Shoot It Again

by Ed Lacy

  I walked back to the hotel—it seemed like a safe idea. There was little chance the cambio man knew where I lived. I had at least five minutes before the flic could pull himself together, while checking my name against the hotel registrations at the central police station would take hours.

  Madame was still in her surly mood, mumbling about my washing. A horrid purple pin in her over-bright pinkish hair made her look like a rotten carrot. In my room I carefully went through my bag—not much of a job as I pride myself on traveling light. My passport wasn't there. Returning to the small and gloomy lobby, I showed madame Parks' passport photo. “Have you ever seen this man before?”

  Making a production of putting on her gold frame glasses, madame shook her head, muttered about the cost of coal for the hot water I'd used. Didn't I understand the fly-specked sign on the door; strictly forbidding washing?

  “What were you doing in my room while I was sleeping?

  “I?” She slapped her soggy bosom. “I never enter a room, monsieur, unless it is empty and...”

  “Stop it, how did you know about the laundry, then?”

  Madame snickered, giving me a full view of her mossy choppers, little eyes bright. “I talk of the big sewer. From a paying guest—some washing of clothes I expect. I am aware this is not the Hotel Ruhl. But her, she must wash the wine stain with my hot water) A girl in your room, even a sewer, is your business. But right in my kitchen she stirs up the stove, adding coal, and dries her dress...”

  “Wait a minute,” I managed to cut in, not sure I was getting her French correctly, “what girl?”

  Shrugging thin shoulders, madame gave me a cunning glance. “I never ask trash for a name. Blonde, large as a cow, two cows. I thought you had better taste, even in tarts.”

  “I brought a... this blonde to my room yesterday?” I asked, not believing it.

  Madame actually leered. “About six in the morning, perhaps it was nearer five a.m.—I was still in my bed, you came in, badly drunk. The blonde garbage is almost carrying you, and you are hardly a small one, monsieur. Like all cheap girls, she is making much noise. She put you to bed and in your basin washed the spot on her dress. Nude, without a trace of shame, this sewer then boldly marched into my kitchen, dried the dress over my stove. Naturally, I got out of my bed, but the brazen pig is so powerfully built, I am afraid to tell her of the rules, of my coal. With one hand she might have broken me in half.”

  “Did! the... eh... blonde, mention her name?” As I mouthed the words I realized how silly they sounded.

  Madame drew herself up, scratched the stringy wig atop her pin-head. “To me? I am above talking to such a sewer!”

  I was too confused to remind her of the local gossip which whispered she had purchased the ratty hotel after years of being a brothel straw boss. “Listen, can you cash a travelers check for me?”

  “Tonight, perhaps.” She pulled back her black dress, peered down into her breasts. “Now I have but a few francs. The thieves around here would steal a poor woman's honor and...”

  Leaving, I watched an air liner circling to land at the nearby Nice airport, as I walked Avenue de la Californie toward the Promenade, keeping an eye out for cops. No wonder my dream of the giant blonde had been so realistic! But who the devil was she? Why had she taken my passport when she noticed it in my room...? Noticed— hell she had to dig into my bag to see it! Except for feeling good that even while crocked I'd wanted a girl... I was more confused than ever. The first order of business was to find the nameless blonde, large enough to carry two-hundred-twenty-pound me. Syd might remember where we'd been Monday night—possibly the blonde's name.

  Actually blondie wasn't at the top of my fist—avoiding the cops had priority. Being a hustler, always skating on the brink of the law, my smacking a flic had been too, too, stupid. Risky strolling the Promenade, especially this end—deserted in the mornings. By now the police would certainly have an alarm out for me, or however they worked such matters in France. Syd's pension might be staked out... but how could they possibly know she was my girlfriend? Besides, on a hot morning like this, she'd be sunning herself at a plage.

  Jumping down onto the rocky beach, I stripped to the swim trunks I wore in place of underwear. Folding my slacks and shirt in a sloppy bundle, I walked the hard beach, trusting I looked like one of the many bathers and sun-hounds.

  It was a long hike: I should have been able to think, but my mind was a spinning blank. One minor thing bothered me, almost as much as the loss of my passport—I wanted to cash that travelers check. Having been stony so damn often, I think best with eating money in my pockets. Passing some of the fancier plages, as I neared the Ruhl I considered jumping up on the boardwalk, stopping at the American Express. Or crossing the pretty Jardin Albert 1 to the gallery. Hank knew everything, could tell me what to do. Plus, it gave me a lift to see my work on display. But the park, or the crowded Promenade would have many cops around.

  Walking along the now crowded beach, I finally had one piece of decent luck. Except for the English who are always here, tourists seem to hit Nice in waves. The city was now full of heavyset Hollanders and among all this beef, I saw Sydney's slender figure in a red tank suit, stretched out on her loud green beach mat. For a moment I stopped to “case” the rocky beach—in my best amateur manner, not sure what I should be looking for.

  Then I went over and casually sat beside her, blowing gently on her light brown hair. Opening her eyes—far too large for the plain little face—Syd sat up quickly. “Well, well, if it isn't the baggy Yank! Must say you have your bloody nerve—talking to me again!”

  “Syd, skip the small talk. I'm in a king-size jam and need...”

  “So, it's small talk I am for you! Well, you are in a ruddy jam with me ducky, you can be sure! Getting falling-down-drunk and leaving me in Villefranche to... God knows what, while off you went with that blonde beast! Then, you dare add insult to possible injury by not even seeing or calling me all day yesterday. I could have been killed in an accident, raped, or... anything could have happened to me—for all you cared!” The words broke as the thin lips began to tremble.

  I took her hand—she wrenched it away. “Syd, honey, I was out cold all yesterday, never left my bed or...”

  “I bet! Was the blonde pig that hot! Did you have a sweating time with her!”

  “Syd, calm down and please listen to me. I'm in a rush and it's damn important I locate this blonde Amazon to...”

  “Then you are having an affair with her! You and I... at least I deserve the common courtesy of being told..!”

  “Syd, Syd, this isn't...” I stiffened as a policeman passed up on the Promenade behind us. He didn't seem to be looking for anybody in... or did they already have me spotted, were waiting to close in? The flic strolled on and I tried to relax. Smiling at Sydney, I was about to explain about the passport but didn't—she was a sweet girl and there wasn't any point involving her in my mess. Also: she was a sweet girl with a big mouth.

  Nervously brushing her long hair with one hand, Syd asked, “What's wrong with you, Clay? I say, for a second you looked faint.”

  “Syd, without any more melodramatics, tell me the blonde's name, where I met her.”

  “You cheeky bastard, what kind of a line are you handing me? Next you'll be demanding I give you a leg-up on the blonde lump. Come off it!”

  I glanced about impatiently. I was wasting time with Syd and time was something I suddenly had little of. Pushing her down on the mat with my left hand—as she started to struggle—I slipped my other hand beneath the top of her red suit, cupped a tiny breast. Turning a furious pink under her slight tan, Syd whispered harshly, “How dare you? Clayton Biner... how dare... We're on the beach!”

  But the nipple hardened: the furious blushing wasn't all anger. Curiously enough, for a moment her very thin helplessness filled me with mild desire. I told her, “Shut up and listen. I didn't sleep with the blonde, nor do I want to. May sound like jazz, but you're the only girl I've wa
nted... for a long time. That's the truth and...”

  “Clay, you mean that? Oh Clay, my God, I'm such a bag of bones, homely as sin.”

  “Honey, remember the nude I tried—you said I'd glorified you? Well, that's how beautiful you look to me—I was really painting what I saw in my mind.” Actually, some of the hot air was true.

  “Clay, Clay... this isn't some of your blooming big talk? I... Clay, do you want to go to my room?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Right now.”

  “Yes.”

  Syd tried to sit up but I held her down. I took my hand from under her suit and she kissed my wrist. “I want to, Syd, but I can't—now. Have you any money? Can you cash a check for me?”

  “That's it! Sweet talk me to...!”

  “Syd, I'm in a jam. Have you any money...?”

  “Hear the man, and the way you were throwing francs around the other night like a rich brat! Didn't you pass your beloved American Express shrine on your way here, full of rich Yanks? Ditch me and then come begging for a handout like a bloke...”

  Jumping to my feet, I picked up her beach bag. “Christ, have you any francs or not?”

  “No! Ask your Noel, in that strip-tease joint where she labors!”

  The Amazon finally had a name—Noel. I squatted beside Syd once more. “Honey, this isn't what you think,” I said, one of my hands exploring the towels and creams in her bag until I found the purse: she only had a few coins. “The... eh... jam I'm in—I either lost my travelers checks, or was robbed. That's why...”

  “Then you did go to bed with Noel! She rolled you!”

  “Oh for—I don't sleep with every babe I meet. The trite line sounded sillier than asking madame the blonde's name.

  “You try your bloody best to!” She touched her hair again. “Come over to the pension. I've some money in my dresser.”

  “Hon, I haven't time. Where does Noel work? Where did we first see her?”

  “You dare ask me that? Leaving me alone in that filthy bar, in my cups, while you took off for Monte Carlo in her car. True, I only have a scooter but...” The tears came. She turned over and wept into the beach mat, small shoulders trembling.

  I stroked the scrawny neck. “I only want to see if I dropped the checks... Where is this bar, honey?”

  “Some place in... Villefranche,” she sobbed. “Syd, do you know an American named Robert Parks?”

  She kept bawling into her beach mat. I patted the soft brown hair—unfortunately her best feature —which only seemed to increase the water works. Slapping her little behind, for no reason, I walked on down the beach, wondering how I could reach Villefranche.

  I could walk, but that would take a few hours and an American walking the road might arouse some cop's curiosity. The train and bus stations would be watched... I glanced at the Mediterranee, my eyes attracted by the very blue and clean green patches of water. A young couple pedaled by, working their legs in lazy rhythm as they leaned back on the canvas seats and held hands, the pontooned little boat riding the gentle swell.

  I could rent a pedalo—Villefranche was but around the next cape—perhaps two miles by sea. But I'd need at least five hundred francs for that—more to rent one of the clumsy double-ended boats in the harbor with their ancient engines.

  The beach ends in the steep rocks beneath the Chateau—a tourist attraction park high above the breakwater and the harbor. Dressing, I hopped up on the Promenade, searching for police vans and motorcycle cops. A flashy new white Chevy—looking Cadillac—large among the compact European cars—whizzed by. Quickly walking down to the port and the first traffic light, I bought a French paper, sat on a bench. Holding the paper close to my face, as if terribly near-sighted, was a corny disguise. It took a long twenty minutes before what I wanted stopped for the red light, and my nerves were dancing by then.

  A snappy, low-slung, black Mercedes-Benz roadster with U.S. ARMED FORCES IN GERMANY license plates—the horse-faced driver was young and slight—an officer type. Most important, he was alone. Stepping off the curb I asked, “Mac, any chance of a lift to Villefranche?”

  “Why sure. On the way to Italy, ain't it?” he answered, with a twang only a couple months out of Kansas, or some other midwest state. “Hop in. Going to San Remo myself.”

  As he gave the sleek car gas, the leather seat warm against my thin slacks, he told me, “You dress like a Frenchie. But soon as you spoke, knew you was from the States. Tourist?”

  “Yeah. I was here during the war, always wanted to come back for another look-see. Are you a lieutenant?”

  “Heck no, just a lousy sergeant, stationed in Berlin. Got me another year to go over here.” He laughed. “It ain't too hard to take.”

  When he laughed I realized he was only a kid, nineteen or twenty. “You must be the world's champion crap shooter,” I told him, wondering if I could ask him to cash a check.

  “Me? A...?” The puzzled look fled his long face as he laughed again. “You mean this sharp heap—nope, I'm paying it off out of my salary. Ain't nothing else to do with the dough. Got me a real good buy on this and before I return Stateside, I'll sell it. Like money in the bank, I say, but better— can't ride a bankbook. Said you were here during the war—heck, you don't look that old.”

  “Old? I'm not talking about World War One, sonny.”

  “Me neither. Probably no vets still alive from that shindig,” the dumb punk said. I'm kind of touchy about my age, so I kept my trap shut, didn't mention cashing the check—the fresh thing probably wouldn't have done it anyway. When he slowed up at Villefranche, I thanked him and leaped out. He called back, “Glad to oblige an old soldier, Pops.”

  Being a regular port of call for the U.S. Navy, Villefranche is a mixture of a quaint old fishing village plus a number of flashy bars. Walking downhill toward the harbor, I passed several joints proudly advertising “strip tease.” In a country where stage nudity has long been a common sight, I could never understand the popularity of the strip, but every club had one or more peel artists.

  Finding Noel was almost too simple. Outside a basement dive called Jazz-Shocker were the usual asinine photos of bare babes, all posing as if they had a stick up their rears. Seeing Noel's picture was reliving my dream. Her gross face and exaggerated curves served as comic relief for the standard slim figures of the other teasers. Walking down a few steps, I rattled a gate closing off the staircase. The gloomy inside of the club seemed small, upside-down chairs on the tables a forest of varnished wood. The walls were splashes of various colors, all of them positively gaudy. The bartender was busy-busy—doing something like watering the bottles.

  Not a thing about the stupid place rang any memory bells. The barkeep called out in French that they didn't open until nine p.m. I said, in English, I wanted to find Noel. Coming over to his side of the gate, he handed me some shoe polish—in broken English—about the Jazz-Shocker having this strict policy of never giving the addresses of their entertainers.

  I told him to pull it down over his head and call it curls.

  The lids above his tired eyes seemed permanently puffed, and the big head was shaved. As he chattered on in poor English, the little eyes took stock of me like twin cash registers: weighing my sloppy clothes against the fact I was an American, speculating on how much I might pay for Noel's address. I'd gladly offered him every franc on me—which wouldn't have made him yawn.

  I went into a song and dance about the blonde being my personal friend—the bartender couldn't have cared less. In fact, his eyes seemed to say he doubted I wanted a girlfriend. A little rattled, on the spur of a dumb moment, I tried a change-up pitch. “Look, Noel will want to see me. Just phone her that Robert Parks is here.”

  He tied hard not to react but there was a new alertness in the beady eyes. With a hammy grin he said, “Monsieur, I about to go for lunch—as friend I take you to Mademoiselle Noel. I can no say she be home, or wish to see you. But I take you.”

  In less than a minute we were walking down the
narrow twisting stairs they insist are streets in Villefranche—toward the harbor: a dull-grey U.S. destroyer anchored out in the bay. I was aware my newly-found “friend” was careful to walk at my side, never in front of me... or was it my imagination? In the sunlight he seemed far more muscular than I'd thought. The slightly-flattened nose, puffed eyes, hinted he could have been a pug years ago.

  Syd had mentioned Monte Carlo and somehow I thought we were heading for a garage and a car; but we turned into a dead-end street of ancient houses, then into the oldest of these. The street was strangely empty—at noon people are usually out buying their charcuterie for lunch. We marched up four flights of worn stone steps and his being behind me all the time didn't stop the uneasy feeling building inside my puffing guts. Still, he looked about forty-five—and I was not only a half-dozen years younger, but had seventy pounds and a foot in height on him... seventy slightly-flabby pounds, it was true.