by Tim Sandlin
He came to the door, shirtless and barefoot, wearing dress slacks. My guess would be Hagar but they could have been Armani for all I knew. He had the body you see on guys who exercise incessantly but have never worked an honest day in their lives. He said, "I'm guessing Disney. You're too slick for CIA."
"There's that word again."
"You could be American Mafia. They send feelers into Paris every few years."
I chugged down the second cup, fast as I could. Once I started pissing him off, there might not be a chance to finish. Michael slipped on a dress shirt and came back in the front room, still barefoot. "The only thing I know for certain is you didn't barge in here looking for a belt buckle."
Time to kick open the gate. "I first came to Paris for the buckle, but now I'm more interested in stopping you from killing folks."
34.
Giselle's face turned to wax — which was odd because I'd thought it was wax already, during the argument with Odette. Her face at the word killing made the old Giselle look positively perky.
I said, "I don't give a rat's hairy ass what you do to McDonald's its own self, but I can't let you murder folks whose only sin is to eat a chicken nugget."
Giselle said, "Murder?"
Michael said, "It would be best if you shut up, Giselle."
Michael was dreaming if he thought he had the power to shush Giselle. "Psilocybin does not murder. It makes the eater sick. The vomit, then the hallucination."
"Maybe so, but they tell me that stuff in your tampon tube causes sudden, painful death."
"That is absurd."
Odette had gone hyperalert. You could practically see her tingling nerve ends. By contrast, Michael went the other way. He was one of those rare snakes who appear to relax as they coil. When he spoke, his Southern accent was thicker than it had been. "I'm interested in who they is."
"Hell, half Paris knows you're planning to poison McDonald's."
"I didn't know," Odette said.
"You're the wife. Wives never know when their husband's fixing to slaughter innocents."
"Whatever person told you this lied," Giselle said.
I finished my coffee, down to the last drop. "That is possible, I'll give you. It's also possible you were lied to. I'd put the odds at about even."
Giselle said, "Michael would not lie."
"What?" Odette had the look of the flummoxed. Of course Michael would lie. He lied continuously, and both girls knew it. The fact sank in on Giselle without me having to point out the obvious.
Her voice wasn't quite so certain as before. "I myself am to take the powder, in order to become ill and deflect suspicion to others. All the embedded employees are to take it."
Michael walked to the fish tank and shook in this stuff looked like Parmesan cheese. The fish went nuts, what we call a feeding frenzy.
"If Michael is willing to kill random strangers, what would stop him from killing you?" I asked.
"But we made love."
Odette said, "And?" leaving the rest unsaid. Giselle got the point.
Michael studied the fancy fish, as if they were more interesting than anything else in the room. "When customers simultaneously get sick at several McDonald's, it will shut down the franchises."
"For a week, maybe. Only death will close them long-term." I concentrated on Giselle. "Think with your head instead of your snatch for once. He's not going to risk this" — my arm took in the vases and naked statues, the marble-topped table, the huge mirror, the stupid fish — "to make people vomit."
Giselle's eyes focused on the mid-range, thinking, adding up reality. Odette stared at Michael. Giselle was wavering, but separated wives are more than happy to believe the worst. Odette said the meanest insult she could come up with on the spot. "Michael, you are nothing but an American."
"I'm an American who has done more for Paris than any of your ridiculous Frenchmen. You think Armand and his band of stooges could have put together this operation without me? Until I came along, their idea of revolution was a brick through the window."
"A ridiculous Frenchman is superior to an American with good intentions," Odette said, which I thought was pretty good, worthy of a foreign self-evident truth. Personally, I'd about decided France would be better off without help from Michael, Pinto, or McDonald's.
Giselle walked into the bedroom and came back carrying a stressed-leather handbag. I thought she was leaving.
So did Michael. "Giselle, honey, don't go. Think about all I've done for the movement while this clown still says he came here looking for a buckle. Who are you going to trust?"
Giselle's hand dipped into her bag and came out with a pistol. I wasn't certain, but I thought it was the gun I'd seen under her mattress earlier.
She said, "Let us discover who is lying."
It always floors me how a handgun commands attention. I haven't been around them as much as you would think, what with being a cowboy and all. I mean, every pickup truck in Wyoming has a gun rack sporting a couple rifles, maybe an over/under shotgun, but those aren't the same as a pistol brandished indoors. When a pistol comes out in a room, all eyes stay on it for the duration. Real people aren't near as cool about having weapons pointed at them as movie people.
Giselle kept the barrel aimed more or less midway between me and Michael. "We shall feed the cowboy a dose of the powder and if he dies, we know he is telling the truth. If he only becomes ill, it is you."
I had to speak up. "What a terrible idea."
Michael turned away from his fish. "Do you have any powder on you?"
"You know I do not. It is hidden at my workplace."
"The doses are spread all over the city by now. How are you planning to lay your hands on a sample?"
Giselle reached into her leather bag again. This time, she came out with a cell phone. "We shall have what you call a dress rehearsal."
After Giselle made her phone call she herded us into the bedroom so she could dress without risk, and I got to see her naked again. Giselle did have a statuesque body. Strong. Ripe. Anti-gravity on parade. I mean, Odette's body was warm and inviting, only with her it was primarily attitude. You could tell Odette was at home in her skin. Giselle was more holy cow, look at that! I had to remind myself that this woman collected dolls. What I wondered was whether or not bisexuals are by nature tougher than heteros or homos. Does the lack of boundaries make them less tolerant? I thought about it awhile and decided I didn't have enough evidence to say.
Giselle slid into a black skirt and V-necked shirt. She and Michael argued, moving from French to English and back, slaloming languages. Michael's point was they had a plan and they should stick with it. Giselle's point was if the plan involved her death, she was going to make a modification.
"We must hit every store the same day or it will not cause the right amount of panic," Michael said.
"One restaurant won't ruin it for the others," Giselle said. "People vomit in McDonald's every day."
Odette caught me checking out Giselle's breasts and snapped a backhand into my bad shoulder. She said, "You are monogamous, now."
"Since when?"
"Since today."
It's not fair that women are always the ones to decide that commitment folderol. The guy never chooses at what point going steady commences. All three times I married Mica I didn't know we were doing it until she told me. The breakups took place in her head well before I knew about them, too.
Giselle slid on her black boots with heels that looked like fancy cafe pepper mills. She waggled the pistol my direction. "Time to move."
Michael said, "This is a mistake."
"Where we going?" I asked.
"What difference does it make to you?" Odette said, which was true.
Giselle had us take the stairs instead of the elevator so she could keep everyone in front of her. In the lobby, she draped one of Michael's sweaters over her arm to hide the pistol. I think it was cashmere, but what do I know about sweaters. It could have been mohair. The getup looked
blatant to me, but the nervous man didn't seem to notice. I doubt if he'd say anything even if he did see the gun. One thing you have to say for the French is they respect people's privacy.
Out on the street, Giselle nodded at Pinto's Citroën. "We'll take a taxi."
Odette started to speak up about Pinto, but I gave her a look and she didn't. While Giselle kept her cover on me and Michael, mostly, there was no doubt Odette was also on the captives list. Giselle didn't trust anyone at this point. She motioned Michael into the front seat and me and Odette in back with her. Odette in the middle.
Pinto said, "Où allez-vous?"
Michael looked at him closely and said, "I rode with you yesterday."
"Lots of people rode with me yesterday."
"But I know you," Michael said.
"No talking," Giselle said to Michael. To Pinto, she said, "Conduis."
"Where?"
"Champs-Elysées. Je vous dirai quand vous arrêter."
As Pinto pulled into traffic Giselle flipped open her cell phone, punched numbers, and started rattling on.
Odette and I held hands. "Who's she calling now?"
"Armand," Odette said. "She wants him to meet us at McDonald's on the Champs-Elysées."
"Great, that peckerhead is all I need."
Pinto's sunglasses tilted up as he checked us out in the rearview mirror. "Any of you folks interested in turquoise? I have some exquisite pieces."
Pinto drove us back over to the street where I'd chased the bus on a bicycle. It was odd to have been in Paris long enough to recognize streets. If I stayed another day or two I would no doubt establish hangouts and start keeping up with the private traumas of waitresses. Being on the road so much, I'd developed the ability to infiltrate scenes. All that's needed is to ask a couple of questions.
Although there wasn't street parking and I couldn't see how the people on the crowded sidewalk had gotten there, Pinto pulled up and stopped. The guy in the car behind him threw the usual Paris driver hissy fit.
Pinto put his arm on the back of the seat. He said, "Twenty-two euros."
Giselle looked at me. "Pay the man."
"Are you nuts? Hostages don't pay cab fares."
"Jesus Christ." Michael pulled out a wad of cash. "I'll pay."
Pinto coughed us up on the sidewalk and drove away. We stood next to one of those urban beech trees they have that grows out of grates on the concrete. We were between an outside dining area and the buildings, and I couldn't tell which cafe the dining area went with. There were several choices.
A woman not in black moved from table to table, spare changing. She was wearing an orange wraparound skirt and had a green scarf over her head.
"What's that?" I asked Odette.
"She's a gypsy."
"Oh, yeah?" I watched the woman, wishing she would come and hit me for cash. I would have gone over and offered, but I did that once in Santa Monica and the panhandler turned me down. He said, "No, thanks. You need it more than I do." Since then, I've been afraid to risk rejection from beggars.
"I never saw a real gypsy before," I said.
Odette stared at me. "I cannot tell when you are kidding."
"The only place I've seen gypsies is at county fairs and those weren't real. They were girls in costumes."
Michael shot his arm out and looked at his watch.
I said, "You in a hurry?"
"I have a full schedule today."
"I figure the person holding the gun gets to decide what we do next."
That's when Armand and Leon came wandering up the street. Armand had two black eyes. Leon's head was bandaged like a man with an impacted molar. They both pretended not to see us.
Giselle shifted the possibly cashmere sweater into position over her arm. "We will go indoors now."
35.
McDonald's was inside this mall thing and downstairs in the basement. You don't see basement McDonald'ses in the Rockies. The walls were baby poop yellow brick. Water pipes lay exposed across the ceiling. Even though it was fairly early in the day, the place was packed. Each of the five cash register stations had a line must have been fifteen customers long. Bernard worked the line on the far left. He still hadn't shaved.
Giselle motioned with the sweater. "Over there."
We stood in Bernard's line behind a covey of schoolgirls in pigtails and uniforms. The one good thing I'd found about Paris so far was most of the people are short. Being able to look across the crowd was a new deal for me.
Nerves make me talkative. "People in Wyoming would never put up with a line this long. How can you stand living here? I've seen Garth Brooks concerts with less wait than it takes to get a Quarter Pounder in this town."
Giselle said, "Be quiet or I shall shoot you and find another guinea pig."
Michael said, "I'll get us a table."
She poked the sweater into his armpit. "Stay put."
Odette held my right hand with both of hers and chewed on the hoop in her lower lip. She was taking the death possibility seriously, and, as we shuffled closer to Bernard, I figured I'd better do the same. I'm just not hard wired for heavy anxiety. With bulls, there are two choices: get on or don't get on. Taking the danger seriously does not help if what you want is to get on.
But Paris isn't a bull ride. This time, I wasn't in danger because it gave life meaning. This was the opposite — danger that proved life is meaningless. I didn't want to die here and leave Tyson without a father. What would Mica tell him if I died in France? They wouldn't know I had come here for him. Far as they could tell, I'd called from Crockett County on Sunday and shown up dead in Paris Thursday. Mica would think I was here for fun.
"Do you love me," Odette asked.
"Yes, I love you." She squeezed my hand and we moved up another spot.
Armand and Leon slinked over by the bathrooms, which were beside the exit, and leaned against the wall, somewhat cutting off my run-like-hell option. Remi was nowhere in sight. My fondest wish was I'd put the bastard down for good.
Michael turned to face back, behind us, away from Bernard. He spoke quietly. "We have worked two years setting this up, Giselle. You are putting the operation at risk."
Giselle said, "Do not speak to me of risk."
Odette leaned close. I could feel her lips against my ear. "I apologize for the behavior of my husband and friend. They are idealistic, but I disagree with their methods. If I live through this day and you do not, I shall publicly renounce them."
"That's a fucking comfort."
Odette blinked three times and looked like she might cry. I'd hurt her feelings, but Jeez Louise, publicly renounce them. Whatever happened to cut off their genitals?
"You are bitter toward me?" she said.
"Love is more important than saving your culture." That's Self-evident Truth #11.
"I am not so certain as you are."
"Tell you what, Odette. You've got about two minutes to figure out which side you're on."
"But what can I do?"
"You'll think of something."
Pinto appeared at the door. He looked around, took off his sunglasses, and slid over to stand across the entryway from Armand. I couldn't tell if he knew Armand was there or not. So far as I could tell, Pinto hadn't even seen me. As I watched his futile attempt to blend in with the wall, it came to me that one of them — Pinto or Michael — had to be lying through his teeth, and if it wasn't Pinto I was in big trouble. So, I had to hope the good guy who was supposed to be on my side and there to save my ass was lying when he said the powder would kill me, and the bad-guy leader of the terrorists was telling the truth when he said it wouldn't. What were the odds?
"When we reach the front, order medium fries and a Coke," Giselle said.
"I'd rather have a beer."
"Medium fries and a Coke."
"Okay, but you're wasting your money on the Coke."
"Do it."
Bernard looked past the schoolgirls he was taking care of and saw us. He blanched, which is a go
od word for what he did. He blanched, his right hand tugged at his ear, and he screwed up the girls' order. I think they wanted burgers with no pickles and he gave them pickles. Or the other way around. Whichever it was, they were peeved and took it out on him in French.
Finally, my turn came. Odette stood on my right, holding my hand. Michael and Giselle were behind me where I could feel the barrel of her pistolet up against my tailbone.
"What am I supposed to order? I forgot."
Giselle spoke through clenched jaws. "Medium fries and a Coke."
I nodded to Bernard. "What she said."
He looked blank-faced past me to Giselle. She muttered, "Allez."
Bernard got my Coke first. When he brought it over, his hand shivered a touch. Then he went and filled the medium-sized red box with fries. As he turned, his right hand came from his pocket and sprinkled something on the fries. I looked quickly down the line at the other employees. There were eight or nine, not counting the cooks behind the half-wall, and none of them saw what Bernard had done. He must have practiced with salt, because he was pretty smooth about it, but still, you'd think someone would have seen.
He walked back to me and set the French fries on the counter. "Your fries, sir."
Then he picked a couple from the box and popped them into his mouth. Behind me, Giselle jerked the gun up and said, "Non."
Bernard said, "Ya quoi?"
I felt Michael dig an elbow into Giselle's arm, giving her the shut up signal. She'd forgotten to warn Bernard. Poor sap. Of all the villains I'd met in Paris, Bernard was the most pathetic. Even his own friends forgot to tell him the poison might be lethal.
He swallowed and said, "Deux cinquante-cinq."
"I'm sorry. I don't talk French."
"Two euros, fifty-five."
I dug in my front pocket, figuring this wasn't the time to claim proper hostage payment form. Bernard ate another of my fries. In Laramie, he would have been fired in a heartbeat.
Giselle reached around and grabbed a five from my hand and threw it on the counter. "Keep the change."
