C'est la Vie (Raja Williams Series) (8 page)

She called Raja.

“Vinny, how was your first night?”

“Don’t ask. I slept until eleven.”

“No way.”

“Way.”

“That bad, huh?”

“Worse.”

“Did you find out anything at the club?”

“I’ve got samples of three drugs currently being tested. Don’t worry, I didn’t use the police lab. I also figured out how they launder the drug money.
It’s ingeniously simple really. The customer gets one dose of a designer drug for use at the club handed to him by a waitress. There is no money exchanged, therefore no
‘
sale’ that takes place. Separately, the booze tab is adjusted to reflect the drugs bought, marked as drinks. Even with forensic accountants going over the club’s books, there’s no way to connect the money with the drugs.”
 

“Maybe that’s what makes the squirrelly little accountant so valuable.”

“That could be.”

“What were the drugs that you turned up at the club?” asked Raja.

“The samples I sent for testing were called Drone, X and Cloud Nine, all designer drugs. That doesn’t mean that’s what they were. Many designer drugs were originally created in the pharmaceutical company labs, but shelved in favor of other chemical variations. There are hundreds, maybe thousands of them, that have slight chemical differences from already banned drugs that keep them legal for years. Governments have caught on more recently, but keeping up with the science is next to impossible.”

“Who thinks up the names?”

“Good question. The names make them popular with the kids. Ecstasy, Smile, Cloud Nine, just to name a few. The truth is, often times the actual drug sold under a particular name varies widely. That is what makes these so-called designer drugs especially dangerous. It is buying a pig in a poke. We’ll see what the lab says they actually are. How’s your investigation going?”

“I may have located the drug lab. Of course, having an address and getting the police to do anything about it are two entirely different things. I’m going to find out how much the Paris police want to stop the local drug trade.”

“Sounds like a plan,” said Vinny. “I also found some traffic on our missing woman, Margaret Browning. There is a lot more interest in locating her than I first thought. But, none of it is showing up on official channels.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve got an RF capture program running through satellite that is keyed to any reference to her. Some of the traffic is between local hoods, some between police officers. All on private lines.”

“You can hack all that?”

“Yeah, dude. P-O-C.”

“So, we have the criminals and the cops looking for Mrs. Browning, but on the sly. Why the low profile? And what is so important about a British woman on holiday in Paris?”

“I was hoping you could answer that one, Raj.”

“Okay, Vinny, find out whatever else you can. I’m down at the narcotics division, waiting to see someone. I’ve got a raid to plan. Gotta go.”

The narcotics division was run by a Captain Rochefort, a famous fixture in the Paris police department. He had been running narcotics for over ten years as the one exception to the policy of frequent assignment changes that was needed to keep the division clean. His integrity was considered beyond reproach. He had initially doubted the information from Raja, but on the recommendation of Inspector Gilliard, he had agreed to meet.

“
Bonjour
, Monsieur Williams,” said a young officer. “Follow me.” The officer led Raja to an open room full of desks. On one side of the room, a raised platform held a commanding view of the entire room. A tough angular-jawed man with salt and pepper hair sat behind a large wooden desk on top of the platform. He looked to be over fifty, but had the physique and presence of a much younger man. It was Captain Rochefort. He preferred a spot in full view of his men rather than a private office out of sight. He had learned from his days in the military that men do not respect a commander they cannot see. He waved for Raja and the officer to approach using a three-step stair on the side.

“You are the private investigator who brings me the gift of intelligence information on a major drug lab in my city. You are not Greek, are you?” The captain was referring to the Greek gift of the Trojan horse that felled Troy.

“No, sir.”

“Good, then let’s hear more. Sit down.”

Raja outlined the data he had collected so far, including what Vinny had discovered at the Cabaret d’Artois.

“You are American, are you not?”

“Yes.”

“And you have been in Paris how long?”

“Less than a week.”

“Impressive. If you don’t mind, I will need time to talk with my officers to get their input and bring them up to speed. If your information fits with what we already know, then we will proceed.”

“Thank you, Captain.” Raja knew that was as far as he could push it today. One of the difficulties of crashing the party as an outsider was that any detective work you did, especially if it was good, inevitably made someone in the police department look bad. Raja pegged the Captain as a straight shooter, and decided his best play was to give the Captain enough room to make the idea palatable to his men.

Chapter Eleven: Dancing Madly Backwards

A
nother grueling night of the same at Cabaret d’Artois gave Vinny the chance to meet more of the staff. The younger girls were sure they were on their way up in the world, and more than a few of the older ones were on their way down, but they were a decent group for the most part. Corinne Reneau was nowhere to be found. Coco told Vinny that Corinne had been taking time off because of her brother’s death. None of the other girls knew much about Corinne aside from her having a personal relationship with Bruno.

Halfway through the night Vinny met the little bald man who had been sitting with Bruno when Raja and Vinny first visited the club. He was hanging around the dressing area when Vinny took her break, carrying a black ledger.

“
Bonsoir
,” he said softly. “You are the new girl, yes?”

“Yes.” Vinny looked at the strange little man. He seemed like such an unlikely character to be in a Parisian cabaret. But every business needs a bookkeeper. The small black eyes that peered over his reading glasses looked like buttons and gave off no emotion.

“Livinia, is it not?”

“Vinny works for me.”

“I like that
—
Vinny. I am Henri Duchamp.” He made no attempt at the usual French embrace and kiss she had come to expect, especially from men.

Vinny assumed he was shy. “What do you do here, Henri?”

“Nothing very important. I keep some of the books.” He held up a ledger that she had noticed was a permanent accessory to his wardrobe. “I trust you are getting along with the other girls?”

“Yes. So far they have all been helpful and nice.”

“Good. If you need anything, please don’t hesitate to ask me. I am more resourceful than I look, and you never know when I may be able to help.”

One of the other girls came in and affectionately kissed the top of Henri’s head. “I see you have met Henri,” she said. “He is a sweetheart. All the girls rub his head for good luck. I swear, it does seem to work. And he is right. He can be helpful. When my twins were sick and I was short on money, he got me a badly needed raise.”

“Lise, the young ones are doing well, I hope?” asked Henri.

“Healthy and happy, thanks to you,” said Lise, rubbing his head as she left. The girls all liked Henri and treated him as a sort of lucky mascot. Vinny noticed that, although he didn’t seem to mind, he did not appear to take any pleasure from it either. Asking Henri about the club got nothing but vague answers. Apparently his nose was too buried in his books for him to notice what was going on.

Throughout the night, Vinny met and talked to the other waitresses and as many of the dancers as she could to find out more about the club. There were VIP clients who sat in the balcony or had private booths on the side. Vinny watched a wealthy Arab spending money like it was water, or to make a better comparison, oil. She remembered stories she had heard about when the Arab oil industry had first exploded, and there was so much money that small towns would have fifty-gallon drums full of money sitting out in the town square for anyone to use. Here in the club, many of the patrons liked to spread their money around either to attract girls or just to show off. Vinny tried to get closer to the wealthy Arab, but Luc stepped into her line of sight and shook his head slowly, warning her away.

“I thought I might get a big tip,” said Vinny, when she reached Luc. “He looks like he could afford it.”

“That is Sheik Barafa from Saudi Arabia. He is strictly off limits to you, for now. Of course, when you prove yourself to me, I can set you up with some of the other heavy hitters.” He smiled in a way that made it clear how she could prove herself. Luc was trying to follow in Bruno’s footsteps, but Vinny doubted he had the stones or the nasties to pull it off.

“That’s all right. I’ll make do.”

“Suit yourself,” said Luc. “You don’t know what you are missing.”

“I think I do.”

Luc got red-faced and stormed off. Vinny was right about the stones.

Vinny watched one of the courtesans expertly reel in an older man who looked like a conservative business or government type. She danced with him closely until his motor was humming, then pulled away as if she remembered an appointment she had somewhere else. Seeing his chance about to evaporate, he went for it, offering her money and asking her to accompany him upstairs. She looked at her watch impatiently to up the ante, and he undoubtedly offered her more money to persuade her to make a schedule change. Finally she smiled and took his arm. This was not the type of client who was going to sneak up the back stairway. Instead, he walked slowly and proudly to the main stairs with the girl on his arm, enjoying the rare chance to be seen in public with such a beautiful young woman.

For the most part, the courtesans kept to the third floor. Vinny met one named Yvette during her break. Yvette was arguing with Bruno near the back stairwell to the third floor. Vinny couldn’t hear what they were saying but the conversation ended with Bruno slapping the girl in the face. She came into the dressing room crying.

When she sat in front of a mirror to fix her makeup, Vinny could see the red welt rising on her cheek. Bruno had hit her hard. When Yvette noticed Vinny watching, she said, “What are you looking at? Have you never seen a man hit a woman?”

“Sure, but that doesn’t make it right,” said Vinny.

Yvette tried to laugh but ended up wincing instead. “
C’est la vie, chère, c’est la vie
.”

“What is his problem, anyway?” asked Vinny.

“He thinks I am holding out on the money I earned from a client.”

“I thought that was your money?”

“Don’t I wish. No, Bruno takes the lion’s share. And he always thinks the girls are cheating him.”

“Pot—kettle—black,” said Vinny, referring to the old adage.

“Huh?”

Vinny thought about attempting a translation. “Never mind.” The idiom didn’t translate to French easily. Besides, Vinny remembered she was there to dig up information, not to start a revolt among the girls, despite her natural urge to rise to their defense. That would have to come later. Right now she wanted to explore the third floor.

Her chat with Yvette revealed more about the club’s operation. Some of the customers were regulars who had specific courtesans that they came to see. The customer would pay for a room on the third floor and then request a certain girl. If available, the girl would bring them a key and would meet them upstairs at an agreed upon time. The rest was between the girl and the client.

“Are you going upstairs now?” asked Vinny.

Yvette nodded.

“I’ll walk you up. I heard there are rooms for rent—just for sleeping
.
I’m not a courtesan
—
not that there’s anything wrong with that.” Vinny looked at Yvette, hoping she was not offended.

Yvette laughed. “That’s all right. A courtesan’s life is certainly not for everyone. Yes, there are small rooms in the back. Come on, we better hurry. You don’t want to take too long a break. Bruno won’t like it.”

The third floor was primarily the domain of the courtesans, of which there were seven, including Yvette. There were two sets of stairs leading to the third floor, one allowing for discreet access from the rear of the building without being seen going through the club. Although the French had little objection to extra-curricular sexual activity, there were still those who insisted on discretion. Vinny and Yvette passed several rooms where the sounds reaching the hallway made it clear that they were being used. Vinny noted that there was a man posted at the top of the rear stairs.

“This is my room,” said Yvette, stopping in front of the door numbered six. She opened the deadbolt with a key. Inside there was a small anteroom followed by a large bedroom that featured soft indirect lights and a large round bed.

“Do you stay here? I mean to sleep.”

“Yes, although not all the girls do. The rooms aren’t used until evening. Michela and Francoise both like to get away from work when they can. They share a small flat just east of here. They still end up spending a lot of their time here. Those are their rooms.” Yvette walked out and pointed to two rooms across the hall. “Come on. I’ll show you the regular rooms. I warn you, they aren’t much.”

At the end of the main hallway were two small wings on either side with doors on the outside wall. Yvette opened one. She was right. With a small daybed, dresser and one chair, each room amounted to little more than a glorified closet. The single tiny window high on the wall gave it the feel of a monk’s room in a monastery, or a jail cell. When Vinny backed out of the room, she bumped into a solid male body.

It was Bruno. “You would be better off with a room like Yvette’s,” he said. “Of course, that would require
—
”

“I don’t think so,” said Vinny, spinning out of Bruno’s reach. “I’ve got to get back downstairs. Thanks for showing me the room, Yvette. I’ll think about staying here.” Vinny headed for the stairs, hoping not to have caused any trouble for Yvette and not to have raised any suspicions. Remembering the welt under Yvette’s eye, Vinny also decided that, when the time was right, Bruno would pay dearly for his brutality.