Leper Tango (22 page)

“Franck, are you looking at that column?”

“I'm looking at the column.”

“The picture on it, Franck. The one beneath the ad for the boxing.”

“I'm looking at it.”

The poster displayed a front shot photo of a man staring into a camera. A second photo of the same man in profile.

WANTED

Franck Robinson, aka Jake McMurphy, aka Jack

Shrivner White Male DOB: 09/11/58

Brown Hair

Brown Eyes

224
D
AVID
M
AC
K
INNON

6 foot 5 inches tall

210 pounds

Fair Skin Tone

1” scar on right buttock

tattoos: miniature whore on right bicep

Warrant Number: 01CR1878

40 Counts Rape of a Child

40 Counts Aggravated Sexual Battery

Additional Information: Franck Robinson is wanted for 40 counts of child rape, 40 counts of aggravated sexual battery, impersonating a lawyer without proper qualifications, fraud, larceny, impersonation, international terrorism assisting and harbouring illegal aliens, failure of Registration of Offender Violation under District of Montreal Criminal Court Case 500-02-0001431 and Parole Violation 01-5493 for Aggravated Indecent Solicitation of a Child.

Franck was last known to hang around carnivals and whorehouses in the Paris Pigalle district in France.

This individual is considered armed and dangerous. Do not attempt to apprehend him yourself. Report any information to the nearest
Brigade Judiciaire
. Or Sergeant Spike Nussbaum at

06.49499999

Information may also be reported anonymously to the RCMP Crime Stoppers of Canada by calling (416) 267-9111. You may be eligible for a cash reward of up to $10,000 if the information you provide leads to the location and arrest of a profiled fugitive. “Franck! That's you in the photo!” “It definitely could be me.”

“It
is
you, Franck. Look, there's even a description of your tattoo.”

“So there is.”

“Franck, you have to come to a decision. I told you, this Spike will not just go away. I know how to deal with this. We're seeing Dmitri right away. Put on your sunglasses, Franck. This man is trying to destroy you, Franck.

He has to be exterminated. We have to wipe this
pourri
off the planet.”

“Let me give Hervé a call. He' ll have some useful advice for us.”

I flipped open the cellphone, dialled Hervé's office number.

“Hervé, you old buzzard!”

“Franck. I've been trying to reach you for two weeks.”

“Sorry, Hervé, just keep forgetting to turn on the cell phone.”

“Franck, I've just received a call from the Law Society. Something about the Sutherland case I referred to you. The ATV accident, you recall.”

“What's with the formal voice, my man? This is Franck! Franck Robinson the Third!”

“This one won't go away, Franck.”

“Greed rearing its ugly head, Hervé. Greed and resentment. Amateurs trying to get in on the big game.

Nothing to fret over.”

“They've threatened joint and several liability on this, Franck. I've forwarded your bill of costs on the file. And your time sheets.”

“Time sheets! What the fuck are you talking about?

I work on contingency!” “They're questioning the propriety of several items.” “Sue them, Hervé. Sue their asses off. It's defamation a posteriori
. If I had the time to get back, they wouldn't try this bullshit.”

“For starters, your retainer of a hundred grand has raised a few eyebrows. On Bar and Bench.”

“The resentment of the public service, Hervé. Nothing illegal about getting money up front. We're all whores in the end. Question of price.”

“I don't think I'm getting through to you. It's never the direct things that bring us down, Franck. Always an event which initially appears trivial, that just won't go away. Ever see
Lawrence of Arabia
, Franck?”

“That the story about those sand niggers who bombed the Turkish railroad?”

“You get the picture, Franck. And, you're whooping it up in Medina, my friend.”

“That doesn't make me a bad person.”

“Franck, have you ever met Margaret Tillman?”

“She gave me a call the other day. Dry as a prune.

Over the phone anyways.”

“In her leisure hours, Franck, she works at a battered women's shelter. Not likely to be sympathetic to your cause. She's also a dyke. A dyke with a good reason for being a dyke, if you catch my drift.”

“What has she got on me?”

“What's that got to do with it, Franck? You personify everything she is fighting.”

“Unfair editorial comment, Hervé. You're the woman beater. Remember, the
aller-retour
? I recall you were the one who defined it for me. You sound short of breath, Hervé. You inhaling or exhaling?”

“Franck, you're more than out of the loop in the City.

You're right up there with urea formaldehyde, my friend. Christ, even conversing with you might make me some kind of accessory after the fact. Listen, Franck, I'm a few deviations from the norm. We all are. We're judged behind our backs, in our sleep, or before the courts. But you're getting involved in something different. Criminals — and here, I refer to the
criminal classes
, and not some poor bugger who sods off his wife because he lost his job — operate differently. Type that kills you because of the way you look at him. Or because he hasn't been laid in a week. You've cross-examined these sub-humans, Franck! Come on! You can still come back.”

“No, this is home now, Hervé. Where the heart lies.” “I always thought of you as a convenience man, Franck. But you are something else. For what it's worth, you're signing your death warrant.”

“You're a good man, Hervé, but you're wrong. Everybody is toast sooner or later. Or, in my case, everybody is croque monsieur
.”

“Go ahead, Franck. But, I can't communicate with you anymore. Nothing personal, but I've never been a fall guy.”

“I know the rules of engagement, Hervé. Quit worrying so much. How are things back home?”

“I'm selling the property. Too much to tend in old age. Not that this would concern you, but the taxes are too high.”

“True enough, definitely not on my radar screen.”

“In the long run, you can live with taxes, Franck.”

I hung up the phone.

“What did he say?”

“He said we'd better talk to Dmitri.”

Dmitri's twin diesel yacht, the
First In, First Out
, was moored on the
Jetée Nord
at the
Club Nautique d 'Antibes
.

The upper saloon of
First In, First Out
was lizard lounge all the way, minus the strippers, but overloaded with plasma screens, DVD home cinema, cellphones, TV sat systems, and antique sextants, compasses and maps of the world, circa 16
th
century, with the entry
Terra Incognita
over large parts of the New World. In the far end of the Upper Saloon, a wall covered with pictures of young models, posing.

Dmitri's look was 1950s film noir star, which suited his broken nose, hooded eyelids and mallet head. The way he held his whisky looked precious for a man with his face, until you noticed that he was missing three fingers on his right hand.

“I wondered where you'd gone, Sheba,” he said as he lined up three whisky tumblers, a bucket of ice and a bottle of J&B on the oval teak table of the stateroom. “You disappeared for a while.”

He poured out the whisky, still wasn't looking at me. He poured out doubles, on ice. I went into drift, started running a mental list of 1950s film noir stars. Definitely not Delon. Remnants of Belmondo. Jean Gabin? Close, but no. Lino Ventura. That was it. The Slavonic Lino Ventura.

“I don't like something about it. But I said I would help you,” says Dmitri. “So, I' ll help you What's this
somebody
's name bothering your friend here?”

Dmitri pulled a thread from between his teeth as if it were the remains of the last
somebody
who had bothered one of his friends
.

“Spike,” I intervened, “Spike Nussbaum.”

He poured himself another J& B. Nodded towards

my glass.

“Another finger?”

“No, I've got enough on my hands.”

Dmitri frowned, like he was noticing me for the first time, or was taking a stab at calculating two to the third power, or found himself in front of a traffic light which stayed red for three minutes running. Then, he grinned and shook his head.

“I am from Russia. Siberia.”

“Nice. What's a one-way on the Trans-Siberian set you back in rubles these days?”

“Even today, there are cannibals in Siberia.”

For a moment, I even forgot Spike. The Riviera.

Hideout for Arctic cannibals.

“On second thought, give me a finger. Of J&B.”

“Tell me, Robinson. How come everybody got short names in America?”

“What's short about Robinson?”

“No, like Bill, Bob, Gus, Sam.”

“We have bad memories.”

“We have no memories in Russia. Vodka.”

“But you have long names.”

“Not everybody. Joe Stalin is short.”

“Funny. He looks tall in the pictures.”

“So, what is the problem with this Spike
somebody
?”

“Money.”

“And you got no money.”

“I have money. But none for Spike.”

“Just tell this Spike somebody, no worries, Spike, you want the money, you come by and pick up the money.

Then you tell him you're waiting for him here.”

Dmitri passed me a business card pressed between his thumb and forefinger. Hotel del Monte. Villecroze.

Diner-Spectacle. PMU.
Cuisine Provençale
.

“Just like that.”

“Just like that.”

“Then what?”

“That's simple. Then, I take care of things.”

“What's your end?” Dmitri looked at Sheba.

“You said he wanted my help, Sheba, know what I mean? So, he wants my help, or he don't want my help?”

Right at that moment, I was thinking, you can write your own rule book and escape unscathed for a long time. Until society's various bounty hunters, the Spikes and the Margaret Tillmans, put the squeeze on you, money, the great lubricator, dulls the critical mind.

Everything is equal and everybody's your friend. That was my little ozone layer until now. Lovemaking in the morning,
pétanque
in the afternoon, drinks and the casinos in the evening. It seemed like it could go on forever. Sooner or later, I had to pick my friends. Even if I had to pay for them.

“All right, Dmitri, fair enough, I'll invite Spike over.

You do your thing, and then we'll discuss terms after the event. Sort of a commission deal.”

“Sure. A commission deal. Don't worr y about it.

Know what I mean?”

VI

We were listening to an old Argentinian soul music number from Astor Piazzolla titled
Oblivion
. She wore ruffled, white satin panties, white bra, white pumps. She was combing her hair, looking in the mirror, talking casually. She reminded me of a dragonfly when she performed her monologues while beautifying herself. She dabbed some foundation around her right eye to mask a bruise which had appeared there. I had just finished whipping her backside with my belt, opening up the now thick scars criss-crossing her buttocks and calves, which were partially covered with gauze to stop up the thick suppurating flow of ooze coming from her wounds, giving an effect of venetian blinds. “Franck, I don't want you to be afraid. No matter how much I kick up a fuss, I invite you to be brutal. If you do it carefully, increase it by degrees, then I can take it. But the worst thing you could do is stop, Franck. I would never forgive you for that. Beauty doesn't last forever, Franck. I would prefer to kill it off myself than have time do it for me.” She stopped applying some mascara, looked into the mirror at me, verifying something.

“Can't you see, Franck?
I am no better than an animal
. But, while we are acting this thing out, I prefer not to have to stop and give you instructions. You can understand that it defeats the whole purpose. Oh, I almost forgot, there is something I want to show you.”

She walked out of the room, and returned with several bound packages, of var ying thickness, each tied around with lace, and a label with the first name of a man. Henri. Cédric. Jack. She pulled out the first stack, unlaced it and began reading.

“Even now, from Ward K ...” She glanced at me.

“
Non, mais tu te rends compte
, Franck? Ward K. I cannot believe they still use letters. It makes it sound just like a prison.”

She continued reading aloud. The first letter ended with a promise of suicide.

“ You see what these buildings can inspire?
Scandaleux
, Franck.”

She continued reading, then moved onto the next sequence of letters, addressed by a certain Cédric.

“A pilot. For
les grandes lignes
.”

Cédric's letters alternated between effusive confessions of love, pleading for her return, and threats of police action.

“Cédric was less than a man. And he betrayed me.

So, I seduced his brother. He was no better. A defective genetic code. I believe the scientists study these things in Iceland. And Tonga ... yes, Tonga.”

She read from another letter. It was a long, rambling diatribe, at times pathetic, at other times coldly analytical. Someone who clearly hated himself for having become involved with her. The letter concluded with a servile, obsequious request to have a large sum of money returned.

“Vincent was Dutch. W hen I met him, I owed a rather large sum of money to someone, in the Var, and the person needed the sum immediately. You know what the Var people are like, Franck. Codes of honour. Vincent turned it into a moral issue. Insisted he pay the debt. But, later, I received a letter from a woman, in a truly execrable French, insisting that as his
vrouw
, she was entitled to ask that the sum be returned
illico presto
, or else the police would become involved.”