Bender at the Bon Parisien (A Novel) Page 8

  “You’re a perceptive person, Jacques,” Renard continued. “I’ll at least give you that. But your drunken act only masks the real facts. First off, you really do drink too much for someone who needs to rely so heavily on motor skills.”

  Pistache took a drink as if he were challenging Renard’s claims.

  Renard continued. “Let me guess. A decade ago, you could rattle off everything in each of your pockets at any moment?”

  Pistache swallowed hard and didn’t acknowledge the challenge.

  “But nowadays,” Renard continued, “I’m guessing you have to pat yourself down as a reminder of where you put everything.

  Pistache began to grit his teeth. Janie shot me another glance. She had been right. This was better drama than anything we could have seen in a theater.

  “Go on,” Renard persisted. “Let’s see it. No one is going to do anything about it. You’re not in trouble here. You are among friends. Plus, you like games, so this will be fun.”

  Pistache stood motionless.

  “C’mon, Jacques. Play along. So, let’s hear it. What’s in your pockets?” Renard repeated.

  “Start by giving my ring back,” Trudel snapped.

  Pistache began to reach for a pocket.

  “Remember, Jacques,” Renard said with a cautionary yet playful tone. “Announce everything that you are going to present before you present it. That’s the game. Can you really remember where you’ve put everything, or have you gotten too sloppy?”

  For a moment, I thought Pistache would storm out. I then realized that Renard had cleverly, albeit casually, positioned himself between the curtain and Pistache. Given the pickpocket’s skeletal physique, it would have been foolish of him to challenge the more substantive Renard.

  Fleuse and Trudel watched, seemingly holding their breath. I noticed each of them finally sneak a drink of their cocktails.

  “Since we are just playing games here and having a little fun,” Pistache began slowly without unlocking his stare from Renard. “We’ll start with my front jacket pocket and Trudel’s ring.”

  Trudel leaned forward in time to see Pistache produce her ring from his jacket and place it on the bar. She leapt up and seized it. As she repositioned it on her finger, she glared at Pistache and retreated to her table.

  “One for one,” Renard smiled.

  “In my left hip pocket, you will all find an ace.” He pulled out the ace of spades. Hoping for humor, he softly exclaimed “Pistache!” as he threw it down on the bar. No one laughed.

  “Well done,” Renard said.

  “I didn’t take much from all of you tonight,” Pistache went on. “Truly, I was going to probably give it all back,” he said as he reached in his pocket and dropped Janie’s necklace and my watch on to the table.

  “How did you do that?” I asked. I hadn’t even noticed that my watch had walked off. I immediately took inventory and realized that something else was also missing. “And my wallet!”

  “Take it easy. Here,” Pistache said casually as he laid it on the bar for me.

  “But, how did you …?“

  “A magician never shares his secrets.”

  “You’re not a magician,” Renard snapped. “It’s all his distraction act. While he does terrible impersonations …”

  “Impressions,” Pistache corrected.

  “Whatever. While he does terrible impressions, he wraps his arm around you, or makes up stupid games to engage you, then robs you.”

  Janie was busy fastening her necklace. She gave me a look. For the first time this evening, she was obviously not having fun. I considered grabbing her and running for the door.

  “Notice that he’s also left the game,” Renard continued, breaking Janie’s and my silent sidebar.

  “I’ve been right about everything so far!” Pistache protested.

  “Not exactly,” Renard answered. “You did not identify the last three items. It’s a trick that you masked with conversation just now.”

  “I knew they were there.”

  “Sure you did. Anything else?”

  “I have Fleuse’s watch too.”

  Surprised at hearing his name, Fleuse checked his wrist and immediately raised his head. He didn’t say anything, but the look of betrayal was boundless. He rose and approached Pistache.

  “Here you go, my friend,” Pistache said. “I was going to give it all back tonight. I was just playing around.”

  “Okay,” Fleuse mustered, examining his watch.

  “There should be more,” Renard urged.

  “I do have another ace.” He reached into the inside of his coat pocket. He pulled out not one but two cards from our game of Pistache. Only this time, neither were aces. He threw them onto the bar.

  “See what I’m talking about?” Renard asked the room.

  Pistache looked confused. He seemed to be silently retracing his steps.

  “After a certain point, you can’t keep track of what you take,” Renard said with a smile. “I bet you didn’t even know that you accidentally nabbed two cards.”

  “A simple mistake,” Pistache said. “If that is the only one I made, then I’d say I’m still doing alright.”

  “If that’s what you think,” Renard answered.

  “Did you see me do any of it?” Pistache asked him.

  “No, you still move pretty quickly for a drunk guy. But, I could see the opportunities. I knew when most of them happened. I just couldn’t catch all the details. I’ve been observing you for a few weeks. At first I could barely keep up, but I’m familiar with your methods by now.”

  “Who are you again?” Fleuse finally spoke up.

  “As I said, Julian Renard,” he said as he made his way to Fleuse. “And you are Fleuse Newman, the excellent clockmaker. It is nice to finally meet you face-to-face.”

  “You are familiar with my work?” Fleuse skeptically answered as they shook hands. “Do you know one of my customers?”

  “Fleuse,” Pistache interrupted. “Are you missing this? He has been following us. Watching us. You as well.”

  Fleuse looked horrified.

  “I’m afraid he’s right, Monsieur Newman,” Renard confirmed. “I work for a very wealthy businessman. His name is Lavaar Peukington. Do you know him?”

  “Obviously,” Pistache muttered under his breath.

  “Well, maybe not so obvious,” Renard said. “I don’t know how close the two of you are. I can’t be sure what you’ve told Fleuse here about your profession. After all, you did just take his watch.”

  “I know who Monsieur Peukington is,” Fleuse answered softly with a nod.

  Janie and I watched in silence, frozen by the drama unfolding in the room.

  “You know that he knows who Monsieur Peukington is,” Pistache said to Renard. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t have been following him.”

  “Good point,” Renard said.

  “So you’re … what?” Pistache asked. “His right-hand man?”

  “Well, I’ve worked for him for some time now,” Renard went on. “I’d say that I’m best described as his renaissance man. I do many different tasks.”

  “Why have you been following Fleuse and Jacques?” Trudel finally spoke.

  “Well, I wouldn’t say that I’ve been following them exclusively.”

  “You follow other people, too?” she asked, suddenly suspicious.

  “Well not many, but some. I have been keeping an eye on you as well,” Renard said to her.

  “That’s outrageous!” she sung. “Why?!”

  “It’s not that outrageous,” Pistache added with an eye roll. “Can’t you see what he’s getting at?”

  “My particular assignment is to locate something very valuable for Monsieur Peukington,” Renard went on.

  “The coin!” I heard Fleuse whisper in defeat.

  Again Pistache rolled his eyes. “Of course the coin, Fleuse.”

  “What coin?” Janie blurted out. I was curious as well.

  “Well, I belie
ve Monsieur Pistache here took a coin from Monsieur Peukington a few weeks ago.”

  Pistache finally slumped into a chair. He already knew the story.

  “It is a valuable coin,” Renard continued, “very old. You see, it has been in Monsieur Peukington’s family for many generations. It began as a souvenir of an important era in French history. It dates back to the reign of kings. It’s seen revolution and violence, tyranny, the rise and fall of an empire, and so on. It has been in the possession of Monsieur Peukington’s ancestors the entire time. Therefore, it’s an heirloom, and he believes that it brings him bon chance.”

  “It’s his lucky penny,” I muttered.

  “Honey, let’s go,” Janie said as she broke my gaze.

  She was right. I wasn’t feeling great about being involved with this. Our fun night in the bar had taken a very bizarre turn. I knew that it would be the stuff of a great story later, but in the moment I was becoming increasingly nervous.

  “Well, thank you all for an incredibly entertaining evening. We’ll leave you to it,” I said, reaching for Janie as we stepped out from behind the bar.

  “Well, hold on for one moment please, my American friend,” Renard said. His tone was unthreatening, but he slowly stepped closer to the curtain, blocking our exit. “The thing is, you can’t leave just yet.”

  “Why not?” I asked, fearing something terrible was about to happen.

  “Well, I just need the coin before anyone goes anywhere.”

  “Well, I don’t have it!” I said.

  “I know,” Renard calmly answered. “But then again, I don’t know.”

  “What?” I asked. “How could I have it? I don’t even know what it looks like!”

  “We’re on vacation!” Janie added. “We just got here two days ago!”

  “Calm down, please. See, I have kept my eyes on everyone for the last few weeks, and I am sure that none of them have the coin. This bar has remained dark and under lock and key for that entire time.”

  Then it hit me. “Oh my God.”

  “What, honey?” Janie asked.

  “I saw you,” I said to Renard. “This morning.”

  Renard looked doubtful.

  “I know I did,” I continued. “You were in different clothes, but I saw you on the street, outside the hotel.”

  Finally understanding, he nodded. “You may have.”

  “No, you looked right at me from the archway on the sidewalk.”

  “Like I said, I’ve been watching the hotel and the Bon Parisien.”

  “And then I saw you again,” I continued. “You ran in here a little while later. I barely saw you, but I know I did.”

  “I’ve been able to sneak in here once or twice,” he confirmed. “I haven’t found the coin, though. But, when I saw the lights come on tonight and attract all these parasites,” he said motioning at the others, “I realized they believe the same thing I do.”

  Everyone exchanged looks with one another. No one moved.

  “And what’s that?” I asked.

  Renard stated simply, “the coin is somewhere in this bar.”

  Chapter IX.

  Afternoon sun brightened the Bon Parisien, erasing shadows. A scratchy record played, gently popping away over twenties-era band music. Victor Laquer wiped down the bar in large slow circles, breathing to the rhythm of each pass.

  He had been the bartender at the Hôtel des Bretons all summer, often alone on his shifts. The place wasn’t exactly buzzing with activity, and he was worried. His bills were piling up, and Victor was starting to sweat. He didn’t think he could keep his apartment beyond the next month or two. Being an accountant had been more lucrative.

  The bartender tried to forget about his troubles for the moment. He focused on the dark wood as he held his rag. At one time, perhaps he could have seen his reflection growing more and more visible in the varnish as he cleaned. But now, enough guests had come and gone to take the shine with them.

  He looked up when the doors suddenly opened. For a brief moment, the sounds of traffic and the buzz of Paris drowned out the soft music. The neighborhood was generally low-key, but it was still the city. Two men entered, immediately shifting the tone of the room.

  “Fleuse Newman,” Victor said as he identified a familiar face.

  “Bonjour, Victor,” Fleuse answered kindly.

  Victor noticed the short, thin man accompanying Fleuse. The man’s brown sport coat looked almost too small. It didn’t match his pants. His dark brown hair clung to his forehead. He seemed exhausted, and Victor thought the man might have actually been in a brawl earlier that day. There weren’t any bruises or signs of a fight, but his walk was weary.

  “This is a friend of mine,” Fleuse continued. “Victor Laquer, Jacques Pistache.”

  “Bonjour,” Pistache said.

  “Bonjour, Monsieur Pistache,” Victor answered pleasantly, followed by a close-lipped smile. “What may I get you, gentlemen?”

  “Jacques?” Fleuse deferred.

  “A whiskey please,” Pistache answered.

  “Excellent,” Victor said with a smile. “Fleuse?”

  “A beer, please.”

  “Very good.”

  Pistache looked around the room. Despite the cordial greeting, something about the new man made Victor feel a little uneasy. Fleuse and Jacques were an unlikely pair. Victor would not have predicted their friendship. Pistache had the look of someone casing the room. The bartender had trained himself to notice behavior like that.

  “I like this place,” Pistache observed. “Very comfortable.”

  “It is,” Victor said, eyeing the man.

  “Fleuse tells me you’re an accountant?” Pistache asked, returning his gaze to the bartender.

  “Well, not any more, actually,” Victor answered.

  “Retired to be become a bartender? Excellent!” Pistache exclaimed.

  Victor frowned. “Not exactly.” He pushed the drinks toward the men.

  Pistache raised his glass to the bartender.

  “Are you expecting Trudel in today?” Fleuse asked.

  Victor noticed how quickly Fleuse mentioned her name every time he visited.

  “She should be,” Victor said without looking up. “I think she was planning on dropping in after a matinée.”

  “What show is she in now?” Fleuse asked.

  “I can’t remember,” Victor lied. He didn’t want to perpetuate a conversation about a relationship that made Fleuse jealous. He knew they had a history.

  “Is she a performer?” Pistache asked.

  “She is a singer,” Fleuse answered.

  “Oh, wonderful!” Pistache exclaimed. He looked toward Victor. “So am I!”

  “You’re terrible, though,” Fleuse said.

  “I am not!”

  “Cut it out,” Fleuse groaned, fully aware of Pistache’s act.

  “You are a performer as well?” Victor asked.

  “I mostly do impersonations,” Pistache said.

  “So do you have a closet full of Elvis Presley jumpsuits or something?” Victor grunted.

  “No, I mostly just do the voices.”

  “So you do impressions?” the bartender asked.

  “Yes! That’s right. Is that different than impersonations?” Pistache responded.

  “Impersonators dress the part,” Victor clarified. “Impressionists do voices.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind next time I tell someone what I do,” Pistache asked. “How do you know so much about all this?”

  “I can’t get Trudel to be quiet about how much she hates mimes, jugglers, and impersonators.”

  “Then it’s a good thing that I do impressions,” Pistache joked.

  “I’m sure she hates that, too,” Victor said.

  “Just don’t let him start dancing in here,” Fleuse said dryly.

  “How do you two know each other?” Victor asked.

  “We met years ago,” Fleuse explained. “We are mainly in touch now about business.”r />
  “The clocks?” The bartender asked.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “The best way to understand it is that I supply some of the raw materials,” Pistache added.

  “Oh I see,” Victor said. “A supplier. Well, I help Fleuse with his books. I am familiar with his business. Are you a mechanics guy? Woods? Hands and faces guy?”

  “I’ve always thought of myself as a legs guy,” Pistache said, laughing.

  The other two men snickered, and there was a brief pause in the conversation.

  “That’s funny,” Victor finally said. “But really, I love his clocks. What do you do?”

  Pistache took another drink, carefully considering an answer. “Actually,” he said, “I deal with mostly gems and some precious metals.”

  Victor took a quick look over to Fleuse. “I see,” he said pleasantly. “You are a jeweler?”

  “Yes, kind of,” Pistache explained with a sip.

  “Interesting,” Victor said softly.

  “That’s actually why we’re here today,” Fleuse began.

  “Oh?” Victor answered.

  “Go ahead, Pistache,” Fleuse urged.

  Pistache reached into his pocket, pulled out a coin, and placed it on the bar in front of Victor.

  “Do you know what this is?” the pickpocket asked genuinely.

  “It’s a coin,” Victor deadpanned.

  Fleuse snickered.

  Seeming annoyed, Pistache looked to the clockmaker before continuing. “Right. It’s a coin. I mean do you know how much it’s worth?”

  Victor reached for his reading glasses behind the bar. Still wary of Pistache, his curiosity about the coin overcame his skepticism of the man. Picking up the object, Victor moved toward a small lamp behind the bar.

  “Let me get a good look here,” the bartender muttered.

  The two men stood quietly drinking on the other side of the bar while Victor examined the coin. He noticed its weight. Time, touches, and the dark insides of pockets had worn down the once artfully distinct engravings on each side. It was barely readable.

  “I will have to look it up, but this is likely a mid-eighteenth century coin. I’ve seen others that have a similar look. Doesn’t seem to be the feel of pure gold. Not sure how much it’s worth.”