Bender at the Bon Parisien (A Novel) Page 9

  “But, it’s maybe worth something?” Fleuse asked.

  “Maybe,” the bartender answered.

  “Do you recognize the royal on it?” Fleuse asked.

  Victor scrutinized the piece. “Looks like Louis XVI. It’s hard to tell, though. There is an abrasion across his face.”

  “Will that affect the price of the coin in today’s terms?” Pistache asked.

  “Almost definitely, but it’s hard to tell,” Victor said as he held it toward the light. “If it were an error during minting, it may make it worth more. But, that scenario seems unlikely to me. It isn’t the mark of machinery. It still could be worth something, though.”

  “Has to be,” Pistache added.

  Victor looked up. “Why would it have to be?”

  “Well,” Pistache stammered a bit. “Something that old, wouldn’t it have to be worth something?”

  “I suppose. Where did you get it?” Victor asked. “Have you had it long?”

  Pistache and Fleuse exchanged quick looks. “I picked it up at a flea market. I thought it looked good,” Pistache lied.

  Victor looked to Fleuse, who diverted his gaze momentarily. Victor placed the coin back on the bar. “Then how much did you pay for it?”

  “Not too much,” Pistache managed. “I can’t really remember the exact price. I picked up a lot of little trinkets that day.”

  Victor’s eyes narrowed, and he took a beat.

  “Okay, gentlemen. I’m not an idiot,” the bartender said. “There are a few things wrong with your story. First, I have been Fleuse’s accountant for several years. Nowhere in his dealings is there mention of working alongside a proper jeweler.”

  Fleuse and Pistache looked uneasy.

  “But, I have seen his finished products and more than once noticed their quality,” Victor continued. “I saw things on some clocks that I know I didn’t see on the books, but I’ve always kept my mouth shut. I’ve stayed out of it on purpose, but this specific instance really doesn’t add up.”

  Fleuse and Pistache stared into their drinks.

  “Plus Jacques, you don’t look or dress like any jeweler that I’ve ever seen. At least look like you’re trying to play the part,” Victor said.

  “Well …” Pistache began.

  “Wait,” Victor interrupted. “Secondly, no one comes across this coin for flea market prices. I don’t know how much it’s worth, but I know how much it isn’t worth—and that’s less than say 100 euros at the most misguided estimation. Sometimes, something like this could sell for more than 3,000 euros. So based on what you’ve said, I think that this coin was acquired dishonestly.”

  “I can explain,” Fleuse began.

  “You don’t have to,” Victor cut him off. “I am a little surprised to find that you’ve resorted to dealing with a common thief.”

  “A common thief?!” Pistache took offense.

  Victor raised his eyebrows at the man, daring him to prove his innocence.

  “Okay,” Pistache continued. “Fine. All the cards are on the table. I take things off people. I don’t just rob them. I gently lift without anyone noticing.”

  “A street pickpocket,” Victor grunted disdainfully.

  “Well, I can do it on the street, yes. But, there isn’t any glory in that. I’m a party crasher. I can do it with class.”

  “A coyote in a tuxedo,” Victor muttered.

  “Well, I steal objects,” Pistache explained. “Usually, they’re worth a lot. I could try to sell them as is, but often their owners try to hunt them down. So, I go to Fleuse here. He shapes them, crafts them, or melts them down and puts them in a clock.”

  “You’re unexplained petty cash expenditures,” Victor said to Fleuse.

  “We’re just not sure what to do with this coin,” the clockmaker added.

  Pistache continued. “Something potentially this valuable might be worth much more if it were not melted down for the precious metal. Its current state might be the very source of its value.”

  Victor saw an opportunity. Without having earned much in the Bon Parisien and a few weeks away from bankruptcy, the bartender realized that the coin could be his ticket out of financial trouble.

  “So,” Pistache continued, “I figured that maybe we try to move the coin unaltered. That is, if it’s worth it.”

  “Has the owner come looking for it?” Victor asked, his mind racing.

  “Well, not yet.”

  “But,” Fleuse added. “We believe that he might.”

  “Why’s that?” Victor asked.

  “Well, it’s Lavaar Peukington,” Fleuse said.

  Victor was taken aback. “Wow. He’s famous.”

  “Yeah,” Pistache said, proudly.

  “I’ve heard he’s dangerous,” Victor said.

  “Yep,” Pistache answered again with pride.

  “How did you get it? I mean, how did you get close to him?” Victor was trying to think it through.

  “I attended one of his parties and took it right out of his coat pocket.”

  “Hmm,” Victor thought aloud. “Bold.”

  “So do you think there would be a way to move this?” Fleuse asked.

  “I do,” Victor said hesitantly. “Peukington probably doesn’t play around, though. He’s obviously noticed it’s gone by now.”

  “Definitely,” Pistache said, smirking.

  “The first step is going to be assessing this coin’s value,” Victor guessed.

  “That’s why we came to you,” Pistache said, irritated.

  “Well, I have collected, yes,” Victor said, “but I don’t know the details about every coin ever made. I’ve actually sold off most of my collection. Still, I have a contact who can pinpoint exactly when and where this one was minted. He’s helped me in the past. May I take it to him?”

  “We were hoping you’d know someone who might have an answer in case you didn’t,” Fleuse said.

  “Can we trust this guy?” Pistache added.

  “Oh yes,” Victor answered. “As I said, I’ve used him many times before.”

  “I would be happy to go with you,” Pistache said.

  “Are you sure that’s what you want, though?” Victor answered. “If Peukington does in fact try to hunt you down, wouldn’t you like to not have the coin for a while? It might be helpful for you to throw them off the scent in case he finds you.”

  “He has a point,” Fleuse reassured Pistache. “We can trust Victor.”

  The bartender continued, “Fleuse, I have a feeling this coin will be worth a good deal of money, especially if it was in Lavaar Peukington’s pocket. I would accept a modest fee for the transportation and estimation of value for the coin.”

  “And you won’t mind putting yourself in danger?” Fleuse asked.

  “Well, I won’t really be in danger,” he answered. “No one really expects me to have it. They don’t know to look for me.”

  “Peukington, you mean?” Fleuse asked for clarification.

  “Yes,” Victor answered. “Plus, it will only be for a short time anyway. Just long enough to get an idea of its worth.”

  Fleuse and Pistache silently conferred. “That sounds reasonable,” Newman said.

  “As long as the coin is worth an adequate sum,” Pistache added protecting his own interests. “If it’s not worth anything, your fee would have to be pretty small.”

  “I understand,” Victor said. “That seems fair.”

  “Are you sure you are okay doing this?” Fleuse finally asked him.

  “I assure you, I’ll be fine,” Victor answered, seeing a possible solution to his financial troubles.

  Chapter X.

  “Let me make sure that I’m understanding this correctly,” I thought aloud as we stood in the bar, however many drinks in. “You guys have been stalking this bar until it reopened—and in some cases stalking each other—just to find a coin that might be worth a little money?”

  “Well, not just a little money,” Pistache said.

 
; “Okay, so let’s say it’s worth two thousand euros,” I went on. “That would be an incredible price for an old coin, no? What happens next? A few of you split it? If Julian here finds it, it just heads back to the owner? Why all the fuss for a couple hundred euros?”

  As I spoke, I glanced at Janie. I could tell she had the same inquiry.

  “I remember when Victor first mentioned it,” Trudel stated. “He was excited about it. He wouldn’t have been if it had been small change. He was used to dealing with big numbers, investments, and so on.”

  “She’s right. The coin is actually quite a bit more valuable than any of these people predicted,” Renard stated calmly.

  I looked to the rest of them. Everyone was silent. It became obvious that whatever Renard was about to say was only news to Janie and me.

  “On top of the enormous sentimental value of the object for Monsieur Peukington, it’s known among collectors as the rarest of its kind.”

  Pistache jumped in. “Victor knew it. When we saw him next, he could barely contain himself.”

  “Due to the crudeness and inexactitude of the minting pre-revolution, there were many imperfections on currency,” Renard explained. “Coins like this one are not solely made valuable by errors in minting. There has to be more. In this coin’s case, it began as a 100-franc coin, so it has Louis XVI’s image pressed into it. But, it was Napoleon who made his mark on it.”

  “Literally,” Pistache huffed.

  Janie and I looked at each other.

  “What do you mean by ‘literally’?” Janie asked.

  “It is said,” Renard continued, “that Napoleon led his troops into battle. A musket ball struck him, and he would have been killed in action if it weren’t for this coin in his pocket. It is not possible to know for certain if this tale is true. The coin itself is damaged from the bullet, but it was not likely a direct hit if it occurred.”

  Pistache added, “The bullet left a mark right across the face of Louis XVI.”

  Breaking his silence, Fleuse mused, “Symbolism for the revolution.”

  All were quiet as the story sunk in, but I couldn’t help laughing. Janie was in similar shape. Her facial expression said it all.

  “Yeah, right,” she said softly.

  If the others heard her say it, they chose to ignore it. Renard continued. “We all know Napoleon’s story, and apparently this coin never left his side after that. Upon his death, the coin passed to his kin. It’s been in his family ever since.”

  “Gold couldn’t stop a bullet without just crumpling, right?” Janie asked. “I mean, is it really all that strong of a metal?”

  “Victor guessed that there was iron in it as well,” Fleuse added.

  “And nickel,” Pistache said.

  “That’s correct,” Renard said. “But really mostly iron.”

  “Okay, let’s pretend I believe that for a second,” Janie said as she searched for understanding. “So this Peukington guy is a descendant of Napoleon?”

  “Really?” I asked.

  “Well,” Janie continued, “they said that the coin never left Napoleon’s family.”

  “That’s right,” Renard answered. “That makes the coin a relic of a bygone era of kings, the lucky penny of an emperor, and the treasured heirloom of one of today’s most influential and powerful businessmen—a direct descendent of the original owner himself.”

  “So how much did it wind up being worth?” I asked, still mostly disbelieving the story.

  “Well, even if the coin didn’t have that story, it would be worth more than face value,” Renard explained. Fleuse nodded in agreement. Pistache slowly sipped through another drink.

  “It was only one of a few 100-franc pieces minted in 1789, before the revolution turned the city upside down,” Renard continued. “It was also one of the only pieces minted partially in iron, due to a shortage that year of gold. But above all, it saved the life of an emperor and altered the course of France’s history.”

  “So … it’s worth … what?” I asked again.

  Pausing for effect, Renard finally stated frankly, “It’s worth one million euros.”

  Janie rolled her eyes.

  “C’mon. Give me a break,” I laughed again. “There’s no way that a coin can be worth one million euros.”

  “I’m afraid there is,” Renard stated.

  “But that whole story is bullshit,” I blurted out. No one reacted. They all just watched us. “I mean, how on earth can something be so valuable, strictly based on conjecture?”

  “The coin is worth whatever anyone would pay for it. That’s fundamental. Monsieur Peukington has had many generous offers,” Renard said.

  “Who has made offers?” Fleuse asked.

  “A few museums, several wealthy collectors,” Renard answered.

  “Well, it’s not all conjecture,” Pistache said to me, still irked by my question.

  “Jacques is right,” Renard added. “Plus, the coin has changed so few hands in its time.”

  “Sorry,” Janie interrupted. “I just don’t buy it.”

  “Look at it this way,” Renard mused. “The coin’s story doesn’t matter. I’m going to find it tonight, period. The faster that happens, the sooner that you and your husband can head out on the town.”

  Part of me was intrigued, but Janie wasn’t buying any of the hype. I could already see Fleuse’s eyes beginning to wander around the room, searching for the object. Renard and Pistache were focused on me, maybe in part because they believed that I might have already found it before they arrived. Regardless, I was officially curious.

  “Okay,” I said. “Let’s find it.”

  * * *

  The bar exploded in motion. The six of us frantically searched. I felt as though I had a distinct advantage in that I was already behind the bar. I was pulling open cupboards and drawers that didn’t want to budge, expecting all the while to find the object.

  I checked beneath the bust of the man, inside the paned-glass door of the clock, and under every single bottle of liquor. I sifted through cobwebs stretched across the back of the record player. I even patted down the old flannel and checked the insides of the old shoes. I wasn’t finding the coin.

  “It will never be behind the bar,” Pistache exclaimed from under a table. “It’s too obvious! You’re wasting your time.”

  It dawned on me that I wouldn’t know what to do with the coin if I were the one who found it. One of these people would undoubtedly take it from me whether I wanted to give it up or not. I suppose that I just wanted to know what it felt like to hold an artifact worth one million euros. Maybe Janie and I could get our picture taken with it. No one back home would believe me, but to hold Napoleon’s lucky coin in my hand? Normal tourists don’t get that kind of experience.

  I realized that I’d chosen to believe in the coin’s far-fetched history. The story itself was ridiculous, but I pictured retelling friends with as much drama as I could muster. I knew Janie would love that part as well. When my buddies back home expressed their doubts about Napoleon being saved by a single lucky coin, I would simply answer with a shrug and say, “What do you think he was holding when he had his hand in his shirt as he posed for all those paintings?”

  “You see it back there?” Janie asked.

  “No,” I yelled back as I searched the crevices of a particularly cobwebby cabinet.

  I caught a glimpse of her out of the corner of my eye. Although entertained by the story, she wasn’t working up a sweat to find the object. She’d been writing on a napkin again.

  But now as she sat sipping her drink, her eyes giggled at the sight of the room being examined. Chairs and tables were being upended. Pistache was practically fully upside down as he peered into the piano’s cavernous shell. Renard looked here and there, all the while keeping an eye on everyone else. He didn’t want someone making a dash for the door.

  And, Janie sat there spectating. She didn’t think I noticed her run her hand along the underside of the bar, an ac
tion that betrayed her coolness.

  As it all happened, I somehow managed visions of finding the loot and concealing it quickly. I wasn’t sure how, but I pictured us getting out of the bar and heading home. The desire to keep the coin in a drawer for years was overwhelming, but thoughts of riches continually danced through my head. I could leave my job at the paper, and Janie and I could travel the world finding spots like the Bon Parisien everywhere.

  I was peering into the empty insides of a trophy cup on the shelves behind the bar, when I noticed Janie again. Still casually running her hand beneath the bar, I could tell that she felt something that interested her.

  She looked around the room to check for anyone who might be watching her particularly closely, and then casually joined me behind the bar.

  “What did you find?” I asked as I wiped cookie jar dust from my hands.

  She didn’t answer, only knelt to get a better view of the bar’s underside. I saw her once again reach for something, and a moment later she was holding an envelope. She placed it on the bar and we looked at it.

  The envelope was in pretty decent shape. It wasn’t torn, wrinkled, or discolored. It could not have been suspended underneath the bar for very long. Each corner was adorned with the remnants of scotch tape. The tape was also not worn or brittle.

  “Is the coin inside?” I asked.

  “I don’t think so,” she answered. “Didn’t feel like it.”

  “Did you find something?” Renard shouted in our direction.

  “Probably not,” I said. “It’s not the coin.”

  Janie flipped the envelope over, and I felt a pang of excitement shimmy up my spine. Written in marker on the back of the envelope were the words, “Open if I am gone.”

  “Who wrote that?” Janie asked.

  “How should I know?” I answered.

  “That’s Victor’s handwriting,” Trudel stated. I hadn’t noticed, but she’d joined us. In fact, everyone was now watching Janie and me.

  “Well, open it,” I urged.

  Janie slowly separated the folds of the envelope. She handled it as if she were an archeologist carefully opening scrolls. She pulled out a piece of paper. The handwriting was carelessly scrawled across the page.