Getaway Girl

by Michele Hauf

  Twisting at the waist, I spied a Vespa puttering casually down the street. Commandeered by a distinguished-looking gent in business suit and eye goggles, he couldn’t be doing more than nine or ten kilometers an hour.

  I stepped onto the street, dead center, and assumed the position, one hand to my hip, the other pressed to my lips to issue a clear and deafening whistle. The fact that the driver pulled to an idling stop next to me, his eyes glued to my long bare legs, made me smile.

  “Can you give me a ride to rue du faubourg St. Jacques?”

  “Oui, demoiselle.” He slid forward. The shiny white Vespa was a two-seater.

  I slid a leg across the motorbike, in front of the man, forcing him to shuffle backward. He released the handlebars with a questioning chuff of breath, but that was all the argument he managed before I revved the bike and we took off at mach speed.

  All right, so it was a little speedier than a baby’s crawl, but it was quicker than walking. Sure, I could jack a car, but I didn’t do that kind of stuff anymore—the hazards, like jail time, overruled the thrill.

  I let the man encircle my waist, because there wasn’t any other way to secure a hold. And he wasn’t being rude, just resting his palms on my hips. He smelled great, like a fresh shower and just a hint of talcum powder.

  The city buzzed about me as we chugged along the cobblestoned streets. White-aproned wait staff bustled about the sidewalk cafés, laying out pristine white tablecloths and setting up the prix fixe menus for the afternoon.

  Even at a distance I could pick out the sounds of river tugboats tooting to warn of their arrival or departure. I liked to watch the coal tugs unload. Surprising that in this age of speed and technology, there were just some things that proved to be a better bet, like tugboats. Let me behind the wheel of one of those slugs and there’d be a river disaster just waiting to happen. There were wake laws on the Seine, but I’m afraid I’d have to break them.

  Yes, you can take the girl out from behind the wheel, but you can never kill the need for speed.

  Though it was afternoon, I knew Dove would be in. He lived at DV8. He was the club. Dove knew everything and anything about whatever it was that went on, up or down in the city of Paris. He was friend to no man, enemy to none. You could buy him with a drink, and he’d sell you for the bottle. But his accuracy was impeccable.

  I’d met Dove years ago, introduced by Max during an all-night rave to celebrate Dove’s twentieth birthday. Yep, he was a young guy. Dove had flirted and kissed my chin, leaving behind sticky remnants of Cristal, but he’d kept it to that. I liked him as much as I knew he was not to be trusted.

  The club was on the backside of a block that housed trendy university bookstores facing the riverside. DV8 could be picked out among the line of brick warehouses only by the back door, painted silver and with the name of the club scratched into the paint to reveal the red base coat.

  Arriving at the club, I jumped off the Vespa, and then leaned in to bracket the man’s face with my hands. I kissed both his stubble-roughened cheeks, then kissed my fingertips and pressed that coy little morsel to his mouth.

  I think he blushed, but he was wearing what looked like World War II goggles that covered most of his face.

  “Au revoir, mon amie!” he called as the Vespa scooted away.

  I got a kick out of older men. No posturing or machismo required. They were what they had become, and more power to them if they had aged with grace, humor and an appreciation for a desperate woman.

  I tried the entrance at the back of the club. Open. But not easy. I wasn’t two paces inside when the bouncer appeared from a fluorescent-lit room to the left. His entire frame fit into the hall like a missing puzzle piece.

  “Hey,” I said. Stupid.

  I hooked a thumb at my hip, tapped a boot toe to the technobeat, and, despite the funky rhythm of the French remake of “Ballroom Blitz” pleading for me to dance, tried to breathe normally. I managed a calm, yet stylishly aloof, demeanor. “Here to see Dove.”

  “Name?”

  “La lapine.”

  Dove would know the name.

  The beat attached to my veins and I couldn’t resist; I started dancing. Just a little rhythmic shrug of my right shoulder. Then a bounce on my heels. My hips swayed without even asking. If I wasn’t driving, I was usually dancing.

  The bouncer gave me a slow once-over, his dark eyes drifting from my violet blouse that revealed a coy innie belly button, down the short length of my plaid skirt. Yeah, I’d expected as much. He could look all he liked, but touch? Only if he thought finger splints were fashionable.

  Finally he nodded. “Attendez ici.” Which meant, wait here.

  I didn’t have to wait more than one chorus of the song when le He-man returned, and with a gesture of a hammy hand, led me down the dark hallway. Dime-sized plastic glitter disks hooked to the walls fluttered as I walked by and stepped into an even darker room. Only when I crossed over to the window did the neon lights from the bar shine inside the office and illuminate the far side.

  A man sat cross-legged upon a round red velvet couch the size of a bed. A red- and silver-striped shirt hugged his thin torso, unbuttoned messily, and likely misbuttoned on purpose. Wide cuffs flopped upon his equally wide hands, but thin, cigarette fingers tapped to the frantic call to blitz in la salle de bal.

  Dove was neither heterosexual, homosexual, bisexual or even metrosexual. The man, as Max had once proclaimed, was omnisexual. At the time, I hadn’t asked for clarification, but my mind took me to different scenarios featuring rooms filled with gasping and moaning naked people of all sexes, ages and sizes. And then, the inevitable farm animal sauntered through the image.

  I forced my thoughts back to the man on the couch, sans four-legged sex partners. I wasn’t about to go there. I could not conceive going there.

  I would not go there.

  “La lapine, it has been a time,” Dove said in a flirty whisper. He always spoke in whispers, a bit of the drag queen enunciating his actions. His movements lithe and fluid, he bounced up to his knees and leveled his gaze with mine. “Two years?”

  “About that.”

  “Pity about Max.”

  “Yes.”

  Had he and Max…? Maybe. I’d always assumed Max was hetero, but he had been very chummy with Dove on the few occasions we had visited him together.

  “Reports say Max was found crushed between the steering wheel and the seat back. Interesting you disappeared immediately following the hit.”

  My jaw dropped open. This was the first time I’d ever heard the word hit spoken regarding Max’s death. I’d suspected as much, but no one had alluded to it, especially not the police. And never before had anyone insinuated I might be involved in Max Montenelli’s murder.

  “Don’t look so ghosty, girl. I know you’re not the bloodthirsty type.” Dove smiled like a sated vampire. “Max was good to you. But a sweet little thing like you can’t be a runner forever. So, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “I need some information.”

  “Who doesn’t?” A flick of his hand and a woman, whom I had not noticed lingering in the shadows near a neon-pink floor lamp, appeared with a bottle of Grey Goose. Dove took a swallow of the vodka and offered it to me. “What are you offering for the desired information?”

  “Cash.” I knew Dove’s currency.

  “Cash is always good.”

  Initially thinking to refuse the alcohol, a sudden urge struck me and I reached for the bottle and swung back a healthy swallow. The chilled liquor burned all the way to my belly, but it felt bloody good after a morning of forced calisthenics.

  “Cash,” Dove repeated. “But maybe you’ll join me and give us a kiss?” He patted the velvet couch and leaned back, stretching out his long, thin legs wrapped tightly in black leather. He taunted with a sexy pout, like a sweet placed upon a velvet cushion.

  The vodka dizzied my brain but calmed my apprehensions. A few more drinks and if I sat down, I’d never get up
. And man, but Dove would look keener than a movie idol to this lass who had gone without sex for months.

  “Sorry, Dove.” I handed him the bottle. “I’m in a bit of a hurry.”

  He pouted. Had I thrown away my only chance at information?

  “I hear you’re on your own now. I don’t think a pretty little girl like yourself should be telling anyone what to do.”

  “I’m not telling you anything, Dove.” Not until he spilled first. “You know I respect you. I’ve just…hit a bit of a wall.”

  “Uh-huh. Walls hurt.” He patted the couch again, a subtle plead. “I hear you’ve gone legit.”

  All right, so I’d play up to him. I slid onto the couch, propping on one elbow and leaned into his vodka- and bergamot-scented air. “Anything wrong with running with the good guys?”

  “It is if your path scampers across the wrong good guy.”

  Wrong good guy? “What do you mean by that?”

  “It’s just something to slosh around in your mind, pretty.” He blew at a bit of my hair, sending it in a wispy flag across my cheek. The contact startled me. Sent a wanting flush straight to my groin.

  “Listen, Dove, I need to know if you’ve heard anything about—” I trailed a finger along a red stripe slinking up his silk sleeve “—me.”

  He quirked an interested brow. His mouth, while thin, moved like a snake into and out of a grin.

  I smoothed a hand back through my tangle of hair. Yes, tangled. Which was the very reason I avoided turning and facing the opposite wall, lined with mirrors. Cripes, I must look a mess. I sat up, quickly losing the urge to seduce.

  Standing, I gripped the air in frustration. “I’ve almost been kidnapped.”

  “Almost?” Dove let out a shriek of laughter. “That is too splendid, bunny darling. Almost kidnapped! Now that you mention it, you are looking a bit…tousled.”

  Tousled. If only. More like a harried rabbit. La lapine dépravée.

  “You really should see about a proper haircut, and a bit of blush would do a world of good.”

  Makeup and couture was so not my thing. Even the tube of lipstick I’d shoved into my bag was fake. Didn’t the chunky boots give away my tomboy charm?

  “The clothing is fine,” he continued his review of my pitiful state, “but ditch those hideous army boots. You’ve such a marvelous body, woman. So flirty and tight—”

  “Dove.” Said tight body twisted toward him, inexplicably seeking the erotic mojo the compliments gave me, while I battled to keep to the plan. “Tell me what you can. You know everything.”

  “Well, yes, that is true.” He tapped his pouty lips with a manicured fingernail and smoldering brown eyes tried to read my gaze. “But I haven’t heard anything about you, my precious little bunny rabbit.”

  I hoped he could read my displeasure in the dim light.

  “Seriously,” he offered. Standing, he strode past me, brushing my shoulder with the lightest of touches. Like a cat, slinking along, he moved stealthily. Stopping suddenly, he leaned over my shoulder and murmured, “Although, a few phone calls might change that.”

  Good boy, Dove.

  I dug into my skirt pocket and handed the folded cash over my shoulder. Not my entire emergency savings, but close. Dove leaned forward, not touching the money. His wince notched down my hopes.

  “I’ve more,” I offered, but hadn’t wanted to make such a bold move. Or spend quite so much.

  “You’ll have to find more, darling, because those few bills won’t even line my pussy’s litter box.” He glanced to the woman who’d resumed her post in the corner. “Meow, precious.”

  “Will you make some calls right now?”

  “As you dig for gold, darling. Go on, dig, dig.”

  Stretching in a slow-motion glide, he again landed the couch with such élan I almost wanted to hold up a card with 10 written on it. Dove picked up the white phone at his side and, arranging his long-thin-duke body across the velvet, began to make calls.

  Dove’s theme song? The Killers’ “Somebody Told Me”.

  I wandered to the window and used the flashing strobe light from the bar to sort out the bills as Cheap Trick began to want me to want them. A couple hundred-euro banknotes should keep him happy and leave me enough for food and petrol—life’s only two necessities.

  Oh, to be liquid again. Max had taken care of a good chunk of my money, and, following his death, it remained a mystery where he’d stashed it all. It was that bit more I needed merely to survive.

  Survive.

  This was on-the-run thinking. The realization hit me so hard that I winced.

  I was on the run.

  The notion was so new to me. Sure, my very job was running away from the bad guys. But it wasn’t as if the bad guys had wanted me, only my passengers.

  I didn’t like feeling out of control. This scrambling for a single breath. I needed to get back behind the wheel, to breathe and relax. Behind the wheel, confidence reigned; I ruled the world. Outside of a vehicle? I was a bipedal mess.

  Dove called two people, making vague leads, and didn’t use my real name. La lapine was the only name any would know me by. I was the only freelance driver in the city, that I knew of. All other drivers were attached to underground connections and big-name Mafia.

  Max had felt it important I remained free, and yet I knew I was attached to a larger organization that I’d never met or learned too much about—the Network. They were the top name on my list of suspects in Max’s murder. They hadn’t contacted me following Max’s death, so I assumed I was out of their fold. Yet I believed the only real way out was the way Max had gone. So I’d keep an eye out over my shoulder.

  After the third call, Dove hung up. Stretching his leather-clad legs across the red velvet and spreading his arms the diameter, he eyed me with a predatory smile.

  “So?”

  “Cash?”

  I handed the stack over to him. He didn’t count it, merely flopped it near his ear. “Sounds like desperation to me, honey sweet.”

  “It is,” I wasn’t afraid to admit. Truth tended to attract more bees than sticky lies.

  He nodded and leaned forward, elbows to his knees. “There is a mark on you, but nothing lethal.”

  “What?” I choked. Okay, so it wasn’t as if that announcement should have been a surprise after a ride in the boot of my car—but it was. Could it be what I’ve feared? The Network had finally decided to take out Max’s girl?

  “You…have a name?”

  “You ever hear of Princess el Sangreito?”

  Sounded like a brand of Spanish tequila. “What about her?”

  “Hmmph.” Dove flicked away a nuisance hair from his cheek. “Seems you fucked someone with your most recent pickup.”

  “But that was just—”

  “This morning. Word travels fast, sweetie.”

  So it wasn’t about Max. “Not lethal?”

  “Right. Cross out dead on the Wanted Dead or Alive poster.”

  A sickening chill tightened my muscles. I swallowed back a shout, then calmly asked, “Who ordered it?”

  “Can’t say.”

  I leaned over Dove’s prone figure. “Can’t say or won’t say?”

  “Probably could…but won’t. You know my position, bunny darling.”

  “I know.” Friend to none. Unless the cash flowed much more freely than I was willing to allow it.

  I sighed and stood.

  Shrugging both palms over my scalp, I allowed the information to sink in. Someone wanted me not dead, but in hand? Because of the pickup this morning. I’d fucked someone? Not intentionally. Who? A princess? I suspected Dove knew that someone’s name.

  When the Faction called, they never gave details, nor did I press for them. That was Fitch’s job. The less information I had, the better. I was just the driver.

  Who had the woman in pink been? And—this might be the important part—who had the Faction taken her from? That had to be it. Was it the woman’s family? Was she con
nected to dirty dealings? Underground figureheads? Mafia?

  Things were getting grimmer by the moment. But a silver lining did exist. At least I wasn’t wanted dead.

  “Okay.” I stepped backward toward the door. Flashes of stark disco light danced across Dove’s cigarette body. “I’ve got the answer I wanted. Thank you, Dove. Always a pleasure.”

  “You know it was all my pleasure, darling. Do take care!”

  I exited the office, closing the door behind me. Take care?

  I stood, breathing deeply, trying to get my bearings. The bouncer loomed across the hall from me, arms crossed over his chest. How could he do that, cross those short muscle-bound arms over such an expansive bit of pecs?

  Fingering the doorknob behind my back, I offered le He-man a sheepish grin.

  Dove knew. Friend to all, enemy to none. Which meant—

  I opened the door and stuck my head inside the office. Light from the dance floored jittered in yellow flashes across the red couch. As I suspected, Dove held the phone to his ear, his finger poised mid-dial.

  “Give me five minutes, please, Dove. Just a head start, okay?”

  He set the receiver back in the cradle and raised his arms over and behind his head. “Sure, darling. You deserve it. Run your tail off, bunny rabbit.”

  And so I did.

  I hit the street running. My destination? The underground garage in the 13th arrondisement, just down the street from the parc de Choisy. I needed wheels, fast ones, and a connection to Fitch.

  The streets were packed with tourist traffic as I rounded the corner and passed a bookstore that had set out what seemed like half its inventory on sidewalk shelves. I hated August—the worst month for driving, all the natives fled for the south of France, while tourists set upon the city like a plague of locusts.

  Shoving between a pair of chatty women discussing Proust, I walked swiftly down the sidewalk, taking in the peripherals as I did.

  Probing the duffel slung over my shoulder, I extracted my violet sunglasses to shield me from the brilliant sun.

  It didn’t take a rocket scientist to pick out the red Mégane that clipped my path at a sure pace, one of those nice new jobbies with the glass moon roof that folded down back into the boot. Sweet car.