Brainquake (24 page)

He saw no one on any of the roofs.

But the wide decks were bristling with life.

He didn’t care much for naming a barge
Jean D’Arc
until he saw a topless beauty in a bikini on its deck taking a sun bath. She heard his outboard, turned, smiled at him.

“Good morning, Father.”

“Good morning.”

He passed more barges moored close to each other. Sometimes he had trouble seeing the name on the stern, but he always got the name on the prow. A few barges looked unoccupied, their decks victims of decay. But the majority of decks had had incredible facelifts, were painted in different colors, boasted all kinds of box flowers and a variety of plants. There were deck chairs, wooden chairs, rocking chairs, hammocks, even a small wreck of a car used as a chicken roost.

Aboard the deck of
Left Bank Lovers
a husband and wife were arguing. On
Amour
two boys were riding tricycles. On
Cezanne III
an aged artist at his easel was working on a seascape. On
French Fry
a man playing the harmonica to his dog. On
Best Seller
a woman typing. On
Mare Nostrum
three teenagers playing guitar and singing to an older couple, presumably their parents.

He gave little thought to retiring, as a rule. But Jacqueline’s comments had stayed with him and he thought now about the idea of spending his declining years living on a barge like one of these. He could buy one, moor it somewhere isolated, and spend the rest of his life on deck writing a book on hit men. He’d name no names. He’d prove, with examples, that all victims were informers or thieves and deserved to be hit.

Aboard
Angel
twins were crying in a hammock. The redhaired mother began to swing the hammock gently. The babies stopped crying. Their daddy appeared.

“
Leave the baby in an orphanage.
” Hampshire’s last words had been tossed away like a crumpled pack of cigarettes. Father Flanagan bristled as he remembered those words. How callous of Hampshire. The cardinal sin was the abandonment of a baby. It was criminal to have a baby dumped and for the baby to grow up knowing it was unwanted, unloved, unnamed. Anyone dumping a baby deserved to be crucified.

Father Flanagan suddenly felt absurd nursing such thoughts. What the hell! He had been an orphan-maker for years and it had never bothered him.

But this time it did. Up to now it had never been a baby he’d orphaned. A grown child was different. A baby…

He went back to contemplating his book. He would tell how things had changed since the days of Murder, Inc. He would point out that today only the elite like him were on annual retainers aside from the big fee for making a hit. He would tell the reader the majority of hit men were good, but not top quality. He would tell how crude they were; how careless; how innocent bystanders were shot.

He had heard that Zara’s grandfather, the first black to command the Vice Squad, was also the first victim of the newly patched-together Murder, Inc. A picture of her grandfather hung at Police Headquarters.

The thought brought back the Zara sickness. It wasn’t just her death that displeased him, it was his method. Zara deserved a far more noble hit. He would miss hearing about her on the news, in the papers, imagining that powerful black body of hers naked.

The idea of her in bed seemed like a better idea when she was alive.

Now the idea made him feel unclean.

* * *

War broke out within Paul. The enemy was himself. He was no longer just fighting the jackal in his brain for his sake. He was also fighting not to have another attack and hurt the baby. Or hurt Michelle. Or hurt them both.

He had no appetite for breakfast. She did. It confused him. How could she be enjoying it, sitting there laughing with Lafitte? Last night he could have killed the baby and now Michelle had forgotten all about it. She knew that he was more danger to them than Eddie or the mob or Paris cops.

Maybe she wasn’t really enjoying the breakfast. That’s what it was. She didn’t want to let Lafitte know what happened last night.

He met her eyes on him, aware that she had been studying him.

* * *

Michelle had noted something different about Paul’s eyes. Something new. Something strange. The gray irises remained gray. But something had changed, and it made her nervous.

Lafitte was still laughing about the broken fishbowl. It must’ve been very cheap glass. He’d get another bowl, new fish.

“Better yet,” Lafitte was enthusiastic, “I’ll find some toy that plays music! They were sold out at the shop, but I’ll find one. A nice music box inside that will play a nursery rhyme.” He laughed. “And he’ll think the giraffe or lion is playing the music!”

Lafitte didn’t notice the lines at either side of Michelle’s jaw tightening as he spoke. He carried on, oblivious, barreling through the remains of his own fears, the burden of his own memories. He was wearing the jubilant mask he had worn every day for the nearly fifty years since the war ended. His persona of a lusty, happy, two-fisted brawler with an explosive passion for life had fooled everybody. Even Michelle, who had lived with him for eighteen years. Some days he even fooled himself. But not today.

* * *

It was getting too dark to read the names on the barges. The sun was down. Father Flanagan checked his map. He had quite a distance to go yet before he reached the end of that bank. He had enjoyed the ham-and-cheese baguette and coffee from the thermos he had brought along for lunch. Now he was getting hungry again. He turned back. There was no great rush. They had nowhere to go. He found a landmark from which he would continue his boat ride first thing in the morning.

He increased speed as night fell, anxious to shower and enjoy dinner watching the beautiful nudes at the tables at Fouquet’s. He passed an illuminated sightseeing boat packed with passengers and roared past Lafitte’s tug without a glance.

* * *

The tug began to buck like a bronco. Michelle was holding the baby close with one arm. The other hand hugged the edge of the pilot house entrance. Paul was holding onto the opposite side of the entrance. Both were wearing a new set of old clothes, still from the pile Johnson had provided.

“I told you we’d buck when we hit the estuary,” Lafitte said. “Same as in the U.S.A. Hauled barges there for a couple of years—you didn’t know that, did you? I did. But New York wasn’t for me. Streets were too dangerous. Coffee and crime for breakfast and street fighting every night. You know, Hank, I still don’t understand you Yankees. I never saw such
life
in American faces until they talked about violent death…and today… holy smoke!…New York’s a battlefield.” He glanced at his watch. “We’ll just about be in time for the beginning of the fireworks. You know, Hank, you ought to raise young Jean in Paris. There’s no shoot-ups in the streets here where babies are killed by a stray bullet. If George Washington came back right now and saw the blood in the streets of New York, his hair would really turn white! Why, today they have kids on crack and kids in street fights and they’ve even got fan clubs, I heard. When nailed, they have their own TV in their prison cells, so they can watch themselves on the news. They’re celebrities. Hell, Paul, even your hamburgers are happy grave-diggers.” He laughed. “And I’m a sucker for them!”

The tug bucked more. Paul and Michelle held fast to keep their balance until at last the restaurant hove into view and the bucking stopped.

* * *

Miniature American and French flags were standing on every outside and inside table at Lafayette Restaurant. The tables were crowded with happy diners. Waiters in Uncle Sam suits with high hats were busy popping champagne corks. At the piano, another Uncle Sam was playing
Yankee Doodle Dandy
, then other American favorites, such as
God Bless America
.

Champagne made every customer a Caruso.

The baby, with its bottle and monkey, was rigged high in a child’s chair. On the attached plank in front of him was his baby food. He was sitting between Lafitte and Michelle. Facing them was Paul. Candles on outside tables were flickering in the soft wind. On the inside table, the candles remained subdued.

The main course was strictly American-style with spare ribs, mashed potatoes and gravy. The first of the lights in the sky burst red, white, and blue as Uncle Sam played
The Star-Spangled Banner
.

Lafitte nudged Michelle, tapped Paul’s ankle under the table. They looked at the baby seeing the explosions in the sky, rockets coming from all directions, crossing each other, sputtering into blackness.

The baby was hypnotized by the sight. He reached up with his tiny fingers trying to grab the falling sparks. He laughed. Then awe wiped his face clean. Then he laughed again.

During a lull, the owner made a brief speech in French and in English about the historic friendship between America and France. The diners applauded.

More champagne corks popped through the restaurant. Paul was on his second glass of champagne.

“I don’t believe you, Zozo,” Michelle was saying.

“We’ve been rehearsing. Honest!”

“Prove it.”

Paul and Michelle watched Lafitte lean closer to the baby.

“Young Jean,” Lafitte said, ignoring the hum of voices around and the piano playing George M. Cohan’s
Over There
.

The baby stared at him, waiting, as if he understood.

“You Jean, what do you think is the world’s greatest invention?”

The baby stared.

“The telephone?”

The baby stared.

“Electricity?”

The baby stared.

“Diapers?”

The baby farted and laughed.

Michelle burst into laughter. Lafitte proudly kissed the baby on the nose.

On the piano Uncle Sam was playing
Roll Out the Barrel
.

Slightly dizzy, too much to drink, Paul excused himself and rose.

“In the back of the bar, Hank.”

Paul nodded, moved through waiters and tables, went into the john, relieved himself, washed his hands with warm water, then his face with cold. It made him feel better. But he had a kind of bitter, mustard taste in his stomach. There must be a reason people drank alcohol. Then he shrugged. Must everything have a reason?

He opened the door and heard the flute.

In increasingly reddish pink Eddie fired a gun at him. The gunshot exploded, flame spitting. Paul slammed the door in his face.

An instant later a diner opened it, brushed past Paul. Paul was rooted to the floor. The red around everything’s edges was redder than ever. Dazedly he walked like a robot between the tables. He knew what had happened. The second time he had almost killed the baby had brought him closer to that red explosion, the one that would end his illness the way it had ended his father’s. In his mind, moving like lava, the brainquake tore through healthy tissue, left devastation in its path. For an instant he wished last night’s attack had been the final one, the big red one. It was a plea for escape from the illness.

If he died like his father, right here, now, in this restaurant? Michelle and the baby would be safe from him. Alive, what good was he?

He found their table and sat down very slowly. Michelle knew at once from the sweat covering his face.

“Another one?” The words came out uncontrollably.

Paul nodded. “Eddie fired at me.”

“Who’s Eddie?” Lafitte asked, concerned. Paul’s face was so wet. “He fired at you?”

Michelle was quick. “He has terrible headaches.”

“Migraine?”

“Worse,” Paul said. “I see things. People who aren’t there. All in pink.”

“So do I,” Lafitte said, astonished.

The statement hit Paul like a hammer blow.

“You do?”

“Not in pink,” Lafitte said. “In yellow.”

“Do you hear a flute?”

“Just gunshots, and everything colored yellow.”

Paul was speechless.

“We’re visionaries, Hank,” Lafitte said, attempting bluster, a hearty joke. But the air went out of him like a punctured tire. “We’re visionaries,” he said softly. “God help us. Better than He helped Joan of Arc.”

Michelle was staring at Lafitte. “What people do you see in your visions, Zozo?”

“Your grandfather.”

Michelle reached out and squeezed Lafitte’s hand.

“When Jean died in the war, I died with him. When the bullets went through him, they went through me at the same time. He bled. I bled inside.”

“You’ve had those hallucinations all these years, Zozo?”

Lafitte nodded, withdrew his hand and turned to Paul.

“Hank, a helluva lot of people have visions. In all different colors. And they hear a lot of crazy things like thunder or an ear-busting waterfall. Hell, some of the greatest brains in history had hallucinations. They’re terrible, but you learn, a man can live with all sorts of terrible things.”

“Or he can die,” Paul said.

No, no, don’t be foolish!
Lafitte wanted to say.
Buck up! Another drink for my friend!
The old bluster. But what he said was:

“Or he can die.”

Michelle felt she was walking a tightrope. One more bad attack where he thought he might hurt the baby and Paul would run off. With or without the bag? Christ! Either way was disaster. With, and she was left with nothing. She’d come too far to be left with nothing now. But if he ran without the bag it would be even worse. Stuck with those millions was the last thing she wanted now. The mob would never call off the hunt for the bag until he died, and only if he died exactly
when
and exactly
how
she had planned.

She had to keep him close to her until D-Day.

She said, “It was healthy you talked about Eddie in front of Lafitte.”

That confused him. Good.

“Yes, Paul…talking about Eddie was very healthy.”

He turned his head. Her eyes were in moonlight. She was right that he was thinking about Eddie. But he didn’t know why it was good to talk about him to Lafitte.

“Paul, talking about Eddie made you realize he wasn’t real.
I
saw Eddie tonight in the restaurant. It was a waiter with Eddie’s face. Know what I did? I laughed. Not out loud. Inside, Paul. I laughed at his damn illusion. You know what else I did? I shut him out of my mind for good. So can you, Paul. In childhood you had the willpower to learn to talk…to read…to write… Know why you didn’t stay a vegetable? One word, Paul.
Willpower
. It means strength of mind. Say it.”