Ring Game (18 page)

“Sorry,” said Crow. “I don’t know what you’re saying.”

The man cocked his head. “You are American?” he said, switching effortlessly into English.

“That’s right,” Crow said.

“Your family, you must be from France, no?”

“My family’s mostly Irish, actually.”

“Ah!” the man grinned, showing much gold in his teeth. “I love the Irish!”

Nettled, Debrowski had said, “He wants to know where the RER depot is, Crow.”

The man had ignored her completely, apparently having lost interest in catching his train, and proceeded to recite his favorite lines from William Butler Yeats.

Crow had left Paris nearly two months ago. At first, she’d felt a sense of relief, as if shrugging off a heavy pack. Then she’d become angry at him for leaving her there. And now? Now she missed him. She wished he was there to see her learning to relax. Making the transition from wannabe Frenchwoman to American tourist. She hoped to get to the point when she could walk into any restaurant in town and blithely order a burger and fries in English, giving the words the full nasal force of her Midwestern twang. One day she might even dare to order a cup of “American coffee”—espresso diluted with hot water—or, better yet, a hot dog for breakfast as she had once seen a Japanese tourist do. A hot dog and a Coke.

The waiter’s hand appeared and disappeared, leaving behind an espresso double. Debrowski unwrapped a sugar cube, dipped it into the coffee, sucked on it—a Parisian habit she had picked up. She frowned at her affectation, dropped the cube into the cup, took a large drag from the Gitane, let the smoke drift from her mouth and nose. For a moment, her head swam in a warm nicotine fog. A cool tentacle of air reached out from the air conditioner and exploded the cloud.

It was hard for her, to be an American in Paris. But it was possible, at least. Laura Debrowski considered her options as she absorbed the remainder of her cigarette and coffee. Leaving twelve francs beside her coffee cup, she walked out into the midday heat, located a credit card phone, and entered in a long sequence of numbers.

Known to certain of her coworkers as “Princess Peach,” the Flowrean Peeche who worked at Solid Sam’s Real Food Restaurant was a different person from the Flowrean Peeche who worked out at Bigg Bodies. Flo the waitress was neat, she was clean, and she smelled good. Her wild mop of hair was pulled back and woven into a precise braid. She wore the same black-and-gold polyester outfit as the other waitresses and, except for her well-defined forearms and callused palms, she did not look like a bodybuilder. When she spoke to her customers she came across as pleasant and even friendly, and if one of them copped a feel, she refrained from breaking his arm.

Flo recognized that holding a good job required certain sacrifices and compromises. She did not mind being called “Princess,” but the treatment of her surname—more properly pronounced “Puh-
shay
”—disturbed her. Nevertheless, for the sake of the job, she tolerated the title. The hours were flexible. She never had to miss a workout. And the tips were excellent. On a good night she could take home an easy hundred and twenty dollars, money she needed. Payments on her condo downtown ran nine hundred a month. Protein supplements, amino acids, organic vegetables, and vitamins cost another six hundred. She’d paid off her Miata, but it was four years old and might break down at any time. Money was important. Self-respect was important. The respect of others, that was optional.

Flo understood that she was loathed by the other waitresses. They hated her because she was the best damn waitress Solid Sam Champlin, former Minnesota Viking, had ever hired. They hated her because she was always on time, because she got the best tips, and because she treated the rest of the waitstaff as if they did not exist. And they hated her because Solid Sam, who was by all accounts the nicest three hundred forty-pound ex-linebacker on the planet, was clearly and desperately in love with her. Flo understood all that, but she didn’t let it bother her. She showed up and did her job. She flirted with the cooks, ignored the dining room staff, fended off Sam’s advances, and provided her customers with flawless table service. Lately, while she did all that, she devoted a significant portion of her thoughts to Joe Crow.

Three images came back to her repeatedly. First, she thought of Crow facing down Beaut Miller, that dreamy expression on his face. That had been a beautiful thing, a moment that made her heart jump in her chest. Second, she remembered looking up one time after screaming her way through a particularly painful set of squats, three hundred sixty-five pounds on the bar, to find Crow staring at her with frank admiration. When she remembered that moment she grew little shivery bumps all over her arms. Her third picture of Crow was of him slamming his car door into one of Bigg’s limos. That one got her right between the legs.

She was playing that memory, waiting for a chili fries appetizer to come up, when Solid Sam glided past her—amazing how smooth and quiet he could move for such a big guy—and let his ringed fingers drag lightly across her left glute. The synergy of having Crow in her mind and Solid Sam’s fingers on her ass made her knees buckle.

Quickly recovering, she snapped, “Next time you do that I break a finger.”

Sam, moving away, chuckled, saying over his shoulder, “I wear you down, baby. I wear you down.”

“In your dreams, niggah,” Flo muttered, hiding a smile. Her chili fries appeared under the lights; she grabbed the plate and walked them out to the waiting four-top. Sam was a nice guy. She even liked him, most of the time. But he reminded her too much of her mother’s boyfriends. Also, he was not so solid as he had been during his gridiron days. The thought of his rubbery embrace frightened her. She might be absorbed and digested.

Crow, by contrast, was small, hard, stoic, and impenetrable. He was separate. His otherness tugged at her with the force of gravity. The more she thought about him, the more she wanted to get inside that shell.

Crow had once asked Debrowski whether she ever astonished herself.

“Every day, Crow.”

“No. I mean, do you ever do something and it’s like you’re watching yourself, and you just can’t believe that you are doing it?”

“Yes.”

“Like what?”

Debrowski’s eyes lost focus for a moment. She said, “One day last week I was getting dressed. I had my jacket, and I was putting on this—” She fingered a thin silver chain that hung from her earlobe to the epaulet of her scarred-up leather jacket, where it was fastened by an antique brass padlock, one of several that adorned her person. “—And I thought, what the
hell
do you think you’re
doing
? All of a sudden I saw myself as this weirdo, this poseur, this silly little twit in black leather and chains trying to make a fashion statement. A fashion statement, I mean, what the hell is that? Am I telling people, hey, look out for this chick because she is obviously a dangerously self-involved, tasteless idiot? I felt like a complete fool. Do I ever astonish myself ? Hell yes.”

Crow said, “You mean you were astonished at the way you were dressed?”

Debrowski gave him an injured look. “It was the thoughts that astonished me, Crow. I dress how I want.”

Crow was rarely astonished by his own thoughts. His acts, however, were a continual source of amazement. Every time he remembered putting that dent in Bigg’s limo, he became confused. Vandalism was not and had never been his style. The weirdest thing was that it had felt so
good.
It had put his relationship with Arling Biggie back in balance. A dent for a dent.

Such were his thoughts as he climbed the stairs to his apartment door. He had just inserted his key into the lock when he heard the tinny sound of an incoming message on his answering machine. He pushed the door open and strode quickly through the apartment, trying to reach the phone before she hung up. Milo materialized between his feet and wrapped his body around Crow’s ankle. Crow lost his balance trying not to crush the cat, whacked his knee on an endtable, and fell headlong on the hardwood floor.

His cheek pressing against the somewhat gritty floorboards, Crow heard, “Au revoir, cheri.” The machine gave forth a squawk and clicked off, leaving behind only the sound of Milo purring somewhere in the dark.

“Goddamn cat,” he muttered as he climbed painfully to his feet. This was not turning out to be one of his better days. He limped to the phone and played back the message.

“Allo allo, Crow, you must be out playing cards, you rascal. What time is it there? You aren’t still in bed, are you? Did you get my postcard? You better not be out chasing women, Crow. I think we’re getting close to wrapping things up here, but René is being a jerk—
ça me fait shier.
It’ll be good to get back. I’ll call you tomorrow, same time, same station. Au revoir, cheri!”

Once again, she didn’t leave a number where he could call her back. At least the message had been upbeat. Crow rewound the tape and listened to it again. He liked that she didn’t want him out chasing women. He liked her calling him “cheri.”

It is the test of a good religion whether you can joke about it.

—Gilbert K. Chesterton

“Y
OU STILL REEK OF
that shit, man.” Charles “Chuckles” Thickening rolled down his window and turned up the air conditioning.

Charles “Chip” Bouchet turned his head and glared. The two men were sitting in Chuckles’s yellow Corvette, watching the front door of a Dunkin’ Donuts.

“You ever hear of
bathing
?” Chuckles asked.

“I took a shower.”

“Yeah, well you still stink.”

Chip Bouchet crossed his arms and scowled. Smaller, denser, and more rigid than Chuckles, Chip’s blocky body moved with robotic precision and inflexibility. He wore his sandy hair in a military buzz cut, carried his chin thrust up and forward, and spoke with minimal lip and jaw movement, which made him difficult to understand. Chip might have been considered a handsome man, in a squinty-eyed Aryan sort of way, were it not for the fact that his nostrils pointed forward rather than down, a feature which, during his brief stint in the Marines, had earned him the nickname “Rooter.”

Chip had been with the ACO almost since the beginning. Hyatt Hilton had originally hired him to work the early Extraction Events. Back then, Rupe and Polly and Hy had formed a triumvirate, each of them exerting more-or-less equal power. Those were, in Chip’s mind, the good old days. He had seen himself as the Archangel Gabriel, carrying out the wishes of the trinity. His devotion to the church had been boundless. Recently, however, certain church practices had begun to erode his faith. He had found Hyatt’s excommunication disturbing, and the recent hiring of Chuckles was a very bad sign.

Chip’s job title was “Security Chief.” Chuckles, who had come on board just three months ago, had been given the title “Head of Security.” No one had yet told Chip who worked for whom. He was afraid to ask. So far, they had managed to work together without confronting the issue, but it weighed on Chip’s mind.

Chip and Chuckles were waiting for Hyatt Hilton to emerge from the Dunkin’ Donuts. They had been following him since he’d left his house that morning, waiting for a chance to talk to him up close and private. Chip was not looking forward to doing this job. The butyric acid thing had been bad enough, and now this.

So far, Hyatt had visited a health food store, an espresso shop, and now Dunkin’ Donuts, all of which were too public for their purposes.

“The man’s diet get worse every stop he make.”

“They said he abused his temple,” Chip said.

“Say what?”

“That’s why Polly and Rupe had to shun him.”

“Shun? I thought he got his ass kicked out. I heard he was skimmin’.”

“They said he was abusing his body.”

Chuckles laughed. “You mean I eat a longjohn I lose my job?”

“Hyatt Hilton was an Elder. You’re only a deacon. Higher offices demand higher standards of behavior.”

“Good. I like them longjohns.”

Hyatt Hilton pushed open the glass door and ambled over to his Beamer. He wore a loose white collarless shirt, a pair of baggy trousers with vertical red-and-gold stripes and a pair of slip-on huaraches. He climbed into his car and pulled a pastry out of the bag without seeming to notice the yellow Corvette parked across the street.

“What’s that he got? A fritter?”

Chip did not reply. Hyatt began to eat.

Chuckles licked his lips. “It look
good
. They really kick him out for eating donuts?”

Chip said, “Abusing his temple.” He didn’t like talking about this. The whole situation with the Elders was very unstable, very need-to-know. Chuckles didn’t need to know, even if he was Head of Security. “There he goes,” Chip said.

The Beamer pulled out into traffic. Chuckles let it get a half block away, then followed.

Chip said, “It was not strategic.”

“Say what?”

“The butyric acid. We should have planted it in his garage with a small explosive device, then triggered it from a safe distance. That would have been strategic.”

Chuckles said, “You ask me, the whole idea sucked. I mean, Rupe, he just don’t have Polly’s cojones. She bad.” Chuckles accelerated to catch a light, staying two cars behind the Beamer. “Sometime she scare me.”

“The concept was sound,” said Chip. The butyric acid had been his idea. “The execution was not strategic.”

“Whatever. I still like Polly’s approach a whole lot better. You want to make a point, you break a bone.”

Chip wished, not for the first time, that his bosses, Rupe and Polly, would sing in harmony. Ever since Hyatt’s excommunication, he’d been getting conflicting sets of instructions. Rupe would tell him to do something, and then Polly would tell him what he was
really
supposed to do. In this case, Rupe had asked him to suggest a nonviolent way of making an impression on Hyatt Hilton, and Chip had suggested the butyric acid. He was familiar with butyric acid from his years working with Operation Rescue. A few ounces of butyric down the roof vents could shut down an abortion factory for weeks. Rupe had approved the action. Rupert Chandra abhorred violence, but had no qualms about using aromatherapy to alter human behavior.