by Tim Sandlin
I looked back at the woman. "Put this on Armand's tab."
She didn't move a muscle.
The Japanese businessmen were long gone, replaced by a teen tour from Lewisville, Texas. I know because two of the boys and one girl had on Lewisville Fighting Farmers letter jackets. The boys' said TRACK on the back, the girl's said CHEERLEADING. In GroVont we didn't give letters for cheerleading.
The man and woman on the other side of the glass were still going at it. They'd left the chair and were performing a modified beast-with-two-backs against the bureau.
One of the girls — not the one in the letter sweater — said, "That must be heck on the lumbar."
A boy said, "Mrs. McConaughy's going to be P.O.ed we didn't go to the Picasso Museum." The others laughed at him and I knew how he felt.
The man saw me through the window. He mouthed some kind of exclamation and pointed me out to the woman, who had to twist her neck to see what he was exclaiming about.
One of the Fighting Farmers said, "Holy cow, what happened to you?"
"I was ruined by Internet porn," I said.
The others turned to stare at me.
"Don't let it happen to you."
The door was open upstairs. I went across the front room as fast as possible without making a lot of noise and walked on into the back room where people were gathered around a wood table, eating bread, lunch meat, and olives from a bowl, and drinking wine — same bunch as before, except they'd been joined by Bernard, wearing a McDonald's shirt buttoned clear up to the Adam's apple. There was only the one chair and Armand had it, so the others ate standing up or sitting on licey-looking mattresses against the wall.
The trick is don't waste time. Go to it. I walked up to Leon and hit him hard as I could, dildo to medial collateral ligament. He went down like a sack of cement falling off a truck. The bald-headed girl screamed and Remi dug for his knife. I tapped him upside the head and that was all she wrote for Remi.
I whirled and whacked, whirled and whacked, the avenging angel dealing God's justice on my terms. Samson had his jawbone of an ass, Rowdy Talbot had his dildo. One poli sci guy yelled and ran from the room while the other went fetal and blubbered. Bernard didn't fight back but I popped him anyway, for sleeping with Odette. Leon was the only one man enough to need more than one whack. He took three, including shots to the trachea and the base of his spine, before he gave it up.
Armand didn't move, the dumb cluck. I think he thought he was observing life and not part of it. The bald-headed girl kept screaming till I faked a backhand at her amoeba. That shut her up. Giselle backed against the wall and glared at me with that trapped-animal look of hers.
Soon as everyone who was willing to put up a fight was done with, I walked over and stood close up in front of Giselle.
"My buckle."
"You wouldn't hit a woman. It's against the cowboy code."
"Who told you about the code?"
"I heard you and Odette, while I was in the toilette. You cannot cheat a friend or hit a woman."
I poked her between the legs with my dildo. "Read the rules, honey. There's exceptions for bull riders."
Armand spit. "Donne-la lui."
She looked over at Armand, her eyes flashing almost as much hatred at him as she'd laid on me. Her fingers dipped into the demicup cleavage and came out with my buckle. She'd had it hooked over the strap between her cups. Couldn't have been all that comfortable.
"That's the spirit," I said. I took the buckle with my left hand, which wasn't easy, but I was afraid to set down the dildo to use my right. Leon might get a second wind. I glanced at the buckle, noticing again how the cowboy's riding arm was out of position. Whoever made it had stressed Western romance more than accuracy.
I said, "Let that be a lesson to you."
My Stetson was on the floor, under the lunch spread table. When I bent to pick it up, the room spun.
Armand said, "Go back to the States. Do not let me see you in Paris again."
"Crap," I said. "I forgot about you."
I went back and sapped Armand, right across the bridge of his French nose. On a one-hundred-point scoring scale, the satisfaction level was in the high nineties.
30.
The teen tour kids had gone off to wherever American teen tour kids go at night in Paris, back to the hotel to practice lessons they'd learned on their field trip, I suppose. The man and woman behind the glass were still going at it, in bed, now. Woman on top. Their eyes lit up with expressions of perfect delight. I stopped to watch their faces but not their bodies. It's not that often I see happy people and, when it happens, I try to take notice. It came to me that those two must be in love. Why else would they keep the show up after the audience had departed?
I gave the woman behind the toy counter her dildo and phone wire. She seemed grateful.
"You should find a job working somewhere else," I said.
She said, "I will."
Back out on the street, the weather had stopped fooling with that mist-hanging-in-the-air stuff and gone on to serious rain. I was shirtless, blood-spattered, worn out, and lost. To tell the truth, chasing down the buckle had been an emotional drain. I didn't know how much of a drain until after I got the buckle back. I'd been operating on adrenaline since Colorado, and now it all came crashing down, even though this wasn't a convenient location for a crash. Part of me wished I hadn't given the NyQuil man all my money. I could have held back some for a bus ticket or a cup of French coffee.
I was staring at a thirty-weight slick in the gutter, wondering whether to turn right or left, when the mustard and metallic blue Citroën appeared at the curb. Pinto Whiteside rolled down the window and said, "Need a lift?"
He had the dog back — Monty, washed and fluffed — and now that it was nighttime, Pinto had gone to wearing sunglasses. I've never met a silver-ponytailed guy wearing sunglasses at night yet who can be trusted.
"Not from you," I said.
He said, "Get in the automobile."
I hesitated, weighing the odds of making it till daylight without him. They weren't that good.
"Do you require help with the door?" he asked.
"I can open the damn door."
And I could, and did, but that was about the limit of my abilities. I sat in the front seat with the heater blowing on my legs and I closed my eyes. The dog licked my chewed-on ear.
"I don't have any money," I said.
"We'll extend credit, this once."
Pinto slid her into gear and we lurched into the wet street. Close as I was to unconscious, I could still tell his clutch was doomed.
"Did you get your buckle back?" he asked.
"Yep."
"Was it much trouble?"
"Not much."
Pinto let out a low chuckle devoid of humor. "You cowboys are so macho. I used to hate that in New Mexico. It's as if the worst thing you tough guys can possibly do is admit you have a problem."
I talked with my eyes closed. "Macho's got nothing to do with tough. Those are two separate items. Toughest rodeo cowboys I ever met were the gay bull riders."
"Are there a number of those?"
"Enough they have their own circuit. Gay bull riders catch it from both sides — bulls and rednecks who wear hats. You don't want to cross a gay bull rider."
"I'll keep that in mind."
The tires whished as we sped up the hill. I like the sound of tires on wet pavement. It reminds me of driving into Jackson with Dad in his old Willys truck with the split windshield. He didn't have air-conditioning so we rode with the windows down. You don't see people driving with their windows down anymore, except kids, who love the sensation of wind lifting their arm like a bird. Mica completely freaks out now when Tyson sticks his hand out the window. She tells him the story of a little boy from her youth who lost his arm from the elbow down on a speed limit sign. Dad didn't care if I rode with my arm out or not. I should probably resent him for that, but I don't. There's too much else on the list.
&n
bsp; "Where we going?" I asked.
"To get you patched up?"
"I don't need patching. I need a ride to the place where my passport is."
"Why can't you lift your left arm?"
"I can. I'd just rather not."
"That cut on your head needs stitches."
"I can't afford the hospital."
"In my line, we don't use hospitals. We'll take you to a safe house and put you back together. After that, we need to talk."
I groaned. "Nobody, ever, anywhere, needs to talk."
"We do."
"That means you want to talk and you expect me to listen."
Without warning, Pinto whipped into a narrow street climbing up the hill. He was humming a Johnny Cash song called " Ring of Fire." Monty put a paw on my thigh, whining. He wanted to be petted but he was on my left side there and I didn't feel up to the effort. It's terrible when you've come to a place in your life where you can't pet a dog. The thought should have sent me spinning into a reevaluation of what matters but I was too tired to dwell on it. What I needed was a nap.
Pinto pointed to a building coming up on our right. "Van Gogh lived on the fourth floor of that house." He downshifted for a hard turn up the hill. "His ear was a mess, too, same as yours."
31.
The safe place Pinto took me to get patched was his wife's bordello. As there wasn't any street parking left, he drove up the sidewalk and parked in front of the gate so people coming in and going out had to walk around his rear bumper. He and Monty got out. I stayed where I felt comfortable and dry.
"Your wife's in there," I said.
"Mrs. Whiteside is a trained nurse technician. She only prostitutes for money."
"What other reason is there?"
"Most of the women in quality houses are here for the prestige. Or they're bored at home. Did you ever see Belle de Jour?"
"No."
Monty whined in Pinto's arms, wanting in out of the rain.
"Come, Rowdy, the damp will frizz Monty's do."
I said, "She'll recognize me. She'll know I was spying for you."
"You told me she didn't see you this afternoon." Pinto stooped down to look in the window. "Am I correct in assuming she did not look at you? You wouldn't lie about something that important."
I opened the door and swung my legs out. "I don't lie. I'm from Wyoming."
Inside after dark was more along the lines of what a fancy house of ill repute ought to be. Before, it'd been like the waiting room in a day spa. Now, there actually was a piano player. He wasn't blind, but he was black, which is almost as good. He was playing "Bridge Over Troubled Waters," leaning to the side and smiling during the intense parts. The women ignored him. There were five of them, mostly reading thick magazines and smoking cigarettes. They glanced up when the door opened, saw it was Pinto, and went about their business. Not a one in there was under thirty-five. They could have passed for a secretarial pool. No wonder it was a slow night for fleshpots.
An older woman in a shiny red slacks suit came charging across the room, chattering French all the way. Her hair was legal pad yellow and teased into a wasps' nest. Regal rouge. Solid jewelry. She looked surprisingly close to Yancy Hollister's grandmother, known in Texarkana as the Queen of the All-You-Can-Eat Buffet.
The woman I took as the madam jabbed a finger at me. Maybe it was because I was dribbling on her nice hardwood floor, or maybe they had a "no shirt, no service" rule. Something about me set her off. She didn't think I was good enough to be in her whorehouse.
Pinto's French was impressive, I have to admit that. She gave him what for and he gave it right back. I kept an eye on the prostitutes. None of them seemed interested. If I lived in a foreign country and a bleeding, bare-chested cowboy came into my parlor, I'd at least look at him. I guess, at their age, those women had seen it all.
Finally, Pinto grunted, "Oui." He dug in his front pocket and came out with a chunk of turquoise. It was more veined than the one he sold me, a darker blue. The madam lady snatched the turquoise from Pinto's hand and threw me a look of scorn.
As we mounted the staircase, Pinto said, "You owe me, buster."
We waited in the hallway, outside Mrs. Whiteside's room. Pinto smoked a cigar. I admired the paintings. He said, "La Pastille has been an establishment on this location for over two hundred years." He nodded toward the geezer I was looking at — bent nose, white hair, effeminate jacket. "Dumas himself got his ashes hauled in this building."
I nodded as if I knew who Dumas was. I'll bet I would have known if I'd seen it spelled out. French names are hardly ever pronounced the way they read on paper, and I only know the famous ones from reading.
"Weren't those women downstairs kind of elderly to be hooking?"
Pinto coughed, politely, not a real cough so much as making noise in hopes someone will hear you. "The women here do not consider themselves hookers. They are legitimate courtesans."
"Legitimate courtesans. Isn't there a word for that?"
"You're thinking of oxymoron."
"No, that's not what I'm thinking."
The door swung open and a man in a military uniform I'm sure wasn't American came out of Mrs. Whiteside's room. He was a spiffy general or admiral or some other high-rank fella with a mustache and stick-up-his-ass posture. The man didn't look at us and Pinto didn't look at him. It must be awkward. I've stood in line at Home Depot behind guys I knew had Mica. There's a natural urge to stove in their rib cage.
We found Pinto's wife sitting at the iron patio table, smoking a brown cigarette. She was wearing a pearl gray lounging robe and writing in a notebook. I suppose she kept trick records. She said something sharp to Pinto, I figure something like, "Close the damn door," because that's what he did. Then she said something else that made him take his sunglasses off.
He waved the glasses in my direction. "Rowdy Talbot, meet my wife, Alene Whiteside."
I was embarrassed, not so much from my condition as I was at seeing this stately woman so soon after she'd done whatever disgusting thing she did for money. Mrs. Whiteside still came off as dignified. Her hair was clean without looking overbred. Her robe was casually modest. She wasn't ruffled like a woman who'd just had sex with a stranger. I don't think Mica or any other American girl I've met would come off as dignified in her position.
"I'm sorry, ma'am," I said.
Mrs. Whiteside recognized me right off. I could see it from her face and I'm not sure how Pinto couldn't. When it comes to wives, men see what they want to see. She knew who I was and where she'd seen me, and it only took her two seconds to put together why I'd barged in earlier. I guess it was no more to her advantage to blow my cover than it was mine to blow hers.
"Vous êtes blessé." She glided over to me, the way I picture an angel gliding. Her fingers went to the cut on my forehead. She murmured words that sounded like comfort.
"Sit on the bed," Pinto said.
"I'll soil the sheets."
"The sheets are already soiled. She has to change them anyway."
Pinto threw a spread over the mussy stuff and I sat on the end of the bed while Mrs. Whiteside moved into her toilette there. I heard drawers opening and closing. She spoke softly to Monty, who went under what I would call a makeup table. He circled three times, clockwise, and settled.
I said, "Don't bother yourself on my account. All I need's codeine and bag balm, and there's some of each back in my saddlebag."
She came out carrying water in a blue basin, fancy soap, butterfly bandages, and some spray stuff. Bactine or the French equivalent.
"Mrs. Whiteside was a nurse when we lived in the Middle East," Pinto said. "She took up her new profession after we moved to Paris. She needs something to do while I travel."
"That's interesting."
Her fingers pressed on my chest, lowering me to the bed. The touch was wonderful. You know how sometimes you go to the emergency room and a nurse touches you and you know right off this woman is here to take care of you. You are no longer the s
ole person holding yourself together. You can let go. That's how Mrs. Whiteside's fingers felt, like I was a child and she was the mom other people have.
Pinto paced like a man feeling his nerves. "The time has come to answer questions."
"Not me."
"You must, anyway. We have no room for error after tonight."
Questions were the last thing I wanted. What I wanted was to float under Mrs. Whiteside's hands. She washed the cut on my head first. Even though it was visually speaking the most gruesome of my aches and pains, it didn't cause that much discomfort. Head wounds tend to bleed more than hurt.
"How many of Armand's people were in the building when you left?"
I didn't answer. She sprayed Bactine or whatever it was on my cut. It stung like hell, but in a good way. Absence of pain means you're dead, so sometimes a good sting is what it takes to prove you're alive.
"How many?"
"Eight, except one ran out. Another one or two might be dead. I don't think so, but you never can tell."
"Did you see signs of McDonald's paraphernalia?"
"Can a shirt be paraphernalia? Two of them had on McDonald's shirts."
Mrs. Whiteside's hands moved over to my left ear, the one Remi bit. The ear Leon slapped hurt more. He'd jangled something inside, past the wax. Remi just chewed cartilage.
"Which two were wearing McDonald's uniforms?"
"Giselle, the snuff queen I met in Colorado, and Odette's boyfriend, although he might be an ex-boyfriend by now. Bernard."
The bed shifted when Pinto sat on it. My extreme wish was that he would go away so I could sleep under his wife's hands. She struck me as one classy woman. "Were there computers? Printouts? That sort of thing."
"One computer. And piles of pamphlets. They had the makings for Arapaho bombs — gasoline, rags, wine bottles."
