by Trevanian
But after all, he mused, one had to be fair-minded. These youngsters had their virtues. They were doubtless more content than his generation, hooked as it was on the compulsion to achieve. And these young people were more at peace with life; more alert to ecological dangers; more disgusted by war; more socially conscious.
Useless snots.
He turned off into a side street, past a couple of antiques shops, and continued along a row of private houses behind black iron fences. Each had a steep stone stairway leading down to a basement. And one of these descending caves was illuminated by a dim red light. This was the Cellar d’Or.
He sat watching the action from his nook at the back of one of the artificial plaster grottoes that constituted the Cellar d’Or’s decor. The light was dim and the carpets jet black, and the uninitiated had to be careful of their footing. The fake stone grottoes were inset with chunks of fool’s gold, and all the other surfaces, the tables, the bar, were clear plastic in which bits of sequins and gold metal were entrapped. The glow lighting came from within these plastic surfaces, illuminating faces from beneath. And the air between objects was black.
He sipped at his second, very wet Laphroaig, served, as were all the drinks in the club, in a small gold metal chalice. The most insistent feature of the club’s bizarre interior was a large photographic transparency that revolved in the center of the room. It was lit from within, and every eye was drawn frequently to the woman who smiled from the full-length photograph. She stood beside what appeared to be a very high marble fireplace, her steady, mildly mischievous gaze directed at the camera and, therefore, at each man in the room, no matter where he sat. She was nude, and her body was extraordinary. A mulatto with café au lait skin, her breasts were conical and impertinent, her waist slight, her hips wide, and perfectly molded legs drew the eye to small, well-formed feet, the toes of which were slightly splayed, like those of a yawning cat. The black triangle of her écu appeared cotton soft, but it was something about the muscles and those splayed toes that held Jonathan’s attention. Stomach, arm, leg, and hip, there was a look of lean, hard muscle under the powdery brown skin—steel cable under silk.
That would be Amazing Grace.
The Cellar d’Or was essentially a whorehouse. And a rather good one. All the help—the chippies, the barmen, the waiters—were West Indian, and the music, its volume so low it seemed to fade when one’s attention strayed from it, was also West Indian. Despite the general air of ease and rest, the place was moving a fair amount of traffic. Men would arrive, and during their first drink they would be joined by one of the girls who sat in twos and threes at the most distant tables. Another drink or two and some light chat, and the couple would disappear. The girl would return, usually alone, within a half hour. And all this action was presided over by a smiling giant of a majordomo who stood by the door or at the end of the bar and watched over the patrons and the whores with a broad, benevolent smile, his jet black head shaved and glistening with reflections of gold. Nothing in his manner, save the feline control of his walk, gave him the look of the professional bouncer, but Jonathan could imagine the cooling effect he would have on the occasional troublemaker, descending on him like a smiling machine of fate and disposing of him with a single rapid gesture that most insouciant lookers-on would mistake for a friendly pat on the shoulder. The giant wore a close-fitting white turtlenecked jersey that displayed a pattern of muscles so marked that, even at rest, he appeared to be wearing a Roman breastplate under his shirt. In age, he could have been anywhere from thirty to fifty.
One of the girls detached herself from a co-worker and approached Jonathan’s table. She was the second to do so, and she looked very nice indeed as she crossed the floor: full-busted, long-legged, and an ass that moved hydraulically.
“You would care to buy me a drink?” she asked, her accent and phrasing revealing that she was a recent immigrant.
Jonathan smiled good-naturedly. “I’d be delighted to buy you a drink. But I’d rather you drank it back at your own table.”
“You don’t like me?”
“Of course I like you. I’ve liked you ever since we first met. It’s just that . . .” He took her hand and assumed his most tragic expression. “It’s just . . . you see, I had this nasty accident while I was driving golf balls in my shower and . . .” He turned his head aside and looked down.
“You are joking me,” she said, not completely sure.
“In fact, I am. But I do have some serious advice for you. Did you see that fellow who came in here after I did? The one with the blue raincoat?”
She looked over toward the far corner, then wrinkled her nose.
“Oh, I know,” Jonathan said, “he’s not as pretty as I am. But he’s loaded with money, and he came here because he’s shy with women. When you first approach him, he’ll pretend he doesn’t want anything to do with you. But that’s just a front. Just a game he plays. You keep at him, and by morning you’ll have enough money to buy your man a suit.”
She gave him a sidelong glance of doubt.
“Why would I lie to you?” Jonathan said, offering his palms.
“You sure?”
He closed his eyes and nodded his head, tucking down the corners of his mouth.
She left him and, after a compulsory pause at the bar so as not to seem to be flitting from one fish to another, she patted her hair down and made her way to the far corner. Jonathan smiled to himself in congratulation, sipped at his Laphroaig, and let his eyes wander over the photograph of Amazing Grace. Lovely girl. But time was passing, and he would have to make some kind of move soon if he was going to meet her.
Uh-oh. Maybe not. Here he comes.
Like everything else about the giant, his smile was large. “May I buy you a drink, sir?” Quiet though it was, his voice had a basso rumble you could feel through the table.
“That’s very good of you,” Jonathan said.
The giant made a gesture to the waiter, then sat down, not across from Jonathan as though to engage him in conversation, but beside him, so they were looking out on the scene together, like old friends. “This is the first time you have visited us, is it not, sir?”
“Yes. Nice place you’ve got here.”
“It is pleasant. I am called P’tit Noel.” The giant offered a hand so large that Jonathan felt like a child shaking it.
“Jonathan Hemlock. But you’re not West Indian.”
P’tit Noel laughed, a warm chocolate sound. “What am I, then?”
“Haitian, from your accent. Although your education has spoiled some of that.”
“Very good, sir! You are observant. Actually, my mother was Haitian, my father Jamaican. She was a whore, and he a thief. Later, he went into politics and she into the hotel business.”
“You might say they swapped professions.”
He laughed again. “You might at that, sir. Although I was schooled in this country, I suppose something of the patois will always be with me. Now, you know everything about me. Tell me everything about yourself.”
Jonathan had to smile at the disregard for subtlety. “Ah, here come the drinks.”
The waiter had not needed an order. He knew what Jonathan was drinking, and evidently P’tit Noel always drank the same thing, a chalice of neat rum.
Jonathan raised his glass to the large transparency of Amazing Grace. “To the lady.”
“Oh, yes. I am always glad to drink to her.” He drew off the rum in two swallows and set the goblet down on the gold table.
“Beautiful woman,” Jonathan said.
P’tit Noel nodded. “I am happy to know you are interested in women, sir. I was beginning to doubt. But if you are holding out for her, you waste your time. She does not go with patrons.” He looked again at the photograph. “But yes, she is a beautiful woman. Actually, she is the most beautiful woman in the world.” He said this last with the hint of a shrug, as though it were obvious to anyone.
“I’d like to meet her,” Jonathan said as casually
as possible.
“Oh, sir?” There was an almost imperceptible tensing of the pectoral muscles.
“Yes, I would. Does she ever come in?”
“Two or three times each evening. Her apartments are above.”
“And when she comes, is she dressed like that?” he indicated the transparency.
“Exactly like that, sir. She is proud of her body.”
“As she should be.”
P’tit Noel’s smile returned. “It is very good for business, of course. She comes. She takes a drink at the bar. She wanders among the tables and greets the patrons. And you would be surprised how business picks up for the girls the moment she leaves.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised at all, P’tit Noel.”
“Ah. You pronounce my name correctly. It is obvious you are not English.”
“I’m an American. I’m surprised you couldn’t tell from my accent.”
P’tit Noel shrugged. “All pinks sound alike.”
They both laughed. But Jonathan only shallowly. “I want to meet her,” he said while P’tit Noel’s laugh was still playing itself out.
It stopped instantly.
“You have the eyes of a sage man, sir. Why seek pain?” He smiled, and with a sense of comradeship Jonathan noticed that the smile did not come from within. It was a coiled, defensive crinkle in the corners of the eyes. Precisely the gentle combat smile that Jonathan assumed to put the victim off pace.
“Why are you so tight?” Jonathan asked. “Surely many men come in here and express interest in the lady there.”
“True, sir. But such men have only love on their minds.”
“How do you know I’m not sperm-blind?”
P’tit Noel shook his head. “I feel it. We Haitians have a sense for these things. We are a superstitious people, sir. The moment you came in, I sensed that you were trouble for Mam’selle Grace.”
“And you intend to protect her.”
“Oh yes, sir. With my life, if need be. Or with yours, should it sadly come to that.”
“No doubt about how it would go, is there?” Jonathan said, skipping unnecessary steps in the conversation.
“Actually, none at all, sir.”
“There’s an expression in the hill country of the United States.”
“How does it go, sir?”
“While you’re gettin’ dinner, I’ll get a sandwich.”
“Ah! The idiom is clear. And I believe you, sir. But the fact remains that you would lose any battle between us.”
“Probably. But you would not escape pain.”
“Probably.”
“I’ll make you a deal.”
“Ah! Now I recognize you to be an American.”
“Just tell the lady that I want to talk to her.”
“She knows you, then?”
“No. Tell her I want to talk about The Cloisters and Maximilian Strange.” Jonathan looked for the effect of the words upon P’tit Noel. There was none.
“And if she will not see you?”
“Then I’ll leave.”
“Oh, I know that, sir. I am asking if you will leave without disturbance.”
Jonathan had to smile. “Without disturbance.”
P’tit Noel nodded and left the table.
Five minutes later he returned. “Mam’selle Grace will see you. But not now. In one hour. You may sit and drink if you wish. I shall tell the girls that you are not a fish.” His formal and clipped tone revealed that he was not pleased that Amazing Grace had deigned to receive the visitor.
Jonathan decided not to wait in the club. He told P’tit Noel that he would take a walk and return in an hour.
“As you wish, sir. But be careful on the streets. It is late, and there are apache about.” There was as much threat in this as warning.
Jonathan walked through the tangle of back streets slowly, his hands plunged deep into his pockets. Fog churned lazily around the streetlamps of the deserted lanes. He had made a pawn gambit, and it had been passed. He had lost nothing, but his position had become passive. They now made the moves and he reacted. An hour was a long time. Time enough for Amazing Grace to contact The Cloisters. Time enough for Strange to decide. Time enough to send men. Perhaps he had made an error in not bringing a gun.
On the other hand, the Vicar had said The Cloisters people were seeking him out for some reason, and they had been doing so even before Loo had involved him in this thing. If Strange needed him, why would he seek to harm him? Unless they knew he was working for Loo. And how would they know that?
It was a goddamn merry-go-round.
Near a corner, he found a telephone kiosk. His primary reason for leaving the Cellar d’Or had been to phone Vanessa and make sure she was off in Devon and out of the line of fire. As the unanswered phone double-buzzed, his eyes wandered over hastily penned and scratched messages: doodles, telephone numbers, an announcement that one Betty Kerney was devoted to an exotic protein diet. There was a sad graffito penned in a precise, cramped hand: “Mature person seeks company of young man. Strolls in the country and fishing. Mostly friendship.” No meeting time; no telephone number. Just a need shared with a wall. After the phone had rung many times, Jonathan hung up. He was relieved to know that Vanessa was out of it.
It was nearly time to return to the Cellar d’Or, and he had seen nothing of the man in the blue raincoat since he had left him trying to disentangle himself from the coyly persistent Jamaican whore, pay for his drink, and collect his raincoat. All this without arousing undue attention. They were an incompetent bunch. Just like the CII.
During his quiet stroll through the fog, he had decided how he would play this thing with Amazing Grace. There were two possibilities. On the one hand, Strange might only have her try to sound him out—discover his reason for seeking him. In that case Jonathan would let Grace know that he was aware of the activities at The Cloisters and of the fact that Maximilian Strange wanted to contact him for some reason. He would tell her he was interested in anything that might prove profitable, if it was safe enough. On the other hand, Strange might have decided to send men to pick Jonathan up and bring him to The Cloisters. In this case it would be important not to seem eager to get inside. He would have to put up some resistance, enough to make it look good. He would have to hurt some of them, while he tried to avoid hurt to himself. Once inside The Cloisters, he would have to play it by ear. It would be a narrow thing.
Damn. If only he knew why Strange was trying to contact him.
He paused for a second beneath a streetlight to get his bearings back to the Cellar d’Or. The blind alley leading to the side entrance was only a block or two from here. There was a shuffling sound down the street, and he turned in time to see a figure jump from the pool of light two streetlamps away.
The blue raincoat. The last thing he needed was this MI–5 ass tagging along. It would make him appear to be bait, and he’d never talk his way out of that.
There was a second of elastic silence, then Jonathan heard another sound, borne on the fog from across the street. There were two more of them.
He ran.
He had only twenty-five yards on them as he broke into the blind mews behind the club and banged loudly at the back door. The noise echoed through the brick cavern, but there was no response. From the dustbins and garbage cans that littered the alley, he found a champagne bottle, which he clutched by the neck, thankful for the weight of the dimpled bottom as he pressed back into a shadowy niche behind a projecting corner of damp brick. The three figures appeared, strung out across the entrance of the alley. Backlit by a streetlight, their long shadows falling before them on the wet cobblestones, they looked like extras from a Carol Reed film. Jonathan could see their featureless silhouettes, mat black in a nimbus of silver phosphorescent fog. He remained motionless, his heart beating in his temples from the effort of his run and from anger at being endangered by these bungling government serfs.
They stopped halfway down the alley and exchanged some muttered w
ords. One seemed to want to go away, another thought they should enter the Cellar d’Or and investigate. After a moment of vacillation, they decided to enter the club. Jonathan pressed back against the wall as they neared. Getting all three was going to be difficult. As they came abreast him, he brought the bottle down on the head of one with a satisfyingly solid crack. The other two jumped away, then rushed at him with well-schooled reactions. Hands clutched at him, a fist hit him on the shoulder; a shoe cracked into his shin. He jerked away with a broad backhand sweep with the bottle that made them dodge back for an instant. One grabbed up a bottle from a dustbin and hurled it. He ducked as it exploded into fragments behind him.
A shaft of light fell upon the scene as the door behind Jonathan opened and the dominating bulk of P’tit Noel filled the frame.
“Thank God,” Jonathan said.
Together they waded into the hooligans, and it was over in five seconds. Jonathan used his bottle on one; P’tit Noel struck the other with the flat palms of his open hands, loud concussing blows that splatted against his head and slammed him against the wall.
One of the men was still conscious, sitting against the brick wall, blood streaming from his nose and mouth where P’tit Noel’s palm had flattened them. Another was moaning in semi-consciousness. The last was a silent heap among the garbage cans.
P’tit Noel dragged each up in turn by his lapels and held him against the wall with one hand while he opened the man’s eyelids with his fingers, professionally checking the set and dilation of the pupils. “They’ll live,” he said, as a matter of information.
“Pity.”
P’tit Noel wiped his palms on the shirt of one of the downed men. “Why don’t you step in and brush yourself off, sir,” he said over his shoulder. “Mam’selle Grace will see you now.”
“What about these yahoos?”
“Oh, I think they will be gone by morning.”
P’tit Noel conducted Jonathan to his small living quarters behind the club and offered him the use of his bathroom to clean up. He wasn’t really hurt. There was some stiffness in one shoulder, his trousers stuck to his shin where the kick had brought blood, and he was experiencing the mild nausea of adrenaline recession, but he would be fine. As he stepped from the bathroom, P’tit Noel greeted him with a glass of rum, hot and soothing going down.
