw dropped as well. His tongue even lolled out a bit, but he quickly regained control of his facial muscles and pointed a gangly finger accusingly at Notmie.
“You’re—you’re bluffing.”
“Oh, please, Sinclair,” Captain Alex interjected. “Why would Notmie make up something like that? You think this is part of some plan of his? You’d be doing your reputable intelligence a great disservice to overestimate Notmie in that way.”
Sinclair conceded with a nod. The Bald One was right. “Well, if you’re not bluffing, zat means you’re telling ze truz. If you’re telling ze truz why ’aven’t you broken ze curse yet, and if you’ve broken zis curse, why are you still unearzly beautiful, and if you’re still unearzly beautiful zen why are you ’ere and not wherever you need to be to break ze curse?”
Notmie looked Sinclair dead in the eye. “Because this is where we need to be to break the curse.”
Sinclair tried not to look horrified. “What? ’Ow?”
Aha! Notmie thought. I can smell his fear. Man, that’s some stinky fear.
But it was all he needed to take the upper hand that was his and run with it. “Enough of your questions. I know they’re leading nowhere. We’re already about to break the curse and you can’t do a thing about it. But I have a few questions I want answered before we do.”
Sinclair seemed too dumbfounded to respond.
“Where does Larry play into all of this for you? What did you have to do to end up with us here, about to break the curse?”
Sinclair nodded simply. “I suppose I should start at ze beginning, zen; yes, no?”
“Yes,” Notmie said. “Wait. What beginning? I thought we’d already started at the beginning, or even at a couple beginnings. How many beginnings are there? I’m starting to think you don’t know what the word ‘beginning’ means in English. Do you mean…?”
Sinclair let Notmie ramble on about beginnings for a while before ignoring the snowballing rant and embarking on the story of his and Larry’s relationship.
“While you were in the Counter-Curse Shop, zose family trees of which I’ve already spoken were planted in ze back of Nazan’s limo, ’oping zat you would eventually stumble onto zem.”
Notmie cut in. “But how did you know that? There’s no way you could have known we would go back there to look for a dress!”
Sinclair opened his mouth to continue, but paused. “A dress? Why were you looking for a dress?”
“We needed a disguise… but who cares! How did you know we would find the family trees while we looked for a dress?”
“My dear Monsieur Job, we didn’t know you would go back zere looking for a dress. We did, ’owever know you would be going back zere for somezing.”
“Psh, how could you have possibly known that?”
“I zought even you would ’ave been able to figure zat out. After all, I’ve already established zat I’d met Larry and ’is fortune-telling mozer.”
“So, he told you all that was going to happen?”
“Yes. And, at ze time I zought ’ee ’ad told me everyzing of real importance, but now I’m beginning to wonder if ’ee didn’t omit a few crucial details…”
“When did you talk with Larry?” Notmie asked, beginning to feel like quite the gumshoe.
“Oh, I’d say it was about a year ago, leaving my friends and me plenty of time to plan. Obviously we ’ad to ’ire Nazan right away to establish a favorable report wiz Mademoiselle Finkle. Zen all we ’ad to do was simply break into ’er ’ouse while she was on one of ’er exciting capers and install security cameras all zroughout it. After zat, we ’ad plenty of time to come up wiz our plan, zough it wasn’t so ’ard since we knew most of what would ’appen. I say most, because Larry wasn’t keen on divulging all of ze future events to us. ’Ee said it would take all ze fun out of it for me and ’ee wouldn’t dream of robbing me of zat pleasure. ’Ee was right, of course, so I agreed to be left in ze dark about a few, more trivial, aspects. ’Owever, one zing ’ee did tell me was ze outcome, and I’ll do you ze service of going a’ead and mentioning zat it is ’eavily in my favor. But don’t let zat discourage you, I zink it’s uncommonly—what is ze word?— cute when people fight against somezing zey cannot possibly beat.”
“Now, I might not be the smartest person in this room,” Notmie began, to which everyone else nodded, “so forgive me if I’m asking something that everyone else already knows the answer to, but why didn’t you just capture us if you wanted to get to us? You could have easily done that when you met us in the French café. Why didn’t you just save us the trouble?”
Sinclair didn’t seem to think this was too silly of a question. Nothing seemed too silly of a question for him if it gave him another opportunity to brag. “Yes, yes, a very good question, Monsieur Job. We zought about doing zat, but it would ’ave been so boring and cliché. Besides, Larry ’ad already told us what would ’appen, and us kidnapping you wasn’t part of it.”
“You sure do put a lot of weight on what Larry says,” Notmie commented.
“Well, of course!” Sinclair said. “’Oo am I to tinker with ze fine fabrics of ze cosmos? I decided to let zings run zeir course, knowing full well we would meet
’ere eventually. Plus, we were ’aving so much fun betting on what would ’appen next. Of course, I kept winning since I was ze only one to ’oom Larry ’ad confided ze entire story.”
Francis let out an audible grunt of displeasure at the mention of Sinclair’s winnings.
Sinclair smirked back gloatingly, then turned face Notmie. “We knew zat you would immediately make the connection between ze family trees and French, seeing as ’ow they are so often associated wiz one anozer—”
“Wait, what?” asked Melono. “How can you just assume that connection will be made? It’s not, like, a well-known thing. Maybe if it was cheese I might think of the French, but I’ve certainly never heard of a French connection to family trees. Am I the only one here who’s never heard that?”
Everyone in the room nodded.
“Looks like it,” Captain Alex said, somewhat apologetically.
“As I was saying,” Sinclair continued, speaking to Notmie, “we realized zat once Captain Alex made ze connection, ze first place you would go would be ze one ’ee ’ad been raised to associate wiz France.”
“Franch,” Captain Alex corrected.
“No, Monsieur Jones. You’ve been pronouncing it wrong for years. It’s ‘France’ not ‘Franch.’”
Captain Alex felt like his world had been shattered. If anyone were an expert on this France/Franch business, a Frenchman would be the one. The Captain stared at the ground, barely aware of what Sinclair said next.
“Zat place was where we first met you two. Of course, we already knew you all quite well from ze years of tracking you, but you ’adn’t ever met us. Let me make zis connection for you, Monsieur Job. You used to go to zis same café every time you visited your grandfazer, yes? Do not believe it was an accident your grandfazer visited ze café every Saturday. ’Ee was not unearzly beautiful like you, so ’ee wasn’t immune to free food.”
“You mean you bribed him with free food to take me to that café every Saturday to keep tabs on me?”
“Very good. And if I’m not mistaken, Monsieur Jones’ parents weren’t immune to ze ‘spectacular free buffet’ every Zursday night eizer. Zey didn’t happen to notice zat zey were ze only ones to ’oom it applied.”
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