Bender at the Bon Parisien (A Novel) Page 7

  “It is a book of poetry. I found it at a book fair recently.”

  “Very cool,” Janie commented. Both men ignored her.

  “Oh yes? Who wrote it?” Pistache asked.

  “It’s a compilation. Various authors,” the stranger said with a shrug.

  “I’ve never heard of him,” Pistache said with a laugh, looking to the rest of us for a response.

  “I liked the picture on the cover. Poems are short. They are easy to read,” the man went on without acknowledging the joke.

  “I have actually always thought the opposite,” Pistache said. “They are kind of cryptic.”

  “That’s the beauty of them,” the stranger answered. “I like to search for the subtle hints at meaning.”

  “That always just frustrated me,” Pistache said.

  “Not me. It’s what I do. It’s like a code to decipher or a treasure to uncover. I like the hunt almost as much as I like the eventual feeling of discovery and release.”

  “Aren’t you a deep one?!” Pistache roared with amusement. “Have you read one yet that you don’t understand?”

  “No. Eventually, I always figure them out.”

  The stranger only smiled and nodded as I passed him the drink. There was a quick moment of silence as Pistache looked at the man.

  “Well, this exchange has gone on long enough without us knowing each other! Jacques Pistache!” Pistache exclaimed as he thrust his hand into the stranger’s grasp. “It’s a treat to meet you, finally!”

  “Julian Renard, and it certainly is.”

  “With you watching from the corner, it felt as though you were our audience, and we the players. I’m glad you are a part of the show now, Monsieur Renard!”

  “I have been waiting for the right time, to be truthful.”

  “Oh, I figured you were content to watch.”

  The two shook hands for a few moments in silence. I almost had to smile at how awkward the exchange had become so quickly. Now that they had introduced themselves, there didn’t seem to be anything more for either to say.

  Finally, Julian continued. “So, Monsieur Pistache …”

  “Yes?” the street performer answered slowly.

  “How long do you think it will be before Madame von Hugelstein realizes that her ring is missing?”

  Trudel immediately shot a look toward her hand. “My ring!” She gasped.

  Pistache frowned at Renard.

  “Jacques, mon ami. Don’t you think this charade has run its course?” the stranger said softly.

  Chapter VII.

  The golden ballroom at Peukington Manor glowed with grandeur. Spinning couples turned to the soaring strings of a small orchestra, and many more guests stood among a sea of round dinner tables, laughing and conversing. The air was full of floral breezes and champagne fizzes.

  Jacques Pistache swam slowly between tables, waiting to strike. Dressed in his black-tie best, no one could have suspected that the man didn’t know a soul at the fête. He sipped from his drink as he walked and smiled pleasantly at anyone who caught his eye.

  The street performer had already been at the party for about an hour. He’d spoken with several other guests. Everyone seemed gracious, but he was slightly disappointed. He had yet to see the man he’d come to meet. Surely, Lavaar Peukington should have arrived by then. Why would he be late to his own daughter’s engagement party?

  Peukington was one of the richest residents of Paris. A successful businessman, he’d gained fame through large real estate dealings. His company financed scientific research grants, owned thousands of patents on products in all industries, and published a fashion magazine. Still, Lavaar Peukington was almost never seen in public.

  Pistache was different. He attended gatherings of all kinds. He often met many people, without conversing for more than a few minutes with anyone in particular. All of this superficial glad-handing was part of his trained behavior. His livelihood depended upon every handshake and people’s willingness to be physically moved. With every pat on the back or brush of the arm, Pistache steered the momentum of his subject. He lived in the personal space of others.

  Jacques Pistache was a pickpocket.

  Considering himself to be part magician and part dancer, Pistache mastered the fundamentals of his craft. However, other challenges often kept him from succeeding. Self-awareness was not one of his strong suits, nor was staying sober enough to properly perform.

  Still, history proved that he was good at it. The pickpocket imagined the expression of the mayor’s wife when she realized her diamond earring was gone—a crowning moment in his career. He loved the deception almost as much as the money.

  His sense of humor was evident in his work. He could steal belts or shirt buttons. Pennies tucked in loafers were often targets. The pickpocket enjoyed giving the coins back to their original owners for luck. Victims rarely realized that the pennies were actually theirs.

  Pistache had been anticipating the party at Peukington Manor for weeks. He traveled to this posh neighborhood in Paris for one simple reason: to take something from Lavaar Peukington himself. Given the man’s fortune, surely he must be a walking goldmine.

  The pickpocket had received a fresh martini when another partygoer sauntered up to the bar.

  “Evening,” the stranger said.

  “Good evening,” Pistache replied.

  “What a night, no?”

  “That’s right,” the pickpocket smiled. “A fantastic party.”

  “Yes,” the man replied as he stuffed a euro into the tip jar. “He sure knows how to be a host!”

  “He does,” Pistache agreed, casually brushing the man’s tuxedo pocket with the back of his hand. Nothing.

  “Did you have trouble with the valet?” the man said. “I thought the young man was difficult.”

  “Well, I didn’t think he was bad,” Pistache lied. The pickpocket had hired a taxi to make the drive. Few people arrived at this party so unceremoniously.

  “Just think twice before you tip him,” the man said as he lifted his two drinks from the bar.

  “Oh, I will.”

  “You just never know if those guys are working for you, or against you.”

  Pistache nodded as he sipped his drink. “Have you been to one of Monsieur Peukington’s parties before?”

  The stranger nodded as he took the first sips of his drink.

  “When can we expect the host?” Pistache asked, lightly touching the edges of woman’s dress behind him.

  “He’ll be down any minute. Did you see the seafood spread?”

  “I did.”

  “Well enjoy yourself. The dance floor calls,” the man said, raising his drink as he left.

  “Nice meeting you,” Pistache answered.

  “Nice meeting you,” the man said, slipping away into the crowd.

  In that exact moment, Lavaar Peukington entered with much pomp. From where he stood at the bar, Pistache did not have a direct line of sight. In fact, his back was turned to the scene. Still, the pickpocket could see everything happening through the large mirror behind the rows of bottles of booze.

  Peukington walked like a wealthy man, hard jawline lifted and shoulders relaxed. Jacques could see the perfectly pressed breast of his tuxedo, the flash of a bright white scarf, and the glint of gold cufflinks. The pickpocket would love to have a closer look at those.

  As one entire section of the room seemed to gravitate toward the gentleman, Pistache remained stoic with his back to the action. His instincts yearned to go straight to Peukington, but he knew better. He waited at the bar to watch the man move, casually exchanging a few words with the bartenders.

  Finally seeing his moment of opportunity, the pickpocket entered the crowd, leaving his drink behind. He slipped between shoulders, involuntarily noticing prizes buried under thin fabrics on either side. A watch passed on his right, a wallet on his left. The pickpocket resisted the urge, hoping for a larger payout.

  Did Peukington’s cufflinks have d
iamonds? Would there be a key to a safe in his pocket? Did he wear an heirloom watch? As questions swirled in his head, he saw the host truly for the first time as the crowd briefly parted.

  Tall and slender, Lavaar Peukington was in top shape. He sported a neatly trimmed mustache and a full head of hair. Bright eyes were framed by crow’s feet, surely earned on the beaches of southern France. The man was charmingly happy and greeting people as if he were running for public office.

  “What a rich asshole,” Jacques muttered to himself.

  The crowds thickened as Jacques approached Peukington. Everyone surrounding the man was waiting to speak with him. Pistache even noticed the stranger from the bar hovering close by, eyeing the crowd, looking for his own opportunity.

  The pickpocket watched Peukington closely. The wealthy host was deliberate, confident, and slightly protective. A waiter passed, and Jacques accepted a glass of wine.

  Close enough to hear the rich man’s voice over the roar of the room, Peukington pronounced every letter in every word. Jacques was rarely intimidated, but his target appeared formidable. The pickpocket felt already out matched, patiently worming close enough to offer a handshake.

  “Monsieur Peukington!” He thrust his hand forward and smiled brightly. “I am Claude Pennington. We met a few years back at the Parisian Society benefit,” he lied.

  “I remember the event, but I must apologize. I meet so many good people.” Peukington replied, without reintroducing himself.

  Pistache had hoped to sense some weakness in the man’s handshake. He didn’t.

  “I wouldn’t expect you to remember. My company catered the event,” Pistache continued.

  “I had a nice time that night, and I’m glad that you could join us this evening,” Peukington said, eager to greet the next guest. “Please enjoy the wine. Tonight’s a good one for celebrating.”

  And with that, he moved on.

  Pistache barely had enough time to introduce himself, let alone properly assess the man. Additionally, Peukington’s lack of sincerity bothered the pickpocket. He detested the man’s air.

  Plus, there was that iron handshake. Usually a test of his prey’s willingness to be controlled, this greeting was statuesque and uncompromising. Lavaar Peukington moved for no one. Jacques would not be able to operate the man easily.

  To get anything off of him, the pickpocket would have to be extra careful. Pistache welcomed the challenge, but he needed time to reevaluate. He retreated, gulping the wine and rethought his plan at a table.

  * * *

  An hour passed, and Pistache didn’t feel any better about his chances with the host. He began distracting himself by recounting items he’d already nabbed: a lapel pin, a gold band, and a tie clip. Jacques had only targeted things easily lost by their owners and unlikely to arouse suspicion. After lifting a diamond-encrusted pocket watch or necklace, he would have to disappear quickly before anyone noticed it was missing.

  Peukington had gotten a good look at the pickpocket’s face. Pistache assumed that his target was not the kind of man to forget many people. This may have already raised Peukington’s suspicions, since they had presumably met once before. Jacques wondered if he understood the man enough to proceed. On the other hand, was he reading too much into his prey?

  Always maintaining a general awareness of Peukington’s whereabouts in the room, these thoughts kept Pistache busy. He knew his actions would need to be well timed and the moment chosen carefully. But to his surprise, it wouldn’t be up to him.

  Suddenly, Jacques heard Peukington’s voice speaking directly behind him. His ears twitched as the host greeted guests, and he wondered how Peukington had gotten so close to him. Was the wealthy man in the pickpocket’s trap, or was it the other way around?

  Jacques stood immediately. He decided that it was time to make his move, whether or not he felt ready. There wasn’t a second left to think any further.

  He had act quickly, so Pistache purposefully tripped a random partygoer near Peukington. Falling over himself, the unsuspecting man fell directly into the host. Pistache lunged for Peukington’s wrist.

  In a moment just long enough to blink, Pistache flicked his fingers and unclasped Peukington’s left cufflink.

  “Oops,” the pickpocket muttered, as if genuinely surprised by the falling man. “Excuse me, monsieur!”

  Pistache felt the cufflink slip from his grasp. It hadn’t even hit the ground yet, but Jacques knew he had dropped it just as he removed it from the shirt. It would be too obvious to grab it from the floor or even acknowledge it.

  Slightly panicked, Pistache launched into an effort to save the moment. Thrusting himself into Peukington, Jacques reached for the host’s breast coat pocket. He hoped for anything and blindly pinched an object inside.

  “Yes, excuse me!” Peukington blurted, pushing Pistache away. Turning his attention to the fallen man, he said, “Are you okay?”

  “I think so,” the partygoer stammered.

  Pistache noticed the stranger from the bar dart from the crowd to help the fallen man get up. Peukington adjusted his tux coat.

  “He had better not have another drink, wouldn’t you say?” Pistache said to Peukington, nervously laughing.

  “I’d say so,” he answered, annoyed.

  It was a clean lift.

  “Is this your cufflink, Monsieur Peukington?” the partygoer asked as he stood. He’d picked up the item.

  “It is. Thank you,” the host said, eyeing the piece.

  Pistache was already halfway to the exit.

  * * *

  As he hurried down the sidewalk, the warm evening air brought a welcome sense of space back to Pistache. He couldn’t help but sneak a smile as he felt the object in his pocket. He was able to shoot a quick glance behind him. No one followed him.

  After walking carefully in shadow, he reached a cab in front of a modestly lit café. After exchanging a few pleasantries with the driver, they were off for the heart of Paris, and Pistache turned his attention to his loot in the dark backseat of the car. He removed the small metal object from his jacket pocket and stared at it for a moment.

  “Just a coin?” he muttered to himself.

  “I’m sorry?” the driver asked from the front seat.

  “Nothing, sorry,” Pistache clarified, waving him off. Soft flashes of light moved over it as the taxi passed streetlamp after streetlamp. The soft yellow strobe only made it harder for the inebriated pickpocket to examine the object.

  It carried considerable weight for a coin its size. It was larger than most coins he’d seen. A man’s face adorned one scarred side, defiant yet calm. Pistache guessed he wouldn’t recognize him, even without the abrasion.

  Without a substantial lift, the pickpocket was disappointed with the night. He’d spend the rest of the evening hovering quietly over drinks in a café, the stolen currency resting on the table in front of him. Barmaids greeted him warmly, but he just nodded. He remained uncharacteristically silent, exchanging looks with the man on the coin.

  Chapter VIII.

  “A pickpocket?!” Trudel yelled.

  “Fill them in, Monsieur Pistache,” Renard said calmly.

  The two men remained locked in a stare. The tenor between all the players had shifted in the room. An atmosphere of distrust suddenly hung in the air.

  “I may not have been entirely honest with you all,” Pistache said, finally breaking eye contact with Renard.

  No one moved.

  “Let me guess,” Renard said to Janie and me. “He told you that he’s a street performer.”

  “I am a street performer!” Pistache protested.

  “Well, true. But, not because you are passionate about your craft as a singer or dancer or whatever.”

  “I knew it,” Trudel softly hummed.

  Renard continued, “Did he do some of his awful voices for you? Or maybe he tried to teach you his version of tap dancing?”

  Pistache remained silent.

  “Explain it for the
m, Jacques,” the stranger said.

  Pistache did not say anything.

  “Well, I’ll take it upon myself to introduce you properly to the room.” He turned to the rest of us and continued. “It’s all fake. It’s all meant to distract.”

  Fleuse blinked. “Do you two know each other?”

  “In fact, we do,” Renard answered, turning. “We’ve known each other for some time, actually. Well, maybe that’s going a little too far. We have met, and I definitely feel as though I know him. I can’t say how he feels about me, though.” He turned again toward Pistache. “Actually, I don’t think he remembers our first meeting.”

  “Of course I do,” Pistache finally broke his silence. Despite lifting his glass to swig for some apparent courage, he was sounding remarkably more sober than he had been even moments earlier. “Peukington’s party.”

  “Oh! Very good, Jacques,” Renard said. “I wasn’t sure that you recognized me.”

  “How could I miss you, the unassuming partygoer who had an issue with the valet? Was that some kind of act?”

  Renard smiled and shook his head. “No. That guy was really terrible. When I got back into my car, the seat was all …” He struggled for the correct word. “… adjusted.”

  “I figured it was your way of disarming strangers at your boss’s party.”

  “You were over-analyzing me. I was actually off duty when we spoke.”

  “Well, don’t think that I didn’t notice the way you rushed to Peukington’s side the moment he entered,” Pistache said. “Or, how you happened to be right there to help that guy off the floor. I don’t think you took your eyes off Peukington from the moment he entered the room. In the moment, I thought you might have been his lover!”

  Renard laughed heartily. “I see. Well, that’s fine.”

  “Are you his bodyguard?” Fleuse interjected, shyly.

  “You don’t see me guarding him right now, do you?” Renard answered without looking in his direction.

  Pistache took a beat. I could see him choosing his words carefully, as if deciding upon a move in a chess match. “When you came in here tonight, it took me a few minutes to place you. But, the way you kept your eyes on us, I began to feel your arrival was not an accident.”