“We?” said Hob. He always had the feeling Nigel was speaking for the royal family when he employed the royal we.
“Jean-Claude and I. Well, Jean-Claude himself, actually. But I insisted we should call at once.”
“Important in what way?” Hob asked.
“For discovering who hijacked you. Really, old boy, did you think I called you with news about your Uncle Pete in Baltimore?”
Hob didn’t bother saying he had no Uncle Pete in Baltimore. Nigel, for reasons best known to himself, but for a motive probably not unrelated to classical straight-faced British whimsy, had always insisted on the existence of this individual and inquired about him every time Hob came back from America.
“Who do you guys suspect?”
“Hob, it’s not as simple as that. We don’t have a name yet. But I think we can get one.”
“Good work, guys. Yes, of course I want to hear all about it. I’ll meet you in an hour at Au Pied Cow.”
“Good,” Nigel said. “Jean-Claude will run up a modest tab while we await you.”
Hob let that pass and lay down again to sleep. The telephone rang again.
“Hob? It’s Aurora.”
Hob tried to muster up some politeness. He pulled himself out of the enticing pit of slumber and said, “How you keeping, Aurora?”
He meant it as a pleasantry. But Aurora took it seriously. “Hob, I’ve got trouble.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that,” Hob said, temporizing until his sense of empathy came back to him. “What’s the matter?”
“Emilio is in Paris.”
“I know. I just had a beer with him.”
“He just called. He’s trying to get me to see him.”
“Tell him no.”
“I did, of course. But Emilio doesn’t take no.”
“He’s going to have to. This is France, one of the few remaining lands of the free.”
“Guys like Emilio get their own way wherever they go. Hob, are you for hire?”
“Being for hire is what I do,” Hob said. “What did you have in mind?”
“A little escort work. I’ve got to meet a fashion designer on the avenue Montaigne and I’m scared to come out of my apartment. I’m really not up for a scene with Emilio. If you could just escort me to the rue Montaigne, then pick me up again in an hour or so.”
“I can do that,” Hob said. “Where are you staying?”
“Four thirty-seven, boulevard des Ternes, in the Sixteenth.”
“What metro are you on?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea. Anyhow, we haven’t time for a metro. Take a taxi, it’s on me.”
“You sure? That’s the other side of Paris from where I am.”
“Now’s not the time to count the centimes,” Aurora said. “Just ask the concierge for me. Come quick, okay?”
45
Hob told the concierge who he wanted to see and the small Spanish woman called on the intercom in her office.
“She’ll come right down,” the concierge said.
Hob nodded and went outside. It was a beautiful early summer day, without flaw and without character. Blue sky, fleecy white clouds. Traffic moving on the boulevard des Ternes in orderly fashion. Down the street, the Brasserie Lorraine was doing a brisk midafternoon business, its terraces full of well-dressed people. All was well in the upper-middle-class heaven of the Sixteenth Arrondissement. There was no sign of Emilio.
Aurora came out wearing a smart navy suit and a little toque, a thirties style that was coming back strong this year. She waved to Hob and came over. She looked good, rested, but her eyes were wary and she glanced up and down the block.
“I don’t think you’ll see him around here,” Hob said. “I just left him half an hour ago in the Thirteenth.”
“That man scares me,” Aurora said. “In case you hadn’t noticed.”
Hob saw a free taxi and hailed it. Aurora gave the driver the address on the rue Montaigne. As they drove, Aurora kept looking out the window.
“You really think he’s following you?” Hob asked.
“I wouldn’t put anything past him.” She sighed and dabbed at her eyes. “You wouldn’t believe this, but he was so nice when we were first dating.”
Hob nodded. What was there to doubt?
“I know he walks around acting like a tough guy. I guess he is a tough guy. But he was just so sweet to me. And protective.” She thought for a moment. “Maybe that protectiveness was a tip-off. Maybe it was really possessiveness. But go figure!” She sighed again. “In a way, it was all Max’s fault. He encouraged me to date Emilio so I could keep an eye on him.”
“Why would he do that?” Hob asked.
“Emilio was making Max do illegal stuff, and Max didn’t like it at all, but hadn’t figured out how to get off the hook.”
“What did Emilio have on Max?” Hob asked. “Or maybe you don’t want to talk about that.”
Aurora gave a little laugh. “Hey, you’re my private detective, aren’t you? If I can’t tell you, who can I tell?”
“True enough,” Hob said, deciding that Aurora definitely had a way about her.
“It was a dope thing. Happened about a year ago. Max’s regular source dried up, and he made a buy from someone else. Someone with the highest credentials. That was Emilio.”
“Any idea how Emilio got on to Max? Could it have been through Kelly?”
“No, Kelly never liked Emilio or trusted him.”
“Good for Kelly. Go on.”
“It was the second buy when Emilio nailed Max. Pulled out his badge and gun. Showed Max a little recorder on which he’d taken down their entire conversation. Incriminating, he called it. ‘You’re going to go down, Max,’ he said. His voice was horrible.”
“But Max didn’t go down.”
“No. He started to plead with Emilio, said he was just a user, a small fish, that this coke thing was the only illegal thing he’d ever done, that he didn’t even lie on his income tax. And Emilio listened and nodded, and said, ‘Well, maybe we can work something out.’ And Max said, ‘I’ll do anything, just don’t arrest me.’ And Emilio said, ‘I’ll get back to you in a couple of days.’”
“And then?”
“About a week later, Emilio came back and told Max what he had in mind. He wanted Max to make a big buy, and arrange to sell the stuff. Emilio was planning to catch the people Max sold it to. And that’s what’s been going on ever since.”
Hob suspected there was more to it than that, but he didn’t think this was the time to push. There was also the fact that all this had nothing to do with him, at least as far as he could see at the moment.
The taxi stopped at the address Hob had given on rue Montaigne. Hob paid the driver from a thousand-franc note. They arranged for Hob to pick her up in two hours. She got out. Hob saw her safely into the Maintenon, then sent the driver on to Saint-Denis.
46
Jean-Claude and Nigel were at a table on the terrace of Au Pied Cow. They were just finishing off pizzas and beers in anticipation of Hob paying. Nigel was looking very well that morning, dressed in a light tweed topcoat and trilby hat, his beard recently trimmed, his hair neatly combed. Jean-Claude was wearing his usual louche look, tight blue jeans with a studded motorcycle belt, horizontally striped red-and-white sailor’s T-shirt, a cigarette drooping typically from his long thin-lipped mouth. Hob was glad to see his team looking so well.
Jean-Claude wasted no time. “‘Ob, I think I have a clue as to who accosted you the other night. I believe you mentioned that the man was an Arab, young, had a small mustache, and a big mole on his left cheek.”
“Did I say all that?” Hob asked. “Okay, go on.”
“You also said he had a harelip.”
“I don’t remember saying that,” Hob said.
“My God, Hob!” Nigel said. “You’re supposed to be observant! Attention to detail is supposed to be the sine qua non for a private investigator.”
“That’s just in books,” H
ob said. “Real investigators often miss the little details. If I said he had a harelip, he probably did. What about this guy?”
“Well,” Jean-Claude said, “it’s not much to go on, but I did ask around. My friends tell me this guy Khalil is a heavy hitter from North Africa or Iraq or one of those places. My friends think he’s in Paris to turn a trick or two.”
“But what ties him to me?”
“If I knew that,” Jean-Claude said, “I’d have the case solved instead of merely having a strong suspicion.”
“Well, it beats anything else we’ve got so far,” Hob said. “Now, where do we find this guy?”
“My friends did not know. But they know someone who might.”
“And who is that?”
“Her name is Mimette. She’s a young lady from the provinces, Nantes, I think, studying to be a high-priced call girl specializing in Arabs.”
“I didn’t know you had to practice for that,” Hob said.
“You’d be surprised,” Jean-Claude said.
“I guess I would. Where do we find Mimette?”
“She usually comes to the entrance of the Beauborg about this time to get her fix.”
That was only a few blocks from where they were.
“Okay,” Hob said, picking up the check as was customary for a private detective conferring with his operatives. “And how do we know her? You ever met her, Jean-Claude?”
Jean-Claude shook his head. “My friends say we can’t mistake her. She has green hair.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes, seriously. She thinks it is the latest American look.”
47
They went to the fountain called Tranquillite and hung around for half an hour. Finally Jean-Claude spotted a thin green-haired girl of about seventeen, in a tiny black leather skirt and polka-dot bolero.
Jean-Claude walked up to her. “Mimette?”
“What is it?” the girl replied.
“Are you Mimette?”
“And what if I am?”
“We would like to talk to you.”
She looked Jean-Claude up and down. “Well, I don’t want to talk to you.”
She started to walk on but Jean-Claude blocked her path. His voice, which had been neutral, turned to downright ugly. “You will talk to us, Mimette, or you’ll be the sorriest whore in Les Halles.”
“Don’t you think prostitutes have any rights?” she said, but she didn’t sound very confident.
Hob said, “We only need to ask you a few questions.”
“And what about me? I need money!”
“We’ll pay money for you to talk,” Hob said.
“How much money?”
“How much do you usually charge for conversation?”
“That depends on whether I have to talk dirty or not.”
“We don’t want any dirty conversation,” Hob told her.
Mimette thought it over, swinging her little black patent purse against her skinny flank. “You are journalists? Out for a ripe story? That will cost!”
At that point, Jean-Claude stepped in. “My girl, you’d better listen to reason. Who runs you? Is it Gilbert? Ah, I thought so. This is his district. Gilbert happens to be a great friend of mine.”
“You really know Gilbert? Big Gilbert with the beady eyes and the big ass?”
“Of course I know him. We were in stir together at Amiens.”
She looks at him respectfully, but with pique: a combination practiced by French whores, who were world famous for their attitude problems.
“All right, I’ll talk to you. But am I to get nothing out of it? They told me I’d get rich in Paris. I just want enough for a little pig farm. I have an eye on just the one. …”
Jean-Claude interrupted. “We aren’t interested.”
“You’re not? But I thought you wanted my life story!”
“Not a bit of it. We want some information about a man you consort with.”
“Consort? What are you accusing me of? I’m an honest woman! I don’t engage in politics!”
Jean-Claude sighed. “Mimette. Listen carefully. We will take up very little of your valuable time. But we need to know about a friend of yours. Don’t make me get rough. I enjoy it too much.”
“A friend?” she asked.
“A recent friend. A client.”
Mimette gave him a guarded look. “Which one?”
“I am referring,” said Jean-Claude, “to the Arab with the mole on his cheek and the harelip who might be calling himself Khalil.”
“Ah,” she said, “you mean the student.”
“Precisely,” said Jean-Claude.
“I made him a special rate,” Mimette said. “Do you know, he comes from a tiny village in Iraq?”
“I had no idea,” Jean-Claude said. “I thought he was a big-city boy from Basra.”
Mimette laughed. “You’ve got that all wrong!”
“But not the mole, or the harelip.”
“No, you have those right. And you didn’t mention the knife scar on his left shoulder.”
“True,” Jean-Claude said. “But I’m glad you mentioned it. Now then, Mimette, just tell me where we can find him and you can go about your business.”
“It’s too early for business,” Mimette said. “Actually, I came out for an aperitif. You wouldn’t care to buy me one, would you?”
“We’re in a rush,” Jean-Claude said. “Some other time, eh? Now, where can we find him? And what name is he going by, by the way?”
“If you’re his friend, why don’t you know his name?”
“I’m not actually his friend,” Jean-Claude said. “I’m a friend of someone who knows him. He forget to tell me his name.”
“He calls himself Khalil, just like you said. He’s got a little apartment over near the Panthéon. Number five bis, I think it is, rue du Panthéon. That’s where he took me. I hope I’m not getting him into trouble.”
“Set your mind at ease about that,” Jean-Claude said. “On your way now, little one. You needn’t mention our conversation. In fact, we have something for you.” He looked at Hob.
Hob dug in his pocket and found almost four hundred francs, change from the taxi. He gave the money to Mimette.
“Many thanks! she said, and walked off.
“Oh, by the way, Mimette!” Jean-Claude called after her.
She stopped and turned. “Yes?”
“I think you’ll have more luck with orange hair. It will suit you better.”
“Really? But is it au courant?”
“Definitely dernier cri,” Jean-Claude said.
48
Hob took a taxi back to the rue Montaigne, arriving at 2:25 p.m. Aurora had been waiting for him just inside the Maintenon. She came out, looking both ways up and down the street, then got into the taxi.
“How’d it go today?” Hob asked her as the driver pulled away.
“Not bad. Saw their latest line. May be getting some work from them.”
“I thought that was Max’s job.”
“It is. But when I get a chance, I set up things, too. How’d your day go?”
Hob shrugged. “You know how it is. Another day, another dolor.”
Aurora nodded. They sat in amicable silence as the taxi wended its way to the Sixteenth Arrondissement. Like an old married couple, Hob thought, and speculated on what it might be like to be married to Aurora. It was a more interesting line of speculation than the fortunes of the girl with green hair.
The taxi pulled to the curb at Aurora’s address. Hob said, “Want me to see you inside?”
“No, I’m okay now. Thanks, Hob. I’m feeling a lot calmer. I’ll call you, okay?”
“Fine,” Hob said, and got back in the taxi. He directed the driver to the metro Ternes. It was okay taking clients around in taxis, but Hob was a metro man.
Inside her lobby, Aurora took the little elevator to the second floor. She unlocked the door and went in, locking it behind her. She went through the foyer into the sunny sitting room.
There, on one of the overstuffed chairs, reading a fashion magazine, was Emilio.
“Hi, babe,” he said.
49
It was two in the afternoon of his second day in Paris and already Kelly was bored. He sat in the little café just across the street from his hotel, drinking his third cup of café au lait with the waiters looking at him as if he were crazy. Well, piss on them. In America they fill up your cup when it’s half-empty and they don’t charge you for it. In Paris, they charge you full price for each cup and look at you like you were crazy if you drink more than one. Sure, it was a cute place, with its red-and-white checkered tablecloths and flowers on the table and a waiter in a tuxedo even in the morning. But he didn’t like it. Kelly had found one of the saddest of all truths: There’s a lot for an American to dislike in Paris.
But what really bugged him was that he didn’t know what to do. He had come to Paris on an impulse, expecting to get something going again with Max. He’d been Max’s right-hand man for nearly two years, and somehow he’d expected that to continue a lot longer than it had. It did no good telling himself he’d come over here not expecting anything. He’d been expecting plenty, and none of it was happening.
But there were some complications going on here. First, the dope. Kelly could see that this hijacking had Max rattled. Who had done it? Thinking about it, Kelly was sure that the key to the thing was the hijacking, and that had something to do with Henry. He’d seen Henry get off the plane at De Gaulle. The guy was here in Paris somewhere. But where? And what was he up to? Kelly decided that if he could figure out that one, he’d be on the way to putting this thing together, and making himself useful to Max. And maybe even doing a favor for himself, also.
Henry was the place to start. But where was he? Where would he hang out in Paris? Was there some place in Paris where blacks from New York hung out? A jazz club? But then he remembered that Henry didn’t care for jazz. Which was weird.
Draconian New York (Hob Draconian Book 1) Page 15
