***
The entrance to Galerie des Expatriés Insipides was a nondescript raised doorway at the opening of an alleyway off rue des Beaux-Arts, notable only for the commonplace signage crudely bolted above its frosted windowpanes. I drew myself up, tugging on the lapels of my blazer, and harkened upon the words Pershing Cantilever imparted to me within the past hour as we enjoyed an aperitif at the Trifle Tower bar: "The only trick to being caught is not having a trick to escape."
His advice and suggestions, intended to be supportive, nevertheless magnified the desperation of my predicament -- Chip/Silly had the upper hand and held all the cards. Daunted but not admitting it, I took one last look over my shoulder. Except for two women walking a Pomeranian on the opposite side of the boulevard, there was little other activity to be seen beneath the yellow light cast from antiquated streetlamps. I climbed the granite steps to the threshold and turned the weighty brass doorknob, unaware at how fast events would unfold from that moment forward.
"Good evening, Monsieur von dek Horn," the familiar voice said, quickly clipping a handcuff around my right wrist. "So good of you to attend."
"Bonjour." I returned her greeting, recognizing the waif's slender face as the one who greeted me at the cafe table. "I thought you were but a courier, young lady."
"During difficult times, one must moonlight too, yes?" She smiled, distracting me while she clipped the other end of the restraint on her slender left arm. "This is my friend, Marci. We'll be your escorts tonight." Before I could even think Jack Robinson, a matching bracelet of steel wrapped around my left wrist and clicked into place.
"Does this mean we're dating now?" I smiled at Marci who was thankfully, like the Courier, an attractive delight in appearance.
"You need to be on your best behavior, Monsieur Baron," the Courier said, tugging sharply at my arm. "The gallery owner has invited a group of his most valued friends tonight and we don't want to spoil their good time, do we?"
"Ruin the evening? Not me. I'm just here to collect but a few valued friends myself. We'll be quickly on our way."
"If you cooperate, perhaps your wish will come true." Both women pulled down their sleeves and curled their arms over mine before the Courier continued, "You should smile often! Such a lucky man to have two beautiful women attached to him, yes?"
"It would be a lie to say that my heart wasn't aflutter."
"Speaking of matters of the heart, please know I have a stiletto in my sweater pocket. I sharpened it this evening before changing into my gallery reception outfit."
"How thoughtful of you."
"Should you prove troublesome, I will be forced to bury it first in your groin, followed by your chest."
"The thought of serving such a brochette is in bad taste, particularly after all the preparation made by the caterer. What would the guests say?"
"What the guests don't see won't offend them," Courier smiled cryptically. "The painting you've been invited to view is located in the suite at the very back of the building. Please know it is by admission only and the room soundproofed with Plexiglas doors. We shall take our time, yes? Smile at everyone along the way."
"Why not, I say." I sensed both women had experience in the forcible escort business, as their pointed claws dug into my flesh like the talons of irate peregrine falcons. We moved through the foyer and into the main hallway, a scenario of detached emotion made moodier by attendees striving to exude artistic sulkiness. An echoing stream of techo-pop melodies pulsed from unseen speakers, as though a sterile electronic soundtrack from a futuristic wake. In agreeable contrast, there was an abundance of wine and cheese being served that, if unable to lighten the oppressive atmosphere, at least provided it with a degree of sustenance. "Shall we indulge?"
Courier came to a gentle pause at my request to douse ourselves with a drink before proceeding. "It would prove unhealthy for your prostate."
"I envision your point."
"So you should." She stood on her tiptoes in order to peck me on the cheek. "Let's go to our masterpiece."
To those in the intellectual crowd around us we appeared as a trio of happiness, contrasting significantly as a blissful puck fired into the gloom of their goal. Down the wide hallway we strolled, passing Calderesque mobiles a-dangle with thin strips of recycled metal, misshapen busts of the starving poor sculpted from discarded fruit and a series of oil portraits depicting industrial landscapes under attack by hirsute children who appeared spawned of daisy plants and rabid beavers.
"Here we are now," Courier sang out pleasantly as we entered a large anteroom. Four couples in formal dress occupied the area, seemingly waiting their turn to gain entrance to a bubble-like adjoining room jutting from the corner of the rear wall. "There," Courier pointed with her free hand, "the private display room. Through that paneled door."
Sure enough, as I anchored myself against the momentum of my two minders in order to grasp the circumstances, there stood Angel and Stinky on the other side of the thick translucent plastic barrier. Angel wore a look of exhausted anxiety, the produce of having borne excessive burdens over too long a period of time. Stinky was his usual self, a sweaty rainstorm of low pressure on his balding dome accented by a brighter-than-red complexion on his jowly upper deck.
To their right hung the massive oblong painting, roughly seven-by-five feet, depicting a well-dressed prostitute attempting to restrain an overly intoxicated man as he tenuously grasps an open book, writing quill and empty beer stein while lurching toward the thick wooden countertop of a vacated nightclub. A bartender -- his face partially obscured by an array of bottles -- was positioned in the reflection of the back mirror polishing a glass while ignoring the ill-lucked patron.
"Your invitation, Monsieur von dek Horn?"
"I'm afraid," I said, emphasizing the difficulty of having their limbs attached to mine as I searched my vest pocket, "I'm afraid I can't locate it. Perhaps I left it on my dresser and should return to fetch it?"
"That was very inconsiderate of you. I will gain the entrance for us." Courier was polite, but made clear her irritation by reinserting her nails into my flesh with a stringent vigor. "My employer is very anal about such details."
"Such an attitude made Mr. Bridgework a wealthy man."
"Monsieur Bridgework?" She chuckled as we approached a padded, opaque panel on the far left side of the anteroom. "Like everyone else, I work for Monsieur Shumway."
Marci inserted a plastic card into a slot next to the jamb and, emitting a low buzz, the door swung inward. "Entrez, monsieur."
"Greetings, one and all," I said, stepping into the room as the door sealed shut behind us. "Glad to see all of you could make it."
"Baron! Thank God!" Stinky, in a heartwarming moment, briefly assumed his jovial nature. The remainder of the room was silent, from Angel's downcast expression to Ethelene's look of anxious aloofness. Rico cracked his knuckles while Staple glared at me, silently mouthing some form of threat in his native Spanish tongue. Two Holsteins, impeccably dressed in neatly tailored pinstripe suits, served as matching bookends for the quartet of muscle. Missing were the trio of Bridgework, Moeziz and the new apparent head of operations, Stockwell Silicon Shumway.
"Stinky, sorry you were mistakenly drawn into this festoon of misadventure," I said, directing my implied criticism at Rico and Staple. "You of all people to be mistaken for me, right?"
"Conestoga?" he weakly questioned.
"She's fine. Safe and dry as a cracker in a tin at the Manor." I raised my hands and jingled the bands of steel. "Angel, once we settle our account here I'm hoping you will consider me a worthy attendant to the sanctuary of your choice." My words were issued with the intent to generate comfort under the desperate predicament, but created no solace in the young woman's demeanor.
"Baron, why don't you keep a lid on it?"
"Ah, Ethelene, our extemporal fence straddler. What a cleft stick it must be to realize you have only two feet to plant in three yards."
"I find you exceed
ingly obnoxious, von dek Horn." She shook her purse in an effort to locate a cigarette before equivocating back to a marginal friendliness. "What do you mean, 'three yards'?"
"Simple enough. The respective and contradictory positions of your husband, son-in-law and myself in this matter."
She flashed a derisive look at me before lighting her smoke. "You're odd man out, Baron, extraneous to our plans. And believe me, it's not your sod I want to plant my foot in."
"Ah, then, I see. The two forces you've unleashed are rapidly approaching their denouement, a contemporary jousting match with the exception that one rider will in cowardly fashion plummet his lance into the back of the other." I watched Angel's face for a reaction, but none was forthcoming. "Really, Ethelene, quite predictable and extremely lame, if I may be allowed."
"I'm not interested in your assessment, Baron," she scowled. "You don't know and wouldn't appreciate what I've been through to keep a roof over the Loo. If it wasn't for my father's fortune, the company wouldn't exist!"
"So now you're calling in your stake, regardless of the collateral damage," I nodded at Angel.
"Life is too short to be sentimental, you fool. Mind your business and be concerned with your own fate."
"Too short? What about Eternus Spiritus being developed at all costs?"
Ethelene released a contemptuous laugh. "It's all set to go. Just add water from the fountain of youth."
The promise of eternal life for the world's wealthiest man had been, as expected, nothing but deception, a play on Bridgework's gullibility and belief that endless wealth could acquire whatever he demanded. "'How bitter a thing it is to look into happiness through another man's eyes.'"
"'As You Like It'," Stinky responded immediately, his engaging mind ever ready to plunge into the Bard, "Oliver, I believe."
"Well served, Kornblatt," I smiled. "Orlando, actually. Act five, scene two."
"How touching." Chip/Silly's voice filled the room, startling all with his sudden arrival through a narrow passage opposite the main entrance. Behind him, grimfaced, followed Wayland Bridgework and a bemused Oz Moeziz. The party roster was now complete. "The great Sherlockian Baron and his ever faithful sidekick, Dr. Kornblatt, discuss great literature while teetering at the brink of eternity."
"I prefer to think of him as more my Garfunkel. All due respect to you, Stinky."
"Understood," Stinky nodded sullenly.
"Close the curtains," Chip/Silly, in a high state of giddiness, ordered Rico to draw shut the thick floor-to-ceiling maroon velvet drapes. "So all interested parties are in the know, this chamber is soundproof and impenetrable from the gallery. The back stairway from which we entered leads to a historic studio upstairs. More on that later. For now, let's resolve the problems which brought us here together, shall we?"
"Zhe vinal CerbStix ish loscaded --" Bridgework, looking haggard, semiconscious and sluggish, garbled slowly before receiving a jolt to the ribs from Moeziz and resuming his silence.
"You're right, Wayland. We'll start with the last of the four flash drives, which clarifies our gathering at the base of this truly breathtaking Monet." He reached past the ornate cordon and positioned his hand at the corner of the gilt-edge frame. "Is the power turned off this time?"
"It is," Moeziz replied, staring at me with the look of condescension he bore exceedingly well.
"You're sure? Because if I get shocked this time in front of all these people, there's going to be an additional body to carry out. Understood?"
"You're fine, Shummy."
I could not help but be amused by their fraternal familiarity. "Shummy?" Their relationship had, in my mind, reached a level not anticipated.
"Soon enough it will be 'Mr. Shumway' to those left alive." He worked his fingers around the back of the frame in a convoluted manner as though struggling to change an unseen light bulb. "Here it is, in this clever little stash slot created by a nineteenth century craftsman. This compartment was originally built to hold a valuable key, such as that used to open a safe full of riches or the door to the boudoir of a favored mistress." He glared at Angel while extracting the sparkling blue colored device. "And this CerebStix is a modern day version of just such a key. I can assure you the eighteenth century --"
"Nineteenth," I interrupted.
"Artisan who created that hidden holder never imagined the wealth it would someday contain."
"Yoush foundled dit," Bridgework slurred, sounding marginally surprised.
"So I have. Folks, this is the Paris CerebStix, last on the list." Chip/Silly displayed the tiny device between his thumb and forefinger, allowing all in the room to have a good look at it. "With this flash drive alone, I will control forty percent of the world's finances. Isn't that amazing?"
"Quite impressive, young man," I sarcastically opined, disgusted with his overt greed. "Perhaps we'll be on our way now."
"Not so fast, master of disguises. I have several bones to roll with you, the most important involves Machu Picchu and Tunis." He sneered while tossing the flash drive from hand to hand. "Of lesser importance is your molestation of my wife aboard the Gangrene."
"Your crudity better serves your avaricious desires. My relationship with Angel is consensual and, clarifying my point, private."
"There isn't such a thing as privacy on that ship. Your tryst was recorded by, of all people, the harlot you shared the cabin with."
"Angel?"
"I'm sorry," she barely whispered. "I wanted to ... it was our first --"
"You need not explain yourself to me, Angel," I interjected in a steady voice prior to addressing her erstwhile spouse. "You however, Chip/Silly, have a great deal of elucidation forthcoming."
"As do you, von dek Horn! I'd love an explanation as to why you try to act so properly British when you're nothing more than a backwoods New Englander!"
"I'm afraid that subject perplexes me as much it does you and everyone else," I replied, grateful for the opportunity to occupy Chip/Silly in conversation and stall for the arrival of a certain group of friends. "I attribute a good portion of it to my upbringing and the environment of decency and civility which my parents strove to instill --"
"Before they were killed," Moeziz cut in with a machete-like hack, effectively derailing my thoughts into a black abyss where I loathed to fall.
"Of course before they were murdered, you imbecile."
"Yet their severe lack of parenting skills coupled with your feeble mind proved insufficient," Chip/Silly said, coming at me from a different direction. "Imagine their disappointment at your complete and total rejection by Yalemouth on Rye. Application after application turned away. All the money wasted on hundreds of hours of tutoring, trying to make a square peg fit in a round hole. Finally, they had the good sense to stick you in the mentally retarded pool at Trotters, where your quasi British mannerisms could become a polished act of pretentious phoniness."
"Is that right?" My eyes stung with the onset of tears, yet I refused to wipe them dry.
"No one buys it, von dek Horn," Moeziz said, landing another counterpunch. "Your pseudo intellect, shored up by using obscure words and contrived quirks."
"And your books, full of cornball phrases, overworked clichés and fractured analogies." Chip/Silly piled on the blows. "Sold to the unsuspecting, believing they are reading the factual work of a real hero with bona fide intelligence."
"Real courage, too," Moeziz laughed. "How many times I've escaped from you, knowing even the most flatfooted donut eater could have caught me with little effort. You? Hell, you give me every opportunity for freedom because you're scared of what might happen should you actually catch me."
"Take this Monet, for example. Look at it closely, von dek Horn. The whore pulling the drunken author from the bar, away from the danger of the tavern owner who has probably throttled the useless lout many times in the past. Broke and without merit, void of any true creative talent, the worthless writer is urged to spend his last few coins on the skank who sells her body to serve h
er own material interests. Monet had it right. Indeed, his very work here foretells of our gathering in a way, doesn't it?"
I remained silent, visualizing the series of my next moves to the finest detail.
"Angelica the prostitute. Baron the alcoholic adventurer. Moeziz ruling them both." Chip/Silly drew out his recitation while continuing to juggle the CerebStix. "Adding to the historical moment of presenting this artwork again to the public is the fact Monet painted it in his studio upstairs, the very studio in which you, Angel and the unfortunate Kornblatt will meet your demise."
"Ang-jilsh?" Bridgework, slumping fast, attempted to shake his head.
"And I will relish each moment I gaze upon Minuit bu à L'appel Final in the future, casting out the betrayal of my dear Angelica and the meddlesome Trotters flunky who amounted to but a bug bite on my ass." He stood back, full of satisfaction with himself, and admired the painting. "No, there's not one thing wrong with this picture."
"Wrong?" Blood rushed to my ears as I came out of the starter blocks. "You're so off the mark, Shumway, your idiocy truly astounds me. Indeed, your ignorance is of such a foul volume, one is challenged to locate its source."
"Start by turning the Tunis flash drive over to me. Maybe Kornblatt will live."
"This is clearly not a Monet, based on the simple fact the image is of an interior scene and compounded by its portrayal of contemporary figures. It is basic knowledge Monet produced the majority of his work en plein air, out of doors, where he relished in capturing the subtle effect of sunlight as it played upon pastoral settings."
"A Monet is a Monet, von dek Horn. Your babbling will not change my findings. Now, should you care a whit about shaky old Kornblatt, you'll fork over the Tunis flash drive."
"Monet rarely, if ever, included the human figure in his art. His creative beliefs rested in and his inspiration derived from nature scenes. For these two reasons alone, the work before us was not executed by the brush of Monet."
"Moeziz, prepare to shoot him."
"If anything, a cursory glance of this work by an expert would lend attribution to Manet, who was a good friend of Monet's and influenced by his subject matter and choice of palette. Manet was much an artist of the common person, rendering reproductions deemed pedestrian during his day, unworthy of public showings, useless in their representations."
"Which one, Shummy?" Moeziz leveled the gun barrel at me then Stinky, before pointing it at the ebbing Bridgework.
"This particular work brings certain elements of Manet's creations to mind, foremost the alluring Olympia, whom the young lady shown before us represents. Again, the suggestion is repeated when one thinks of Manet's portrait of author Emile Zola, bookish and thoughtful as he sits with an open tome. Ironically, if memory serves correct, Zola is seated before a likeness of the aforementioned Olympia painting. Manet was both clever and humorous, wouldn't you say?"
"Kornblatt."
"Lastly, the image in the mirror reflects, for the lack of a better word, Manet's Le Bar aux Folies-Bergère, the last of his great works. The gentleman in that particular work is perceived to be perhaps an English tourist enjoying a drink of Bass Pale Ale with the young and sweet bartendress. Here, the work above us, shows a blurry and undefined figure of some question, perhaps the artist himself wanting to shroud his identity for fear of artistic plagiarism accusations."
"No, wait, Moeziz. I've a better idea."
"The work then, too, is not a creation by Manet. In fact, if you had the pleasure of matriculation at Trotters and the honor of seating in Professor O'Toole's classroom, you would instantly recognize this work as completed by the hand of Henri Mamonet, a miserable and churlish understudy of both the great masters. Any decent art instructor would have taught you Mamonet was in reality an American. Yes, an expatriate who --"
"Enough with the art history lesson," Chip/Silly interrupted, his giddy state now transmuting into one of depraved agitation.
"I thought it was really interesting," Staple remarked quietly, looking down at his polished wingtips.
"Enough I said! So, it's a Mamonet, so what? Big deal. Bridgework acquired it at a bargain price and hid the Paris flash drive in it. That's the point. I now hold said flash drive and you're still a Trotters alumnus. Nothing changes, right?"
"To an ignoramus, I suppose that would be true."
"Well, I've changed my mind. I'll start our proceedings off by asking you for the Machu Picchu flash drive. If there's any hesitation on your part in giving it to me, Oz Moeziz will shoot Angel. Ready to play this game?"
Angel straightened upright, a look of disbelief coming over her as I geared myself to take action.
"Give me the Machu Picchu CerebStix."
"I don't have it with me."
"Moeziz. Shoot her."
"Doonnah shlute my gurl!" Bridgework lunged at the thug just the a glint of weapon appeared. With both hands wrapped around Moeziz's arm, Bridgework fell backwards to the sound of a muffled report.
"Jesus!" Moeziz exclaimed with disgust. "I always hate shooting the wrong guy!"
"Daddy!" Angel shrieked and dove to the floor on both knees, lifting the fallen man's head in her hands. "No!"
"You idiot! Where's the gun?" Chip/Silly bent over to search Bridgework's jacket, providing Angel the occasion to serve up a short but powerful right jab to his cheek, sending her husband reeling backwards into Moeziz. It was the perfect calamity.
As though signifying the moment of chaos with the clapping of cymbals, I raised my shackled hands and introduced the forehead of Marci's coconut to that of Courier's. It was enough of a tap to induce an instant sleep, but spared both escorts any permanent internal or visible damage. Parachuting gently to the floor as a group, I dug my fingers between my belt and pants, extracting the circus utility lock pick -- possessing the approximate identical characteristics of a common bobby pin -- Pershing Cantilever was kind enough to provide me. Putting it to quick use, I freed myself from the two groggy usherettes.
"Watch him!" With no further instructions issued attached to the warning, Chip/Silly's band of brutes did as ordered while their boss and Moeziz searched frantically for the handgun. Employing the collective delayed reaction to good use, I hitched Courier's wrist to Marci's ankle, then swiftly attached the loose end of the remaining handcuff around Courier's dainty lower calf.
"Stinky! Red orange, forty nine, left!" I shot him a nod while pulling both the stiletto and handcuff release key from Courier's sweater pocket. The strategy of my audible was based on the well-founded 'Statue of Liberty' American football formation -- appropriate while facing death in the country of the neoclassical harbor statue's origin -- executed Trotters-on-Funk rugby-style. Upon my command, Stinky would accept delivery of whatever package -- the ball as it were -- I held behind my back.
"What the hell are you doing?" Chip/Silly suddenly righted himself and lost interest in the missing Moeziz weapon.
"How does that old song about paper dolls go?" I look at him innocently.
"You mouthy son of a bitch!" He stumbled over Moeziz and tripped on the now immovable Bridgework. "I'll do you with my own hands!"
Choosing not to allow Chip/Silly the opportunity, I instinctively pitched the stiletto submarine style and, at a considerable distance of ten feet, was pleased to see its tip disappear into the fleshy real estate of the charging psychopath's flank. "Here's a true meddling bug bite!"
Chip/Silly let out a shriek of agony and collapsed. "Don't stand there! Kill him!"
Rico and company came to life like a row of bulldozers on a construction lot, rumbling across the room in my direction. Relying on my training workshops with retired US Navy SEALS, I met the rushing attack headfirst, going in low and hoping for the best. The ensuing fray was of top shelf variety for, just as my head met with Rico's knee, the room was reduced to total darkness. Legs, arms, fists and feet traveled in every direction, with remaining gaps filled by pointy elbows and random hair pulling. Stinky's plaintive wail of "forty nine!" could
be heard above the ruckus of grunts and cursing, but the rugby play by this time had fallen asunder. I managed to shelter myself beneath Staple's ample back and, as the fracas intensified, was grateful for his unwitting willingness to endure such a beating on my behalf. Without warning, the room was momentarily lit by the muzzle flash of an additional round discharging, causing a cessation to fall over those of us tussling as though we were now mute models posing for a frieze being carved on an entablature. In the moment of stillness, the door leading to the upstairs studio opened slightly and to our collective astonishment there arose the distant sound of chanting:
In old Paris, the land of Robespierre
Hunters travel the globe to end up there!
And so it's come to this, we're sad to say
Huddled at the feet of a dusty Mamonet
"It sounds like angels," Staple grunted with amazement.
"Shut up, you fool!" Moeziz, his thin lithe body catlike in profile, moved cautiously toward the door.
Once quite threatening but now serene
Some still fear the chopping guillotine
Hands move fast, the clock loudly ticks
Who will end up with the four CerebStix?
"I'm outta here, Shummy!" Moeziz blasted through the doorway leading to the studio above while I struggled to leverage Staple off my lower half.
"Stinky! In need a hand, old chum!"
"I'm here, Baron," the former diplomat extended his flabby paw but neglected to gain steady footing. When I heaved, he immediately fell forward and gained membership into the toiling floor show. "Ouch! Hey, there! Stop that! I still possess diplomatic immunity!"
It was not my intention to use Stinky for traction, but as the single combatant who would not object to my gaining purchase with the heel of my shoe pressed against his silk tie, he was my designated jumping off point to begin pursuit. In the semidarkness, I spotted Chip/Silly limp over the threshold steps behind Moeziz, his hand wrapped tightly around his left thigh.
"Look after the chaos here, friend. It's those two jokers deserving of my wrath!"
The rickety wooden stairs dangerously narrow and uneven in riser height wound clockwise to the right, made more perilous by the ancient metal handrail loosely attached to the exterior wall. Its shoddiness was in part the reason I never saw the first blow coming as my sleeve snagged along the frayed edge of the old wall, permitting Chip/Silly to land a resounding kick to my head. "Back in the hole, motherfucker!"
As incensed as I was from the taste of his boot tumbling me backwards, more appalling was his choice of language. "Grow up, Chip/Silly!" I scraped myself off the lower steps and charged upward again, this time creeping slowly upon hearing the slamming of a door. Reaching a level plateau after a two more corkscrew turns, I stepped forward and instinctively placed my hand outward feeling for a knob or latch. At my slight touch, hinges gave way and exposed a large workshop bathed in dim, murky blue moonlight. Beneath a series of battered and worn skylights, wooden benches formed a u-shape in the center of the room. Several feet to the right, a sizeable platform rose slightly from the floor, upon it a random collection of blankets draped an overstuffed sofa serving as an area where a model would repose amid a contrived setting while the artist created. The odor of oils, spirits and solvents mixed with the musty air while, as my eyes adjusted to the lackluster hue, a jumble of paintbrushes, pencils and paper took form on the tabletops. Then, with jarring clarity rising steadily in volume, singing from the unseen began anew:
As he entered, this time surely
Though his face was feeling poorly
"Shut up!" came the cry from the unseen Chip/Silly.
One suffering impatience and enunciation
Hollered loud to expose his location
"Bullshit!" The ne'er-do-well's voice originated from behind the sofa, somewhere in the middle of a row of easels stacked haphazardly along the wall.
The hawk man first, on the run
One to watch, he holds a gun
But he'll be back, have no doubt
This room contains the sole way out!
I closed the door tightly and yarded one of the heavy tables against its frame, thereby sealing off any quick exit route. Dusting off my hands, it was time to bring one young man's illicit proceedings to a grinding halt. "Stockwell! Stockwell Silicon Shumway. Step out here. Let's talk."
"Go to hell, you worthless gumshoe." His voice, full of pain, was pitched with defiance. "Embarrassing me downstairs like that. The painting's a freakin' Monet original. Everyone knows it!"
"The game's over, Stockwell. The painting, the flash drives, your plan to take control of the Loo. It's finished. Even Bridgework's been taken off the board now --"
"Off exploring the dimensions of his new eternal life, if he even believed in such rubbish."
"One supposes, yes. Cascopalics believe there is a transitory period of indoctrination, processing and rehabilitation before one formally initiates afterlife. This is something you have the opportunity to do now, Stockwell, if you simply decide to give yourself over immediately. No more fractious pugnacity. Come clean and go forward in peace."
"Go straight to jail, you mean. No, it's not going to be that way. You have two CerebStix belonging to me. I want them now." He broke into a spasm of coughing, diminishing the effect of his demand. "Perhaps I might even pay you a reward for their return, if that's your angle, choirboy."
"My original interest in this matter is now lying deceased on the floor downstairs."
"Then give me the goddamned CerebStix and leave me be!"
"Not a chance, Stockwell. You aspired to take over the Loo throne and now you'll be my substitute for Bridgework. Besides," I paused, knowing the bombshell would deliver a massive explosion, "neither CerebStix is available. The Machu Picchu flash drive is in New Hampshire. The Tunis flash drive is, by now, resting comfortably on a sandy plateau somewhere hundreds of feet beneath the surface of the Mediterranean."
"It's where?" The rattling of easel legs nearly drowned out his inquiry and, after several of the stands crashed to the floor, the silhouette of Chip/Silly appeared within the muffled moonlight. "You've done what?"
In the middle of painting stands, disbelief
A far cry from arrogance, such a relief!
Like an addicted junkie seeking his next fix
The poor rich boy lacks two CerebStix
"And what's with the invisible chorus following you around?"
"I would guess, too, you are not in the possession of the Paris CerebStix." Oddly, my calculation provided me a sense of superiority over the Carnaval Du Diminutif members scattered in their hiding places around the room. "Your triple cross has been trumped."
"What? I have it right here!" In the darkness, Chip/Silly resembled a nightclub dancer performing the latest floor moves while he desperately searched his pants pockets for the small sliver of plastic. "Where in the hell?"
"You're wasting your time."
"Amazingly, Baron's right for once." The voice of Oz Moeziz came from the opposite side of the room. "There's no need to look and there's no need for you."
The explosion of the handgun's report filled the art loft, sending me immediately to the floor as the sound of Chip/Silly involuntarily backpedaling into the cove of easels was followed by his loud groan of pain.
"All done this time, Baron."
I rolled beneath the heavy table nearest me, catching a glimpse of Moeziz's legs as he cautiously circled the perimeter of the room.
"I admit our game of global cat and mouse has been exhilarating at times. Comforting, too, knowing I always escape." He froze, realizing he lost sight of me. "But I will concede your dissing me in The Bathetic Stranger stands as a slight never to be forgiven. Switching the title to The Pathetic Stranger. How childish."
Resisting the temptation to clarify the editorial decision made without my consent, I reared back on my heels and braced my shoulders and neck against the underside of the table. A few steps more would leave Moeziz
lined up in my wheelhouse and I would have but one clean chance to take him down. Using the cover of another mournful wail from Chip/Silly, I gingerly tested my ability to lift the table off the floor. Heavy to the extreme, it would serve both as a shield and battering ram providing I was able to raise my end to its tipping point without first becoming a target.
"Not entirely unexpected, though. You've always been the boy in a man's game, Baron. You want memberships in our country clubs and seats on the airlines we fly, all the while dressed in the same brand of sweaters and chinos we wear. You covet the women we date and the cologne we splash on. We own everything you desire, every single item that would elevate you from your painful, envious wannabe status. I mean, your pseudo British accent and quasi knowledge of the world. Where's that ever going to take you?"
If Moeziz thought insulting me would provoke a response and reveal my location, he was right. I had to bite my tongue even harder.
"Why is your life this way? Immaturity, for the most part. Has to be. A novice trust funder with all his phony pretensions, enabled by his dead parents' wealth. Pitiful." He slid his feet forward, testing the sturdiness of the floor before transporting his full weight onto his toes. "Time to go visit mommy and daddy. Time to thank them for the good life they handed you here on earth."
I could tolerate it no longer. From my crouching position I thrust upward, driving the table on its end while letting loose a most foul of war cries. Made of a fabulous hardwood -- perhaps cherry or oak -- I severely miscalculated its weight and, defying my strategy of having the table land on top of Moeziz, its right edge pivoted on the floor causing the entire mass to list then fall on its side. I barely had time to loosen my grip and was nearly dragged down to the floor with it. As it was, the length of the table landed on the arch of my left foot momentarily pinning me to the spot.
"In lieu of a grand entrance, this is what I get?" Moeziz observed, standing just beyond arm's reach as a cloud of dust ushered away from the upended mess.
"Naturally inferior to any you might undertake, right?"
"There you go again," Moeziz said, affecting a sympathetic response, "proving my thesis for me. The poor wealthy downtrodden do gooder Baron von dek Horn."
"At least there's no doubt as to the legality of what I do."
"Working for Sondheim? You're fooling yourself. He's as big a crook as there is."
"Perception."
"Doesn't matter. I have a gun and you don't." Moeziz squared himself to me. "Now, I'm only going to ask for them once. If you don't turn them over to me, for whatever reasons, I'm going to kill you."
"And if I do turn them over to you, you're going to kill me."
"Hobson's choice, as it were." A thin smile formed across his narrow face.
"To the contrary, my Yalemouth associate. Morton's fork."
"Occam's razor. Still doesn't matter. I have the gun."
"And I have the flash drives."
"Here's your moment of truth, Baron," Moeziz said, his voice full of cold anger as he drew back the hammer. "Will you turn over the CerebStix flash drives to me?"
Evil hawk gripped a Smith and Wesson
Ignoring our man's historical lesson
It takes a coward to shoot a man unarmed
Prompting our obligation to see him unharmed
The tune was melodic and surprisingly upbeat for its somber content, having an entrancing effect upon Moeziz. During his void of concentration, a little man clambered out of a nearby cupboard and calmly walked past Moeziz without pausing, plucking the gun from his hand. He continued on, disappearing into a short, narrow cabinet on the opposite side of the room.
Whenever injustice occurs, wherever it shall take us
Use only your fists when engaged in a fracas
Moeziz, not waiting for additional choral commentary, unleashed a torrent of haymakers to my head while I successfully extricated my foot from the weight of the bench. The large slab now served as a fence between us old foes as we battled toe-to-toe in the spirit of "Gentleman" Jim Corbett and John L. Sullivan. With both of us clutching shirt fronts and throwing unobstructed blows, the grueling slugfest quickly took its toll. Within moments, we resembled two weathered and tired hockey players settling a season-long feud at center ice.
"Give it up, Baron," Moeziz grunted and ducked, "and I'll let you off lightly." He took hold of my fist while I pretended my arm had suddenly grown tired. "If you'll --"
With an alarming fierceness and surprise, I pulled him off balance and planted my forehead directly between his eyes before shoving him onto the countertop beneath an open window overlooking the alleyway below.
Moeziz uttered a low hiss as I stepped over the barrier. "Who do you think you are, anyway?"
"Very simple." Beyond angry at this point and tired of being beaten up on yet another continent, I grabbed his lapels and lifted him to within inches of my face. "I'm the chairman of VIOLENCE."
"In that case," Moeziz shrugged, his muscles going limp as the fight seemingly washed from his body, "you probably don't deserve this."
"Deserve what?"
The pointed toe of his left shoe -- a G.J. Cleverley, no doubt -- slammed squarely into my testicles at a frightening speed, lifting me into the air and prompting an embarrassing dispel of air from my lungs. As the overture of flaming agony began to swell in my delicate nether reaches, Moeziz placed the offending footwear against my chest and pushed. "I'd like to say I've outsmarted you, but that would be giving away too much credit. So long, von dek Horn." He lifted both legs in the air, tumbled sideways and slipped feet first out the window.
We were led to believe our man wasn't a putz
Till evil hawk drove him to the point of nuts
He must collect himself and regain his being
Apprehending the criminal who is now fleeing
I weakly applauded their impromptu refrain from my crumpled position while retaining an excruciating appreciation for Moeziz's marksmanship. The waves of nausea crashed in my stomach like an unwanted tide as an assemblage of tiny hands wrestled hold of my arms and legs, straightening me up and lifting me onto the countertop in front of the open window.
"He went down and to the left," a little voice said, pushing the revolver into my hand. "There's one round left."
Before I could form a response, the clutch of friends transported me to the window and shoved me onto the precipitously angled roof tiles, smooth after decades of exposure to the elements. I slid nonstop onto a narrow, rickety water drain several feet below which served, for the time being, to break my fall. Balanced precariously two stories above a blackened alleyway, I suppressed the urge to vomit and instead looked skyward, glimpsing a handful of flickering stars.
"That way, hero," a high-pitched voice suggested from the open window above.
On the ledge of the next building, one-half story above my position, appeared the silhouette of Moeziz hugging an outcropping of irregular stonework while shuffling to his right. His destination was a small veranda encased by a wrought-iron fence. Once there, it would be an easy break-in through the doorway -- or short jump onto the roof which, unlike the peaked building to which I found myself precariously attached, had a flat top.
"It's easy, Baron," Moeziz taunted me over his shoulder, "if you don't freeze, misstep and plunge to your death!"
Before me, a small window extended out halfway up the pitch toward the roof's crest, itself maybe a dozen feet away. Without thinking of the consequences I hurled myself at the dormer, scrambling atop its narrow overhang, then pressed my momentum upward in two leaping bounds, where I caught the apex of the building within my fingertips. Struggling momentarily to secure my grip, I carefully worked my lower half up the worn tile and ultimately hooked my left foot on the opposite side, straddling the peak.
"Enjoy your perch!" Moeziz pulled himself onto the veranda and forced his way through the shuttered door.
I jumped to my feet, delicately balancing myself on the narrow ridge in Wallenda fashion
, and managed five well-paced steps before launching myself across the narrow gap between the two buildings and tumbling roughly onto tarpaper surface of the flat roof. It was a cinch Moeziz would continue running in the opposite direction and, instead of following him through the building proper, I nearly impaled myself on a vent pipe while trotting to the far end of the rooftop. There, assuming a prostrate position, I peered over the edge and watched as he emerged on the balcony directly beneath me. Convinced I was not following him through the maze of rooms and halls, Moeziz took his time in estimating the leap to the adjoining building, yet another structure housing vacant studio space.
Rolling back from the ledge, I plotted a path and took a good running start, leaping from one rooftop to the other like a gazelle in full flight across the savanna. It was questionable as to who was more surprised by my appearance, as I never expected Moeziz to climb into my line of travel and he -- as evidenced by the look of shear terror in his eyes -- was unable to escape our resounding collision. We tumbled saucers-and-cups across the roof and, impressively, Moeziz instantly grappled me in a reverse chokehold carrying us onto a large archaic skylight not constructed to bear the weight of two thrashing adult males. As I bucked Moeziz in an effort to release his tightening grip, the center collapsed and the glass shattered, sending us in a brief freefall to the interior floor below.
The impact, though painful, served to break Moeziz's death grip and send us sprawling in different directions among the shards of wood and glass. Blinking my eyes several times in the dim light, I shook my head in hopes of reducing the shock of such a traumatic moment.
"What is this? Who is there?"
The voice sounded reasonably familiar to my stunned ears, so much so I believed I was hallucinating. "Karim? Is that you?"
"Horn? Why are you in gandora warehouse?"
I shrugged off what must have been an apparition, a concoction of my addled mind, and dashed off after Moeziz who now was clambering up a dodgy spiral staircase in the corner of the room. With head down, I exhorted every ounce of energy to push myself up the corkscrew turns until reaching the open doorway at the top -- and the horrifying realization there was nowhere to go but down. I frantically grabbed for any type of solid structure, something to halt my misguided momentum carrying me too far out into the night.
"Bon voyage, Baron," Moeziz snorted as he stepped from behind the door, plucking the gun from my pocket and shoving me out into the darkness. Twisting midair in my descent, I witnessed the crack of flame from the final round being touched off, followed by an immediate burning sting in my left bicep.
The unbroken beauty of a starry night over Paris was my last conscious thought for quite some while.
Baril de Singes [Barrel of Monkeys] Page 54
