The Adventures of Mademoiselle Mac 2-Book Bundle (10 page)

The club was soon filling up for an early show so that everyone could be out in time to catch the Bastille Day fireworks and parties that were planned all over the city. Word had gotten out that this would be Sashay's last appearance, so the nostalgic and curious were out in force. Extra tables were crammed into the balcony section in anticipation of a major Shadow party. The first hint I had of Rudee's plan was when I noticed that some of the regular employees weren't at their usual places. Maurice and Henri, looking very suave with their bulletproof coifs polished to a high gloss, were working together behind the bar, mixing drinks masterfully. Maurice was rhythmically shaking a cocktail mixer over his head while his brother was spinning variously coloured bottles on the bar and pouring two at a time from high above the glasses like a mad scientist. To one side of the stage I spotted Mink Maynard in a tuxedo uncoiling a microphone cable and checking over some notes. On the other side, Dizzy was laying out some vacuum cleaner–type hose, and we exchanged smiles.

The regular petrified piano player was absent, and in his place was an odd-looking character I didn't recognize, with a long set of gold lamé tails and a too-tall top hat. He was stationed to the left of the stage on a circular riser with velvety material draped around the bottom, at a multi-tiered set of keyboards. He was making last-minute adjustments to a set of pedals when he turned toward Mink side stage to offer a thumbs up. From beneath a silly handlebar moustache, a goofy grin emerged that I recognized right away as belonging to Rudee. The buzz of voices was loud in the club as the Shadows passed through their private entrance to fill the balcony to capacity. Michelle, the cigarette girl, was dispatched with an overflowing tray to take care of their smoking needs, and I was very glad not to be in her place tonight. I'd seen enough of that rancid crew for one lifetime, and I figured they wouldn't be too thrilled to see me.

The lights dimmed, and the crowd quieted in expectation. I saw Henri loading a bunch of glowing greenish drinks onto a tray that was bound for the balcony. A spotlight found Mink Maynard, who strode centre stage, bowed formally, and began his introduction.

“Ladies and gentlemen,
mesdames et messieurs
, a night to remember is yours to be sure. As the curtain falls on the Moulin D'Or and these magic moments will be no more, travel with us to the world of dreams and give yourselves up to the queen. Sail away to childhood's shore with
la Reine des Rêves
, Sashay D'Or!”

His voice rose at the end as the fog from Dizzy's smoke machine seeped into the room, making the floor look like a misty pond at dawn. Rudee began with a low, mysterious wash of chords that floated out of the speakers encircling his riser. The rhythmic blue lights I recalled from the first time I'd experienced Sashay's show were twinkling like soft stars over the crowd, which grew quieter and quieter. Sashay swept onstage in a cascade of silky scarves as Rudee's music rose to meet the moment. Seemingly transported in time herself, Sashay resembled the woman I'd seen on the old Lido poster as she wove her spell on the audience. If not for the ridiculousness of Rudee, I'm sure I would've been caught up in it myself. His riser slowly began to rotate and elevate, adding a dizzy, swirling quality to the music. The smoke machine was working overtime, and Sashay seemed to be floating on waves of foggy satin, back and forth, dipping and spinning, her skirts and scarves overlapping in a golden cascade. The audience was, to say the least, mesmerized.

For once, the Shadows sat in rapt attention as the show reached a majestic climax. Rudee's hands flew over the keyboards. His feet pumped furiously on the pedals and his top hat twirled wildly as his riser ascended and teetered dangerously over the transfixed crowd. Sashay spun like whipped cream, jewelled gloves twirling in time to the spellbinding waves of music. When she finally disappeared in a column of golden mist and the music slowly eased, the audience was transported. Downstairs, happy faces shone like children at play, and laughter flowed through the dreamy crowd.

To my shock, above it all, on the balcony the Shadows were having a wild time of their own. They ran their hands through candles and laughed until their fedoras flew in the air. One was making shadow sharks on the wall while his pals could barely contain themselves, snapping their arms like giant jaws. Another was making rude sounds and causing his trench coat to billow around his bulky body while another had his coat over his head and was racing back and forth on the balcony making ghost sounds. Mink, Dizzy, Maurice, Henri, and Rudee gathered side stage to marvel at the sight.

“Wow,” said Dizzy, “what were you playing, Rudee?”

“Ughoman's ‘Mesmerata Nocturne,' with a few additions of my own.”

Maurice and Henri proudly pointed out the mostly empty glasses of green nectar on the Shadows' tables. “Absinthe makes the heart grow fonder,
non
?” said one brother as the other grinned widely.

Mink coiled up his mike cable and laughed. “And how about Sashay's dance? That should chill their nasty plans.”

Suddenly a door slammed loudly backstage, and a rush of footsteps was heard in the hall. Through the doors to the kitchen burst Louche, followed by Scar and Phlegm. They stopped just inside the club and stared at the action on the balcony, momentarily stunned by what they saw. “Scar, hit the lights and cut that smoke machine. Phlegm, round up those losers, now. We've got a night's work to do,” barked Louche.

He was, if possible, even unhappier than he had been during the fight with his brother. The Hacks and I concealed ourselves backstage, wondering how this was going to play out, and Rudee rushed to Sashay's dressing room. Louche strode across the room like a prison warden who's just stopped an escape attempt. The Shadow play ended abruptly, and they hastily grabbed hats, coats, and smokes and unsteadily made their way out the private exit. Scar joined Louche and Phlegm on the balcony. They conferred briefly, one picking up a nearly empty glass of green liquid and sniffing it before slamming the glass down and smashing it on the table. Louche shot a look back toward the stage over the heads of the confused patrons, seeming to scan the area for suspects. He then violently kicked over a table, scattering the contents, and exited to join his departed thugs.

I left the other Hacks and went backstage to find Rudee, where I bumped right into Blag in the dim hallway. It was like walking into a wall. “Sorry. Oh Blag, I'm glad to see you.” I fumbled for words.

“So this was Daroo's big idea? Bore the smokies stiff with his feeble tunes and some dry ice? This was supposed to get them out of the way, then everything would go happily ever after? Does he drink his own drool for breakfast?”

“Blag, I know it didn't work, but I've got an idea. Can you take me to Madeleine's office?”

“Sure kid, but this better have more juice than Daroo's cheeseball show. C'mon, my car's in the alley. I doubt we have much time.”

The streets were clogged with Bastille Day revellers, but my mind was racing as Blag's cab crawled through the crowds up the hill to Montmartre. Flags were flying from every building, and parades of all sizes wound their way along sidewalks full of people. Kids in painted faces, musicians, jugglers, dancers, and dogs in ridiculous costumes all added to the happy feeling of a summer celebration. The local fire halls were decorated with flowers and streamers for the evening's dances. Slumped in the seat beside a silent Blag, who for once seemed to have forgotten his ear-shattering music collection, I felt it was up to me to devise a plan to stop Louche's Bastille Day nightmare. Maybe Rudee, together with the Hacks and Sashay, had slowed things down a little by distracting the Shadows, but I knew it wasn't enough. And the police, the ones who were supposed to prevent this kind of madness, what about them? If Magritte, nice enough to be sure, was an example of the art of crime prevention, then Paris had some dark days ahead.

“Okay, Cal Gal, this is it. Want me to hang in?”

Blag indicated the old stone tower that served as Madeleine's office on a street behind the Sacre Coeur church. There was a bright light shining on the top floor. “If you don't mind. I have to talk to Madeleine, but I really need your help.”

“Yeah, alright, but I'm not going up. She's still lathered about me cranking up Malade and cruising past the Pope during his speech. Can you believe it?”

Looking for the stairs, instead I found a ramp that wound to the top of the tower. From above I could hear the crackle of the taxi radio system and occasionally Madeleine's voice barking out instructions. I called up, “Madeleine? Hello? It's me, Rudee's friend Mac.”

“Ah, little Mac, come up,
ma petite
. I've been waiting to meet you.”

The top of the ramp opened onto a circular room that overlooked all of Paris. The view was majestic. Madeleine swung around from her microphone at the centre of a large console, featuring an electronic map of the city, and waved me over with a giant smile. Then I noticed her wheelchair and understood the need for the ramp.

Up close, she was a pudding of happy wrinkles and silver hair springing in random directions. She planted a couple of gooey, ruby-coloured kisses on my cheeks and looked me over. “Ahh, but you're just
une jeune fille
, aren't you? Here.”

She handed me a bowl of strawberries, and I couldn't say no. “What do you think of my chariot? This year's model,
mes chauffeurs
bought it for me for Christmas.”

Madeleine indicated her gleaming wheelchair and proceeded to give me a demonstration of its impressive moves, gliding back and forth across her little room, spinning and stopping effortlessly. “I can see by your face that you have more on your mind than a little visit,
ma petite
. What is it?”

I drew in a deep breath and started my story once more, not wanting to waste time, and hoping she'd believe a tale that sounded crazy even to me. “Madeleine, do you know where all your drivers are, and can you contact them at any time?”

“
Bien sur
, of course,” she replied and wheeled over to her map, which showed a system of little orange lights moving through every part of Paris. “
Les voila
, and I feel like I can almost see them out of my window on the world. Beautiful,
non
?”

It was indeed glorious, but I couldn't stop to admire the view.

“Do you have access to other information on your map ... like the entrances to the sewer system?”

She smiled at me, swung her chair around with a tiny whirr, and tapped on a keyboard until a different set of lights showed up on the map. I rushed through my story and the plan that was formulating as I went along. There was no time to lose. Within twenty minutes, a cluster of cabs was gathering at the top of Montmartre in a jumble that must have blocked any attempt at passage through the area, although I doubted if anyone cared in the city that night. I could hear the laughter and music pouring out of windows everywhere as I ran into the midst of the drivers. Madeleine's voice cut through the night air on a couple hundred cab radios.

“Listen,
mes amis
. Tonight, Paris needs us for much more than our wheels. The city needs our hearts, our courage, and all the light that we have to shine into some very dark places. Listen to little Miss Mac and then make me proud,
mes chauffeurs
.”

I climbed up on one trombone-shaped exhaust pipe, and Dizzy hoisted me up on top of his cab, as all the drivers stood beside their cars to listen. Just as I finished, our heads all turned at once to witness the first burst of crackling fireworks filling the July sky above the Trocadero. A city-wide cheer had erupted and was rolling like a wave from window to window when suddenly all the lights in the city went out.

The sky was alive with flashes of colour and exploding pinwheels. All the customary oohing and ahhhing accompanied each new starburst, and it seemed that the city was oblivious to the fact that every light in Paris had been extinguished. Either that or they thought it was part of the show. I knew differently; it meant that Louche had successfully begun his “lights out” plan. I also knew what was to follow and that the moment for action was now. In the confusion of the blackout, the cabbies jumped into their cars as Madeleine began her rapid-fire instructions.

“Forty-three. Place de Clichy. Rue Amsterdam. Nineteen. Rue d'Alsace, Gare de L'Est. One twenty-three. Boulevard Montparnasse. La Coupole.”

I slid off Dizzy's car and grabbed Rudee's sleeve as he was scanning the darkened square looking for me. “Hey, Mac. Jump in.” He headed for the driver's side door, but I didn't get in.

“Rudee, can you find Jerome and have him round up the river rats? They'll have flares on the boats, and we'll need all the light we can get.”

It was then that I noticed Sashay huddled in the back of Rudee's car. He must have been taking her home when the call went out. She lifted her head when she heard my voice and beckoned to me. She unwrapped a layer of her outfit and handed me a dazzling white scarf that I recognized from the show. “Here,
ma cherie
, I'm sure you'll put it to better use than I did.”

I mumbled a thanks, giving the scarf a carefree toss around my neck as she had shown me, and Sashay couldn't help but smile. “Rudee, I'll meet you at the
bouquinistes
. Go ahead.”

He didn't look too happy with this idea but closed his door anyway and started backing out of the tangle of cabs. I found Blag, as usual, by himself, parked with his engine rumbling, by the curb.

“We've got to deal with that cloud tank I told you about. Any ideas, Blag?” I called in his window. He got out and grinned as he popped the trunk. Inside was the biggest portable stereo I'd ever seen, with speakers the size of small refrigerators. He slammed the trunk and off we sped. The streets were lit on and off by the glow of the ongoing fireworks, and the cheering at each new blast from the Trocadero seemed more and more bizarre when I thought about where we were heading. I could see cabbies at various places along the way positioning their cars, awaiting Madeleine's signal. “How will we get in?” I asked, realizing that I also had no idea how to find my way to the lab in Shadowcorps once we did get in.

“Don't worry, I've got connections,” he replied, giving me a knowing look.

We slammed to a halt at almost the exact spot we'd emerged from after our underground adventure the night before. Blag hauled the massive blaster from the trunk and quickly flipped through his music collection.

“Tonnage. Yeah. ‘Demolition Dance.' That should do it. C'mon.”

Sure enough, Blag punched in the code, and the shining black doors of Shadowcorps opened immediately for us. We took the elevator down five flights, and when we emerged, it was eerily quiet. I don't know what I'd expected to hear, but it wasn't silence. Not on this night. We raced past the workshop where the giant crane had been assembled. Gone. Except for some tools, welders' visors, and the usual carpet of butts lying around, the room was empty. It gave me a sick feeling, but we had work to do. Blag led us right to the doors of the inner sanctum of Shadowcorps and buzzed the security button.

“Black mamba. Ready or not, here we camba.” The doors hissed open, and there was Tawdry doing some repairs to a spike heel that looked like a surgical instrument. “Shouldn't you be waxing your whiskers, pussycat?” asked Blag with a gleam in his eye. Was she his connection?

“I'm sure you're right, my funky chunk. I'd better beat it before the fireworks start underground.”

She smiled at me, blew Blag a pouty kiss, and reattached her high heel. She directed us down one of the plush hallways. We proceeded quickly but cautiously. Blag balanced the blaster on one shoulder like it was a pocketbook. It looked to me like a shipping trunk with dials. We arrived at the lab and listened at the door. All I could hear, aside from the bubbling of little sparks in the cloud tank, was the sound of lips smacking and uncontrolled chewing. The doctor must be building up his strength for his big show tonight, I thought. Blag gave me a silent questioning expression, and I motioned for him to move down the hall a little ways. I tapped on the door, and using my lowest delivery guy voice, said, “Dr. Brouillard. Gift basket delivery for Dr. Etienne Brouillard. There's a hindquarter of steer at reception. We'll need a signature to deliver it, doctor.”

I looked at Blag, and he turned his substantial back to me, but I could see his shoulders shaking with silent laughter. I stepped aside just in time as the doors whipped open and the doctor burst into the hallway, rushing toward reception. He seemed oblivious to the disappearance of the delivery person, and Blag stood watching in amazement before turning to me. “Moves pretty quickly for a large man. Hey, nice voice ... just kidding. Let's go to work.”

“All right, funky chunk,” I laughed.

He stopped for a few seconds to admire his target then found a plug for his stereo before setting it up on the conference table directly in front of the tank. Inside, the tiny clouds danced happily in their glowing patterns awaiting their release. Blag handed me a set of foam earplugs, and we stepped to the side of the blaster as he hit “play.” I felt like I was inside a thunderclap or at the centre of a sonic boom as the music, or whatever that sound was, began and seconds later the tank shattered into a thousand flying pieces. Blag pulled me behind him, and we ducked beneath the table as the air was filled first with fragments of glass then with tiny floating specks of dewy light. Blag stood for a few moments, bobbing his head in time to Tonnage, then hastily unplugged his stereo and threw it onto his shoulder. “You didn't think I was leaving this baby behind, did ya? We better bolt, kiddo.”

As we reached the door I took a quick glance back and stopped him. “Hey, look.” Each tiny speck of light had formed into a perfect miniature cloud and was raining on the spot directly below it in the conference room.

“And me without an umbrella,” chortled Blag, and off we went down the hall. The sound of approaching shouting voices forced us to duck into a smaller hallway that crossed the main one.

“I don't have a clue. It sounded like it came from the lab, Louche.” I recognized the always-friendly tones of Phlegm.

“Something's wrong,” came the reply from the boss. “Scar, call the mini crane crews. Tell them we start immediately. Phlegm, have the gargoyles accompany the Shadows. They'll love the darkness.”

Louche sounded more tense than ever. I wished I could've seen his expression when he saw the mess in the lab. Then there was the sound of running footsteps coming up from behind them.

“Hey, wait. Hey.” It was the doctor, very out of breath, and seriously agitated. “Have any of you seen a gift basket with a hindquarter of steer?”

“Zip it, porky. You're in the brine for this,” snapped Phlegm.

“You're not going to like this, Louche,” growled Scar from further down the hall.

“My clouds!” screamed the doctor. “Who let them out? It isn't time.”

“Give the order,” spat Louche in his most venomous tone, “open the grates. Lights out! And when I find out who did this ...”

Blag and I didn't wait to hear the rest. In the confusion, as tiny clouds filled the hall, we escaped quickly past the now vacant reception desk. We took the quickest way possible through the deserted workshop and up to the street. I was completely winded and could barely get my words out. “Blag ... we have to call Madeleine ... tell her to ... give the signal. I think those mini cranes are going ... after every monument in Paris.”

“You're right, nana, and in this darkness, who's going to stop them?” he added grimly.