The only thing Henry seemed to care about was his religious kick. The Black Jewish experience, he’d called it. His own private freak-out was more like it.
Then Kelly remembered that Henry had talked once about his shul in Paris. “I’ve got an affiliation with those people,” he’d told Kelly. And he’d been at pains to point out that these were not white American Jews, for whom he had nothing but the deepest contempt. These were Israeli Jews who had a synagogue in Paris. Or who were affiliated with a synagogue in Israel. Kelly had never gotten it straight. And they had a name. … What was the name Henry had said? Something to do with wine. Port? No, sherry. Only not spelled quite the same. Sheri. That was it. But Sheri what? Began with a T. Tsouris? Tfilim? Close. Tefilah! That was it!
“Hey, waiter,” Kelly said, calling over the tall, supercilious tuxedoed young man who had kept him supplied with coffee. “You got a telephone book here?”
It wasn’t so simple, of course. This place had some kind of a computer, they called it an ordinateur or something like that, and you were supposed to get your addresses out of that. Kelly wasn’t able to manage it, but after a while, with the waiter and the manager’s help, and with the aid of a pen and pad, they’d found the name and an address for it. They’d written the name down for Kelly, because he could no more spell it than he could sing “Aupres de ma Blonde” in pig Latin. And half an hour later he was in a taxi on his way there.
50
“Don’t get nervous,” Emilio said as Aurora backed toward the door. “I’m not going to get rough with you. All I want to do is talk. Okay?”
“Look, Emilio,” Aurora said, “I’m just not up to a big scene now. Let’s do this some other time.”
Emilio shook his head. He was wearing a tan sports jacket that looked like it had been bought off a rack in some mom-and-pop clothing store in Brooklyn. Under it he had on a florid Hawaiian shirt with sunsets and ukuleles. His Mickey Rourke look. But Aurora thought he looked like an extra in a hood movie.
Emilio prided himself on taking on characters. Aurora used to like this one. Now she was wondering if she could unlock the front door and get out before he got to her. She doubted it, but she was willing to make a try.
But Emilio, slouched back in the easy chair, wasn’t making a move. His voice was low and unexcited.
“Now listen to me, babe. I just got a couple of things I want to tell you. First of all, Max’s goose is cooked. I know damned well he arranged to heist that dope so he could get around me. I’m going to come down on him so hard he won’t believe how much time he’s going to do. So forget about Max as your protector. That’s finished.”
Emilio paused and lit a cigarette. He looked around for an ashtray. There wasn’t one in sight. Finally he spotted a little cloisonné china dish and tapped ashes into that.
“The next thing is, don’t think that private eye, that Hob, is going to keep me off. I eat guys like him for breakfast. You’re on your own, baby, and you got no one but me. But I’m here for you.”
“Whether I like it or not,” Aurora said.
“Hey, come on,” Emilio said. “You liked it fine once upon a time not too long ago. Or don’t you remember?”
“I remember. But I changed my mind.”
“So you can change it back again,” Emilio said. “Look, I’m not shittin’ you. You and me, we get along real good. You need someone like me to provide you with all the good things you’ve gotten used to since you left the family shanty back in Jamaica or wherever it was.”
“San Isidro,” Aurora said, “and we never lived in a shanty.”
“Well, I bet it wasn’t no mansion, either. Never mind, I come from the bottom of Bensonhurst myself. I’m not calling you or your family any names. I’m just pointing out that we’re from similar backgrounds. We go together.”
“I’ll think about it,” Aurora said. “Now will you please leave?”
“In a moment,” Emilio said. “I just want to make the position real clear. You’re going with me, Aurora. Or you’re going to jail. You and Max were in this thing together. I’ve got plenty on you both. Max is a definite. You can cross him right off your active list. But you, that’s something else. Think about it. You can never get rid of me. Stand me up and I’ll send you up. Play along with me and you can have anything your little Latin heart desires. Oh, I guess I didn’t mention it, but I love you.”
“Nice that you finally got around to that,” Aurora said. “Okay, you said you’d have your say and get out. Are you going to keep your word?”
Emilio stood up. He was a big man, and he moved with dangerous ease. He walked toward her, and Aurora shrank out of the way.
“Hey, don’t get edgy. I’m not going to hit you. I swear I’ll never hit you again. But I want you, Aurora, and I’m not taking no for an answer. You think it over. I’d rather you came to me of your own free will. But I’ll take you however I have to. You got it?”
“I understand what you’re saying,” Aurora said shakily.
“I’ve left a copy of my key on the table there. It’s on top of my address on a piece of paper. The agency keeps this place in Paris for us agents when we’re over. It’s plenty nice, over there in the fashionable Fifteenth. I got a view of the Eiffel Tower. And there’s no nosy concierge to butt in. You’ll like it, baby, it’s got class, just like you. But it’s also practical, also just like you.”
He walked past her, unlocked the door, opened it, turned.
“You come over to me, baby, and make it soon. We used to make beautiful music together. We can do it again. Don’t make me come for you, because in that case Poppa’s gonna be plenty sore.”
He gave her a grin and walked out, closing the door quietly behind him.
Aurora went to the door and locked it again. Then she ran to the couch and burst into tears. She cried for about five minutes, out of rage more than anything else. Then she sat up, found a tissue, and dried her eyes. She got up and went to the chair where Emilio had been sitting. The key was there, on top of a slip of paper, just like he had said. The address was on the rue de l’Eglise, in the Fifteenth, just like he’d said. She turned the key in her hand thoughtfully for a moment, then put it into her purse. Then she went to the bathroom to repair her face.
51
Afternoon naps were the worst kind to recover from. The telephone rang. Henry sat up, blinked sleep out of his eyes. Khalil still wasn’t back. For a moment Henry didn’t want to answer the phone. He had the idea no good things were going to come to him in Paris by telephone. Still, maybe it was important. He picked it up.
“Yeah?”
There was a brief hesitation, and then the voice on the other side said, “Henry? That you?”
Henry didn’t know whether he should admit or deny who he was. Who the hell could be calling him?
“Who is this?” he asked.
“You know me,” the voice said. “It’s Kelly.”
“Kelly from New York?”
“Of course.”
“Huh. You been here long?”
“Not very,” Kelly said. “But long enough to learn someone hijacked Hob of the you know what.”
“Yeah, I heard that, too,” said Henry. “Listen, man, I got a lot of things to do. You wanna give me a phone number, I’ll try to give you a call one of these days.”
“Well, no,” Kelly said. “I don’t think that’s going to do. You and I need to meet a lot sooner than that if we’re going to do each other any good.”
“Now for sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Henry said.
“Well, to get downright vulgarly explicit, I think I got a pretty good idea who took the dope from Hob.”
“That a fact?”
“Sure is. But I don’t think I should go blabbing about that to Max and Hob before I have a little talk with you.”
“You’re right,” Henry said: “We need to meet. Where did you have in mind?”
“I’m pretty new in this burg,” Kelly said. “The only place I k
now is my hotel and Notre Dame.”
“I’m sure as shit not coming to your hotel. Back of Notre Dame in about an hour?”
“Why so long and why in back?”
“Long because I got to do something first. In back of Notre Dame so we won’t have fifty thousand rubberneckers with cameras breathing down our necks.”
52
Hob was awakened by a knocking at the door. He threw a raincoat over his shorts and opened the door. Standing there was the concierge in hair curlers, and beside her a uniformed policeman.
The policeman said, “Inspector Fauchon’s compliments, and will you please accompany me?”
“What’s this all about?”
The cop shrugged. “Inspector Fauchon will enlighten you.”
The cop either didn’t know what was wrong or, more likely, wasn’t saying. Hob told them to wait a minute, dressed, and, under the eyes of his concierge and half the tenants, accompanied the cop out to a police car.
Hob was a little disappointed as they proceeded without siren across Paris, across the Seine at San Michel and around to the back of Notre Dame. Here a cordon of police kept back sightseers.
Streetlights were spaced about fifty feet apart along the path. To the left, about two hundred feet away, Hob could see the brighter gleam of police emergency lighting.
A group of police, both uniformed and plainclothes, were standing around with their hands in their pockets, rocking on their heels around a bundle at their feet.
A light rain, no more than perspiration from the swollen sky lit orange by the lights of Paris, had begun to fall. The sounds of the city were muffled, seeming to come from very far away.
As he drew closer, Hob could make out the stocky form of Inspector Fauchon.
“Hello, Chief Inspector.”
“Hello, Hob. Would you see if you can identify this fellow?”
On the ground, under the police arc light, surrounded by the police, was a man-sized figure under a black tarpaulin. Fauchon grunted and one of the policemen drew back the tarp.
Hob bent over for a good look, but the face was unmistakable. “Kelly. I don’t know his first name.”
“When did you see him last?”
“Last night. We had a beer together in the place d’ltalie.”
“Tell me about him.”
“I don’t know much. He worked as a chauffeur for Max Rosen in New York.”
“What is Mr. Rosen’s address?”
“He’s from New York, but he’s here in Paris,” Hob said, and gave Max’s hotel.
“Do you know what Mr. Rosen is doing here?”
“On business, as far as I know.”
“What sort of business?”
“He runs a model agency. Why don’t you ask him?”
“I will, never fear. Are you employed by Mr. Rosen?”
“I escorted one of his models from New York to Paris. We arrived last night.”
“Her name and address?”
Hob gave it.
“Would you know if Miss Aurora Sanchez knew Mr. Kelly?”
“I believe she did. But you’d better talk to her.”
“Yes, yes, I know,” Fauchon asked, somewhat testily. “Right now I’m talking to you. Do you know what Mr. Kelly was doing in Paris?”
“Sight-seeing, I guess. I don’t really know.”
Fauchon nodded. “I may have more questions for you later. You weren’t planning to leave Paris immediately, were you?”
Hob shook his head. “Not for a couple of days. After that I’m going to Ibiza.”
“The famous finca, eh?”
“If I’ve still got it.”
“Contact me before you depart. You are at the address I have for you? On boulevard Massena?”
Hob nodded.
“Do you have anything to add at this time?”
“I have a question. How was Kelly killed?”
“Two gunshot wounds. One in the neck severing the left carotid artery. The other in the heart. Either would have proven fatal.”
“Was he killed here?”
“The assistant medical examiner doesn’t think so.”
“How did you know to call me? Or do you come to me for any Americans found dead in Paris.”
Fauchon reached into his jacket pocket and took out a scrap of paper. “He had your name and telephone number.”
“I gave that to him. What else did you find?”
Fauchon raised both eyebrows. “You want to play detective?”
“I am a detective.”
“That’s right, I keep on forgetting. He had not been robbed. His wristwatch was still on his wrist. His wallet was in his left rear pocket. Which tells you …?”
“That either Kelly was left-handed or he had a sore right haunch.”
“Excellent. The wallet contained the usual American plastic cards, a few hundred dollars, and a few thousand francs.”
“So robbery was not the motive unless he was carrying his real money in a brown paper bag.”
“You’re very quick. And there was this.”
Fauchon took a plastic bag out of his pocket and took a card out of it. He held it up so Hob could read it.
It was a card for Schloime’s Kosher Pizza on the rue Tesson.
Hob nodded. “It is unusual to find an American of Irish ancestry who is a kosher pizza aficionado.”
“My thoughts exactly. You do not know this place?”
“I have not had the pleasure.”
“I will question the proprietor, of course. I’ll be very surprised if it leads anywhere.”
“Is there anything else?”
“No,” Fauchon said. “You can go. Unless you’d care to confess to this crime right now and save us a lot of trouble.”
Hob shook his head. “Nice seeing you, Inspector.”
“And you, Hob.”
It turned out that Hob was to see Fauchon again sooner than he expected. The next day, around eleven in the morning, Fauchon telephoned him at his apartment and asked if he would mind coming down to headquarters. Hob got there in about a half hour, and was ushered through the grim gray building to Fauchon’s office on the third floor.
Fauchon was direct, businesslike, and not unfriendly. “We took the contents of Mr. Kelly’s room from his hotel last night, after you left. Nothing too remarkable, except this. I thought I’d ask you if it meant anything to you.”
He handed Hob a green folder with a New York Police Department seal on it. Inside was a brief dossier on a man named Etienne Hidalgo-Bravo, born in Jamaica, naturalized in New York, age forty-four, occupation cook. No arrests in New York. A brief typed comment noted that Hidalgo-Bravo was believed connected to the Islam Armed Organization with headquarters in Borough Hall, Brooklyn. This group was under surveillance by the attorney general’s office and was believed to be implicated in the Buenos Aires bombing of the synagogue in that city in 1992. Attached was a photograph of a slim light-colored black man with hair in dreadlocks and a short beard.
“Have you ever seen that man before?” Fauchon asked.
Hob studied the photograph intently for a while, then said, “Give him a different haircut and lose the beard and I’d say that’s Henry.”
“And who is Henry?”
“Henry Smith. He was Mr. Rosen’s valet in New York.”
“What is his dossier doing in Mr. Kelly’s possession?”
“I have no idea,” Hob said.
“Was Mr. Kelly by any chance a New York detective working undercover?”
“I doubt it,” Hob said, “though it’s possible. What I heard was that he’d been cashiered from the police force in some scandal and was working for Mr. Rosen.”
“It all comes back to Mr. Rosen,” Fauchon observed.
“You should be asking him these questions,” Hob said.
“I will, and thank you for the superfluous advice. But I can tell you in advance that Mr. Rosen will prove not to have left his hotel since he arrived in Paris, and will have witnesses to prov
e it.”
“He’d better have,” Hob said. “Otherwise he’s in a lot of trouble.”
“And this Henry Smith. Would you know where I could find him?”
“I wish I could tell you, Inspector.”
“I will check with De Gaulle. I would as you say bet dollars to doughnuts he’s in Paris.”
“I’d bet with you on that one,” Hob said.
Fauchon shook his head. “Anyhow, thank you, Hob. Have you been able to take care of the matter of your finca?”
Hob shook his head.
“Well … Bonne chance.”
53
“Yes, old boy, I’m very well indeed,” Nigel said into the telephone. He reached for a Disque Bleu and found that his pack was empty. That was annoying. He hated to beg without a cigarette in his hand. And Quiffy was eyeing him from the far side of the couch. She wanted her kibble, poor thing, and so did Nigel.
“Aston, dear fellow, how are things in Belize, eh? Yes, it’s Nigel! Humid and hot, eh? Just as always. Good, good! Joselito’s bar still there? Many’s the good conch stew I’ve had there. You must give him my love. Is the expedition going well? Pushing off into the bush any day now, excellent! Delighted to hear it! How I wish I were with you! Lost cities in the jungle are very much my line of country, as you know. … No, not a chance, dear heart. I’m stuck here in Paris for the foreseeable future. … Les affaires, you know, such a bore. Yes, it’s rather humid here, too. … Aston, the reason I called, this is quite embarrassing, so bear with me. … The fact is, I need some money. Not for myself. I’m doing nicely, thank you. No surplus, as they say, but everything is going well. The thing of it is, I’ve got a friend, Hob Draconian, you’ve heard me speak of him. … Yes, the detective fellow. … He’s in a bit of a bind what with his mortgage falling on him like thunder out of China to coin a phrase … and I thought you had that twenty thousand I was so delighted to loan you last year. … Yes … yes … tied up in equipment, is it? Of course, that’s the thing of expeditions, isn’t it? No, no trouble at all, I can turn elsewhere, I just thought if you happened to have it lying around … pray excuse me for even asking. It’s just that I’d like to do Hob a good turn.…”
Draconian New York (Hob Draconian Book 1) Page 16
