Draconian New York (Hob Draconian Book 1)

by Robert Sheckley

  “You’re kidding, aren’t you?”

  Hob shook his head. “No. Max, we got held up.”

  “At De Gaulle?”

  “Shortly after we left the airport. In the limo you sent for us.” Hob described the events.

  Max said, “I didn’t send any limo. I haven’t had time to set up a service yet.”

  “The driver had a sign with my name on it, and Aurora’s.”

  “He didn’t get it from me.”

  “He seemed to know who you were.”

  “Hob, think about it a moment. If I had set this up, would I use my own name?”

  “Maybe not,” Hob said. “Unless you were trying to be super clever.”

  “I’m not that clever,” Max said.

  “I believe you.”

  “What did you lose?”

  “Not much,” Hob said. “Just a small package of cocaine that wasn’t even mine. Yours, I believe. About a kilo.”

  Max’s heavy face had sagged. His pendulous lower lip drooped lower than usual. He looked like he had aged about ten years. He slumped back in his chair.

  After a while he said, “Hob, about that coke—”

  “You had Aurora or Kelly plant it in my luggage,” Hob said. “I’ve already figured out that much.”

  “Hob, I can explain.”

  Hob smiled without humor, sat back, and folded his arms. “Go right ahead.”

  Max took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Hob,” he said, “I didn’t set up this hijacking.”

  “But you did arrange for me to bring the dope through customs.”

  Max nodded. “First of all, it was perfectly safe. There was no chance you’d be caught at customs.”

  “If it was so safe, why didn’t you bring it in yourself?”

  “Safe for you, I mean. Not for me. And maybe not for Aurora. The fix was in, you see. That shipment was scheduled to go straight through customs with no complications.”

  “The question remains,” Hob said. “Why didn’t you carry it yourself?”

  “I was afraid of a double cross,” Max said. “You know Emilio, Aurora’s boyfriend?”

  “We haven’t actually met.”

  “He’s undercover Drug Enforcement Administration.”

  “Wonderful.”

  “It’s what made this whole thing work. He wanted me to get this shipment into France. I was supposed to set up a sale, then he would bust whoever I was selling it to and get credit for exposing a big international ring.”

  “And you?”

  “I was to walk.”

  “So it was all set up. All the more reason for you to bring it in yourself.”

  “Just one difficulty. Emilio is so crazy jealous at the idea of me and Aurora, I was afraid he might double-cross me and have me picked up. He’d lose his big case, but he’d have me out of the picture as far as Aurora is concerned.”

  “So why didn’t you have Aurora bring it in?”

  “Emilio is so crazy, we couldn’t figure what he might do. Maybe he’d bust her out of sheer vindictiveness. You can’t figure what a crazy guy in love will do.”

  “He could have busted me, too.”

  “Unlikely. He didn’t have anything against you, and he knows you’re not involved in this. With you or anyone else carrying, it’d be business as usual.”

  “I guess I don’t have to bother telling you you had no right to do this.”

  Max gave a hopeless shrug. “I know, I know. What can I say? I figured the ten thousand dollars would smooth it over.”

  “Hand it over,” Hob said, “and I’ll see how I feel then.”

  Max looked more hopeless than ever. “Hob, I would if I could. But trouble is, that money was supposed to come from my end when I sold the dope.”

  “Max, what are you telling me?”

  “I’m broke, Hob, that’s what I’m trying to say.”

  Hob looked around. “This suite?”

  “On credit. I was counting on this sale to get me clear. Wait a minute.” Max got up and went into the adjoining room. He came back with his billfold. Opening it, he took out four crisp hundred-dollar bills, a fifty, and two tens. He handed Hob two of the hundreds and the fifty.

  “This is all I’ve got, Hob, and I’m splitting it with you. Consider it an advance. I still owe you ten thousand. Now, I’ve got an important question to ask you. Did anyone know you were working for me?”

  “It wasn’t exactly a secret, was it? My associates, that’s all. Why?”

  “I’m trying to figure out who ripped us off. This hijacking was pretty obviously set up by someone who knew what he was after.”

  “It’s more likely one of your associates than one of mine.”

  “I know that. I’m just trying to check all the possibilities. Look, Hob, could you do a little asking around?”

  “You want me to find out who hijacked me?”

  “Of course. You’re a private detective, aren’t you? I can’t exactly put the police on it. And when we recover it, I’ll pay you your ten thousand.”

  “Whoever ripped you off is not my concern.”

  “No, but I’m asking you to make it your concern. There’s another five thousand in it for you if you recover it.”

  Hob thought it over. He suppressed his natural desire to tell Max to go take a flying leap into next year. That would leave him with nothing but an uncollectible debt. And the traspaso falling due in just over a week.

  “All right, Max. But I’m going to need some money soon. What you’ve given me is about enough in Paris for a couple of dinners and a cigar. Nothing happens without money, you know that.”

  Max nodded. “I’ll try to get a thousand together for you by tomorrow evening. Fair enough?”

  The whole thing was damnably unfair. But there was nothing to do about it except go on. Like it or not, for the present at least, he was tied to Max and the stolen dope.

  37

  It was around midnight when Hob left Max’s hotel and went out into the streets. He took the metro to porte d’Italie, and there walked to 126 boulevard Massena, where he shared an apartment with Patrick, an Irish flute player from Ibiza who was trying to make a commercial success of krillian photography as a way of predicting a person’s character and future. Patrick wasn’t in Paris now; recently he had moved in with a French-woman and they were away visiting her relatives in Pau.

  Hob entered the dark little flat. Patrick had left the refrigerator on, and there was a half bottle of white wine in it, along with some anchovies and some old chicken. Hob poured himself a drink.

  The apartment, even with all the lights on, was as dark as his mood. The sounds of trucks penetrated from outside, big trucks coming from or going to the peripherique. There were four small rooms, one of them devoted to krillian camera equipment and special lights. The apartment smelled of cat and old pâté and fried potatoes. Hob put down his suitcases and looked around the cheerless place. Patrick had left the radio on. From it came a soft whisper of jazz, some sad woman singing the blues. Hob sat down on the cot that served as both bed and couch. It creaked loudly under him and gave way with a supple motion that presaged difficulty sleeping. He kicked off his loafers, threw his jacket across a chair. This place, with its bare lightbulbs and peeling walls, would have depressed him if he hadn’t been so tired. He felt like all the sawdust was running out of him. Lying there in his clothes, he was on the verge of sleep when the telephone rang.

  He staggered over and took it. “Hob, that you, old boy?” Nigel’s voice.

  “Yes, it’s me,” Hob said.

  “Jean-Claude and I were going to meet you, but we didn’t know what time you arrived. Nor what flight you’d be on, come to think of it. Forgot to write it down, old boy. Want to get together now? I can be up there in two shakes.”

  “Not now,” Hob said. “Let’s make it breakfast at Le Drugstore in Saint-Germaine, nine o’clock. Bring Jean-Claude.”

  “Righto, old boy. Everything go all right?”

  “N
ot quite,” Hob said. “I’ll tell you about it when I see you. Good night, Nigel.”

  He hung up and lay back. He was trying to decide if he should get up and brush his teeth, which would necessitate unpacking. He was still considering it thirty seconds later, when he fell asleep, and it was the first thing he did upon awakening in the morning.

  38

  Next morning, Hob was sitting in the second-floor restaurant at Le Drugstore on Saint-Germaine, in a crowd of trendy people, most of them American, Japanese, and German, with an occasional French person around to lend local color. Hob was pouring his second cup of café au lait from the tall white pitcher. There was a half-eaten croissant on the plate beside him. Just then Nigel came hurrying up the narrow spiral stairs, with Jean-Claude just behind him. They slid into the booth.

  “You look tired,” Nigel said. “What happened to you?”

  Hob told about the arrival at De Gaulle, the ride into Paris with Khalil and Ali, the hijacking, the meeting with Max afterward.

  “I knew it!” Nigel said when he had finished. “I knew that sleazy bastard had something up his sleeve.”

  “If you knew, why didn’t you tell me?”

  “By the time I had sorted out the whole thing in my mind, you were on your way. Damn it, we even considered having you hijacked ourselves, didn’t we, Jean-Claude?”

  Jean-Claude nodded.

  “Considered, or did?”

  “We thought about it, for your own good, but we didn’t do it.”

  “Nigel, are you sure? Because if by any chance you and Jean-Claude did arrange this, now would be a good time to let me know.”

  Nigel put both hands flat on his burly chest. “Hob, I didn’t do it. It’s clear that Max pulled this little trick.”

  “I’m not so sure.”

  “If not, who else?”

  “That’s what I hope to find out.”

  “I don’t see why you bother. Haven’t you had enough with this guy?”

  “It’s simple,” Hob said. “I don’t get paid until Max gets money for the dope he had me smuggle in. Nigel, I’m going to do it for the finca.”

  Nigel understood the sacredness of the concept. He had lost his own finca. Obviously it was the only thing to do. But where to begin?

  “I guess,” Hob said, “the first thing is for you and Jean-Claude to ask among your friends and informants to see if anyone knows anything. I can’t very well wander around Paris looking for someone who fits Khalil’s description.”

  But that was in fact what Hob did. After the three of them had finished breakfast, and Hob had described Khalil and Ali, and given Nigel fifty dollars to split with Jean-Claude from the money Max had given him, Hob took the metro to Belleville. It was ridiculous, but he could think of nothing else to do.

  It did no good, of course. Half the population of Belleville looked like Khalil, and the rest looked like Ali, all except for the women, of course, who looked like Hob imagined their wives looked like. At least he got a good tajine out of it, and some first-rate mint tea.

  39

  In the meantime, shining lines of destiny that looked remarkably like the contrails of jet airplanes were converging on Paris. We can ignore all of them except those that came from New York, where the next strand of destiny’s web that was binding Hob tight to Max was unraveling in the form of a heavy, middle-aged man of tough appearance, dressed in a plaid sports jacket and khaki slacks, who was disembarking at De Gaulle from Air France 170, a flight originating at New York’s Kennedy Airport.

  Kelly came through customs and immigration and caught a taxi. As he was getting into it, he noticed someone from another flight also getting into a taxi. It was Henry, Mr. Rosen’s man of part-time work. Kelly didn’t think Henry noticed him. Kelly didn’t bother to holler.

  In the taxi, Kelly gave the address of Max’s hotel. Henry’s taxi pulled out after him and he didn’t see where it went. It occurred to him to say, “Fall back and follow that taxi,” but he didn’t have the French for it. Little did he realize that his taciturn, unshaven, dark-skinned driver was an Israeli, a former diamond cutter from Tel Aviv, who spoke better English than he did. But such are the vicissitudes of time, place, and plot.

  40

  Henry Smith sat there on the plane in the midst of the good-timers. There were 137 of them on this flight, the Louis Armstrong Paris Jazz and Hot Spots Commemorative Special. It was funny, him being on a flight like this, because Henry wasn’t a jazz fan at all. Born and raised in the West Indies to the sound of tinkly deboobldebop and Rastafarian soul rap, he had soon acquired a taste, as unexpected to himself as to his family, for Ravel, Satie, and others of that ilk in the surrealistic Paris that haunted his fancies.

  He sat now, reading his magazine, The Black Israelite, while others chatted and jived on all sides of him. He seemed to be the only one aboard who didn’t know everyone else by nickname. That suited him fine. This was no fluff-headed pleasure trip he was taking. This was the big one, for all the marbles. When his seatmate, a large light-brown man in a beige suit with green velvet panels and a yellow-and-orange tie-dyed necktie, tried to strike up a conversation, Henry put a finger to his pursed lips. It didn’t mean anything, but the man stared at him, bug-eyed, then turned to his seatmate on the other side.

  That suited Henry fine. Silence and a little time for contemplation, that’s what he wanted for this journey. He only hoped that Khalil had gotten his telegram and carried out his instructions. Khalil had been highly recommended by the Brotherhood, but you could never tell about Arabs.

  The plane landed at Paris-De Gaulle at 7:10 in the morning. Henry disembarked with two light carry-on bags. He cleared customs and immigration without incident and took a taxi into Paris. It went against his frugal nature to splurge so, but this was the big one. Either he was going to come out of this rolling in money or he wasn’t going to come out of it at all.

  The sights of Paris came up around him as the driver entered the peripherique at Culaincourt and cut down through the heart of the city. Henry got his first look at Notre Dame as they came to the San Michel Bridge. Soon after, the taxi pulled up at the Left Bank address Henry had given, 5 bis, rue du Panthéon. Heart of Paris, baby. Nothing but the best.

  It was almost 8:00 a.m. when he got out of the taxi at Khalil’s address. Five bis was a narrow staircase between two big buildings. Henry passed many people on his way, most of them looking like students. There were quite a few blacks. Not that Henry cared. He wasn’t prejudiced.

  In the dimly lit hallway he found a button marked K. Ibrahim. 3b. He pressed it, waited, pressed it again, waited, pressed it again. Finally there was an answering buzz. The buzz continued, unlocking the front door for him, and then Henry was inside and starting upstairs.

  The third-floor hallway was poorly lit. Henry had to flip his Bic to make out the door marked 3b. He knocked. A man’s voice answered in French.

  “It’s me, Khalil,” Henry said. “Talk American. I know you know how.”

  A moment of silence. Then the sound of a chain being withdrawn. The door opened. In it stood a tall, skinny, bearded young man in a bathrobe.

  “Hey, man,” Henry said. “It’s me.”

  “You are Henry?” Khalil asked in accented English. Although they had talked on the telephone, this was the first time they had met in person.

  “You got it. Gonna let me in?”

  Khalil stood back and let Henry enter.

  Within was a small apartment, dimly lit by the morning sun glowing orange behind drawn shades, and by a single overhead lightbulb. There was an unmade bed, from which Khalil had apparently just risen, an overstuffed chair, two wooden chairs, a table piled on one end with papers and books, on the other end with unwashed plates. There was a sink filled with dirty dishes, a small gas range, and no sign of a refrigerator or a toilet.

  “You are really Henry?” Khalil asked.

  “I sent you a goddamn picture of myself. Whattaya think I look like, King Tut?”

  “B
eg pardon, not so fast,” Khalil said. “My English has not had much conversation.”

  “It’ll do,” Henry said. “You got my telegram?”

  “Yes … yes.” Khalil went to the table, rutted around among the papers, came up with the flimsy telegram form. It said, “Arriving tomorrow. Be there. Henry.” Khalil showed it to Henry.

  “Yes, I know what it says, I sent it,” Henry said. “I never knew you lived in such a shit heap. This the best you could do?”

  “I am a poor Iraqi student,” Khalil said. “But I am a true warrior for the Cause.”

  “Hey, don’t talk to me about the Cause,” Henry said. “Ain’t I flying here and breaking my hump for the Cause? The big question is, is you got it?”

  “Comment?” said Khalil.

  “The stuff, the caboodle, the question is, did you do what I told you to do or did you not?”

  “I did what you told me,” Khalil said sullenly.

  “Any problem?”

  Khalil shook his head. “One of the Brotherhood loaned me a taxi for the evening.”

  “And did you do it alone?”

  “I thought better get assistance. I took my cousin, Ali.”

  “Can he be traced?”

  “No. He left today for Algiers.”

  “Okay. And you got the stuff?”

  “I have what you asked for.”

  “Then let’s see it, my man.”

  Khalil pulled out two suitcases from under the bed. Behind the second one was the wrapped package he had taken from Hob’s luggage the previous night. He handed it to Henry.

  “Open it,” Henry said. “That could be a package of curry powder for all I know.”

  Khalil took a knife from the table, made a slit, offered the package and the knife to Henry. Henry took out a little white powder on the end of the knife and snorted it. Soon thereafter, he smiled for the first time that day.

  “That’s it, brother! The real stuff! I’ll just try another little poke. It’s been a long night.”