Brainquake (29 page)

Disjointed as it might have been, she was coming to the end of her story—just as Lafitte was coming to the end of his. She had never mentioned Paul’s brainquake. She gave the Inspector their forged passports.

“One thing isn’t clear to me, Michelle.”

She didn’t show fear. Before she could ask him what wasn’t clear, an older cop appeared in the doorway, saluting.

“Excuse me, Inspector, I took it upon myself to bring an American priest to you. He got lost looking for a gallery. He saw the ambulance, offered his help. To give last rites. He’s waiting in the other room.”

“You did the right thing. Thank you. Tell him I’ll be right with him.”

The cop beamed, saluted, left.

“Michelle, try to remember exactly when Page first showed indications he was capable of murder. I’ll return in a minute.”

“I could tell you right now.”

“In a minute, Michelle.”

She watched him approach the priest standing near the exit door as the cop who’d brought him left the barge.

* * *

“Inspector Sainte-Beuve, Police Nationale.” He thrust out his hand.

The priest shook it. “Father Flanagan.”

“I hope you understand my English.”

“I speak French.”

“I prefer English when I get the chance to use it.”

“Your English is okay, Inspector.”

“We might need you, Father. Thank you for offering to help.” He led him a few steps to the open door. The priest could partially see Lafitte. “A bullet’s close to his heart. We’re fighting to keep him alive. If that fails…Christian Lafitte will be in your hands. You understand why I’m not bringing you in right now, don’t you?”

“Perfectly, Inspector. A dying man often dies sooner if he sees a priest. So as not to keep God waiting.”

“Exactly.” He indicated the black leather chair across from Lafitte’s room. “Make yourself comfortable, please. And excuse me, Father.”

“Of course, Inspector.”

Father Flanagan sank into the leather chair, his eyes following the Inspector rejoining Michelle in the doorway. She immediately began to whisper something to him. Father Flanagan tried hard to make out her words. He couldn’t. Evidently the baby was asleep in that room, and she didn’t want it to wake up.

She wore no handcuffs. Odd. Or maybe not so odd. Enough cops out there to keep her from running. And it would be tough to hold the baby with hands in bracelets. He watched the Inspector nod, whispering a few words back.

Quicksilver flashes jumped through Father Flanagan’s head, explanations and hypotheses…the widow, no black wig on anymore…blonde…cool…looking nothing like a captured criminal wanted for murder…could she actually be an innocent in all this?…the man out here, no beard, bandaged…had a bullet grazed his head?…bloodspots on his white turtleneck sweater… on the deck he’d had a Luger on the skipper…had the skipper wanted a bigger fee for hiding them?…the shootout cut their deal short…with both out of action, she’d run off with baby… but then who called the cops?…or maybe the cops tailed them here, shot both men, took her without a scratch…the Inspector was grilling her right now, then he’d work on the bagman when he came to…if the skipper died right now, it meant last rites… thank you, Father…and then he’d have to leave…he prayed for Lafitte to die
after
the bagman was grilled…he would sit ringside, hear every word…he had to hear what the bagman would say…

He saw Paul’s fingers twitching.

A moment later, Dr. Sully saw Paul’s hand reaching for his bandaged head.

“Inspector!” Dr. Sully called out.

* * *

Michelle watched the Inspector help Dr. Sully gently move Paul up to a sitting position. His back was to Michelle. If he turned his head toward her, she knew the face she would wear when their eyes met. But he didn’t turn his head.

The Inspector was in luck when Paul said, “I’m all right.”

The sandpaper-scratching rasp was the sound Michelle had described when they talked. At first it would be irritating, but he would get used to it. She’d also told him sometimes Paul was coherent, other times he wasn’t…but that he had always been so gentle when they first met, so willing to help her…

She watched them help Paul off the table. On his feet he reeled. Their grip was firm.

“I’m all right,” Paul repeated.

“Is your head spinning?” the Inspector said.

“Worse on my back.”

They helped him into a chair.

“Want some water?”

Paul shook his head, rested his arms on the table. The Inspector pulled a small tape recorder from his pocket, placed it between Paul’s arms.

“We’re recording everything you say.”

The Inspector sat on the table edge close to Paul, bending over so that his words would be recorded, too. He looked at Paul’s dead gray eyes. They were rooted on him but felt like they were looking through him at the priest in the chair behind.

The Inspector was hypnotized by those gray eyes. Not a movement. Not a muscle in the face moved.

“I’m Inspector Sainte-Beuve, Police Nationale.” His voice was gentle, but not too gentle. He kept the tone of a cop about to question a fugitive. “Feel well enough to answer questions?”

Paul wondered where Michelle was. Slowly, as he took in the room, things came into focus. He didn’t see her. She must be in the bunk with the baby. He had to make sure she was all right. He started to turn his head. Pain stopped him.

“Is Michelle all right?”

“Yes. Feel well enough to answer questions?”

Paul nodded.

“I didn’t hear you.”

“Yes.”

“You feel well enough to answer questions.”

“Yes.”

“Is my English good enough for you to understand every word I’m saying?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I’m not comfortable when every word has to be translated. What is your name?”

“Paul Smith…no…Henry Smith.”

“Anyone suffering from a blow to the head—multiple blows—might get mixed up. But we believe your name is Paul Page.”

Blows to the head?
Father Flanagan was confused.
Then he wasn’t shot by the cops? Who called them?

“Paul Page—have you ever been in a mental institution?”

Though his face remained blank, Paul reacted to the words, remembering the institution his parents kept him out of as a boy. He began hearing the flute playing far away and knew what was coming. It was a different tune than usual. A strange one. He waited. He heard no rumble, felt none. Was he using willpower to stop that rumble from coming? He was sure it was willpower. He had stopped it once before, thanks to Michelle. But the flute kept playing, far away, the same strange tune.

“No,” Paul said. “Never an institution.”

“Not even for a few days under another name?”

Paul shook his head.

“Please say yes or no.”

“No.”

“Perhaps overnight in the Bellevue psych ward in New York?”

“No.”

“Were you born in New York?”

“Yes.”

“How old are you?”

“Thirty.”

“Any family?”

“No.”

“Live alone?”

“Yes.”

“Any friends?”

“Ivory Face.”

“You mean Michelle?”

“Yes.”

“How long have you known her?”

How to answer? Where to start counting? “Two months.”

“Where did you first see her?”

“Central Park.”

“And you didn’t talk to her for how long?”

“Two months.”

“What kind of work did you do in New York?”

“Taxi driver.”

“For how long.”

“Ten years.”

“And before that?”

“Learned to drive a taxi.”

“Drive for a fleet?”

“Indie.”

“Your reflexes have to be good to get a taxi license in New York.”

“Yes.”

“Are your reflexes good even when you’re not driving?”

“Sometimes I get headaches.”

“What kind of headaches?”

Michelle stiffened.
I said nothing about Paul’s headaches to the Inspector. Nothing! Absolutely nothing!

“All kinds.”

“What would you call your specific kind of headache?”

Good God! He was going to find out about the brainquakes! And if he learned about the brainquakes…

“Migraine,” Paul said.

“You get visual disorders?”

“And nausea.”

“I’m familiar with migraine, Paul. I get them now and then, too. On the right side of my head.”

“Mine’s on the left.”

Michelle came up for air, stopped sweating.
God bless you, Paul! And you, too, Inspector! Now get on with the show.

“How long have you worked for organized crime?”

The hammer hit her heart.
What was the Inspector doing?

“I drive my own taxi.”

“You’re not a bagman for organized crime?”

“No.”

“Would you tell me if you were?”

Paul remained silent.

“Do you know what a bagman is?”

Father Flanagan leaned in. Only one person could have tied Paul in with the organization or guessed that he was a bagman. Zara. She had a hunch or knew, and must have shared it with this inspector. He shouldn’t have crucified that goddam smuggler in the hangar. That was why she had come to Paris. Not just to find the bagman and widow, but to find him.

“Do you know what a bagman is?” repeated the Inspector.

“Yes.”

“What does he do?”

“Carries a bag.”

“What is in the bag?”

“Money.”

“Mafia money?”

“Yes.”

“How much does he carry?”

Father Flanagan’s balls were in the Inspector’s hands and he was turning them in any direction he wanted. It would be easy to silence the bagman and widow right now with two bullets. But suicide didn’t come with his job. All those cops would gun him down with a hundred holes in him. His job was to walk away from a hit, not to be carried to the cemetery after it.

“Enough,” Paul said.

“Who does he carry it to?”

The pressure on the priest’s balls tripled.

“People.”

A steamroller crushed his balls. What the hell would he tell Hampshire? That he wasn’t here at the grilling? The cops beat him to the targets. He’d have to go to ground with that story. But for how long? This nightmare would hit the
Tribune
. It would be in all the New York papers, on TV, on radio. Hampshire would hear about an American priest named Father Flanagan who had been there to give the last rites… who had sat through the grilling…who had heard every word…

“What people?” the Inspector asked.

Paul closed his eyes. “People waiting for food.”

“Food?”

The sound of the flute was still far away as he remembered the fish in the Boss’ office and the lady drop’s shop.

“Food for fish. If you don’t feed them, they die.”

The Inspector put a hand on Paul’s shoulder.

“You are wanted for murder in New York.”

Michelle was relieved.
Stay on that! Don’t wander off. Stay on that murder
.

“I know,” Paul said.

The Inspector looked at his cipher face. Never had he seen such lifeless eyes, such a frozen face.

“Did you do it?”

“Yes.”

“Who did you murder?”

“Boy in the Battery. Thirteen years old.”

“What was his name?”

“Al Cody.”

“That’s the man who was found dead in Michelle’s apartment. Not a thirteen-year-old.”

Paul suddenly felt awash in confusion. Clung to something he knew: “He was going to kill the baby.”

“Michelle’s baby?”

Paul nodded. “Gave her my gun.”

“She shot him? With your gun?”

“Yes.”

“What kind of a gun?”

“Saturday night special.”

“Why didn’t you stay with her?”

“They demanded money.”

“How much?”

“Ten thousand before midnight.”

“Who wanted the ten thousand before midnight?”

“Al Cody.”

“He said she owed him the money?”

“Her dead husband.”

“But he wanted her to pay?”

“Said he’d kill the baby if she didn’t pay before midnight.”

“So she shot him to protect her baby?”

“Yes.”

“Did you get the ten thousand?”

“No.”

“Who did you try to get ten thousand cash from so late at night?”

“Boss.”

“You told me you were your own boss.”

“Boss of floating crap game.”

“You couldn’t get ten thousand from him?”

“No.”

“Who gave you the two hundred thousand in cash to fly to France?”

“Tom.”

“Tom who?”

“Tom Jefferson.”

“Where?”

“Battery graveyard.”

“Who forged your passports?”

“Capone.”

“Where’s your bag?”

“In the backpack under the bed.”

The Inspector sent a cop to fetch the backpack.

The cop returned with the backpack. The Inspector opened it. Empty.

“Where did you hide the bag?”

Paul winced. “Don’t remember.”

“Do you remember your name now?”

“Yes.”

“What is it?”

“Paul Page.”

“Then you must remember where you hid that bag.”

“I don’t!”

“Why did Michelle run from the police?”

“Shot Al. Self-defense, but cops wouldn’t believe her.”

“Why didn’t you tell the police what you told me—you gave her your gun to protect the baby while you went to try to raise the money?”

“Wouldn’t believe me either.”

“You have no record, Paul. You were not on any rap sheet until a few days ago. You drive a taxi, pay your taxes, offered to help her. She was alone. Her husband had been murdered. She was hounded for money he owed. Nobody gave a damn about her. Only you. A good solid American citizen. The police would believe you.”

Paul remained cipher-faced.

“Besides the police, who else was she afraid of?”

“Eddie.”

“Ed Cody? Al’s brother?”

“Told police he was going to kill her.”

The ache in the back of his head meant nothing. The ache on his temple meant nothing. Sudden pain came. The flute was closer. The tune stranger than ever. Was that a rumble?

“Paul, the police would have protected her.”

“How long? He’d kill her when they stopped.”