Brainquake (25 page)

“Willpower.” He thought of his mother making him repeat words.

“Use it, Paul, like you did when you were growing up. Laugh at Eddie. Don’t let him help the jackal kill you like it killed your father. With me you’ll have double willpower. Never run away from me. Double willpower will knock the hell out of that jackal. Alone you will be weak. With me close to you, your willpower will be strong.”

She held him close.

“And our real enemies…in time, Paul, all bloodhounds lose their scent. Even the ones that carry guns.”

She let that take root.

“And when the right time comes—and it will come, like it did for my father—we’ll go back.”

She detected even in the moonlight a slight spark in his eyes.

“You’ll return the money. You’ll explain. Your boss will understand.”

The spark in his eyes remained.

“I’ll tell the cops why I had to shoot Al. They’ll understand I ran away because I was frightened of Eddie. Time will make them believe the truth. Time changes people. Time makes enemies friends.”

There was a long silence. He broke it.

“And Eddie?”

“He’s dead. I’m sure of it. But if he’s not, the cops will change his mind, too. He thinks I shot Al in cold blood. He’ll feel like a shit when he learns why I really shot him.”

* * *

The morning sun shimmered on the Seine. After a night of sound sleep, Father Flanagan was guiding his outboard along the opposite bank of the river. He knew he was nearing the end of the hunt.

Today he would spot the
Jean Bourgois
.

He passed all kind of moored craft. On the deck of the
Gorby
an elderly man was wearing a sea captain’s cap and an old sweater with a huge anchor emblem, pouring hot milk from an old kettle into a big glass and listening to the radio news. He heard the outboard and grinned at the priest.

“Fishing for sinners, Father?”

“It’s a fine morning to catch one.”

Even as he laughed, Father Flanagan thought about the skipper of the
Jean Bourgois
and wondered if he was always with them. He didn’t want to kill another innocent bystander. It was a matter of pride and a hit man’s most degrading fear. It was unpardonable.

Memory brought back an old story about how the Eleventh Commandment—“Thou shalt not hit an innocent”—was born…

Al Capone’s two hit men disposed of four rival gangsters at midnight in a closed restaurant…but accidentally killed a young couple sitting in the corner partially hidden by a big plant. The papers crucified Capone. Nobody cared when gangsters killed gangsters, but when innocents were killed…it was very bad public relations for Capone. He wanted people to like him and to keep buying his hijacked whiskey and beer. So he had the bodies of his two hit men dumped in front of Police Headquarters the next night, and people went back to liking Capone and buying his hijacked whiskey and beer.

But those two Capone hit men were young amateurs.

He was an old pro. And he had already killed two innocents.

Of course he believed it was because of Zara. What bullshit! She was no innocent. She was after the same targets. But she’d rattled him…

Way down deep, Father Flanagan knew he was blaming the wrong person. The fuck-up was all his. His reflexes were getting shabby. His eyes were no longer twenty-twenty.

Was it time for him to retire?

He thrust out one hand, studied it. Steady. Firm as Gibraltar. Retire, my ass! Zara was to blame for his shaky concentration at the track!

He immediately felt ashamed of himself. It was a cop-out to make her the patsy.

He had to take the rap. And he did.

He pushed the boat onward. It was early. He would find them.

* * *

It hammered Lafitte. Soaked with sweat, his blanket had been kicked on the floor near his pillow. He’d been running through yellow smoke, chased by gunfire. He opened his bloodshot eyes, felt the horrible taste in his mouth, tried to get his bearings. There was no smoke. He was in his bunk. Schmeisser machine guns hadn’t burst his eardrums. But they might as well have. The nightmares were getting worse by the day. Each morning, he woke wondering if he could take one more night of it. And today of all days. There had been too many.

Crawling out of bed in rumpled blue pajamas, he poked around, found his slippers under the blanket on the floor. He swayed to the window, stared at musicians rehearsing a free show for the benefit of early birds on the sightseeing boats.

He shuffled to Michelle and Hank’s room. Empty. He shuffled to the door, poked his head out toward the deck.

Alone, with the binoculars trained on the musicians, Paul was keeping time with their monotonous beat with one tapping foot. On the table a cup, baguette and butter awaited Lafitte.

“Morning, Hank.”

“Morning.”

“Where’s the family?”

“Stroll along the waterfront.”

“About time they baptized that carriage. Any coffee left in that pot?”

“Plenty.”

Bringing him the pot, Paul saw Lafitte’s agonized wet face. He looked like death. Like Paul’s father had just before he died.

“Another rough night, Hank.” He looked at Paul at the railing and seemed to reach a decision. “Join you in a minute,” he said.

Lafitte shuffled to the galley, put the pot on his electric stove, turned it on. A red light appeared. He shuffled back into his bunk, dropped on his knees and opened his war chest on the floor.

He rummaged through his war mementos…trench knife given to him by an American infantry dogface…GI hand grenade from a sergeant on D plus four days…old Resistance clothes…Nazi potato-masher grenade…SS helmet…French bayonet…Mauser rifle…photo of Nazi truck burning…lethal knives…photo of a blown-up bridge with Jean Bourgois and young Lafitte posing before it…wire to strangle Nazis from behind…crumpled maps …and the Luger given to him by Jean Bourgois.

He picked up the Luger and stared at it. Opened the German pistol, checked the ammo, made sure the safety was on, closed the chest.

Wearing his seaman’s cap, he slumped into his deck chair, poured hot coffee, ignored the baguette. He stared at Paul. Paul was watching a distant speck through the binoculars and then made it out. A small boat with an outboard motor. Paul was thinking: why were Lafitte’s attacks in yellow, and his in reddish pink?

“Hank.”

“Yes?”

“I need to tell you something. This is only between you and me, you understand? You can never tell Michelle. Can never tell anyone.”

Paul nodded, pulled his chair to the table, watched Lafitte pour coffee.

“In the war,” began Lafitte, “a yacht packed with high-ranking Nazi officers was moving down the Seine.”

Lafitte spoke very quietly, but Paul heard the tremor in his voice.

“Jean Bourgois was at the wheel of a tug loaded with high explosives and a mine rigged to blow on impact. Hidden behind a barge, I was waiting in a speedboat to fish him out when he jumped off the tug.”

Lafitte sipped his coffee. His cup trembled. The pot hadn’t trembled when he poured. He put the cup down, placed his arms on the table, locked his fingers. His eyes never left Paul’s.

“Bourgois jumped when he was supposed to. Off the tug, into the water. He began swimming away from it. A Nazi officer on the yacht saw him, pulled his pistol out and aimed just as the tug hit the yacht and blew it up. Fire and smoke. More explosions. I saw SS soldiers on the bank shooting at Bourgois swimming toward me. I shit in my pants. If I raced out to help him, they’d see me and I’d be dead before I could reach him. I crawled out of the speedboat, hid behind the barge, grenaded the speedboat. I heard them stop firing at Bourgois. I saw a Nazi launch haul him out of the water.”

Paul glanced at Lafitte’s interlocked fingers kneading each other.

“The SS picked up a hundred civilians. I was one. They marched us through Paris to the execution yard. Standing there was Bourgois facing the firing squad, but not with rifles, with Schmeisser burp guns…machine guns! I was in the front line of the civilians. He was looking at me. He knew I had betrayed him. I could have drawn fire from the SS on the bank until he could get closer to me. I know I could have saved him but I had no balls. I wanted to live. He kept looking at me. In his eyes was no hate. In his eyes was compassion for me. He had saved my life twice. I never made a move to try to save his. They shot him with twelve burp guns. His head, his body, the yellow pole…all splattered. Every night I see the execution again. Every night bullets splatter my head, my body and the yellow pole…”

He pulled the Luger from his pocket, forced it into Paul’s hand.

“It’s called mercy for a reason. I’ve come to the end, Hank. It has to end. You of all people can understand.”

Agony swept Lafitte’s face as Paul sat, silent, his own face showing no expression.

“For God’s sake, Hank, say you’ll do it. You don’t have to do it now. Do it sometime when I don’t know it’s coming. Make it a surprise. I don’t want to know.”

His eyes begged.

“And you can never tell Michelle.”

* * *

Father Flanagan spotted the
Jean Bourgois
, saw the Luger in Paul’s hand, passed them wondering if the old skipper had a gun, too. He spotted a landmark: a phone booth at the top of the cement ramp leading to the street.

* * *

Paul was still holding the Luger, hypnotized, when he heard the voice behind him.

“Good morning, Zozo.”

Michelle was carrying the baby onto the deck. The baby carriage was on the quay nearby.

Paul shoved the Luger into his pants pocket.

Horror was in her face as she stared at Lafitte.

“Are you sick?”

“Bad stomach.”

Paul left the deck to get the carriage.

She had never seen Lafitte so old. Agony in his eyes. It was like he was dying in front of her.

“I’m running late for a sugar haul,” Lafitte said.

He left for his bunk.

Paul was wheeling the carriage into the living room.

“He looks like death,” Michelle said, following him. “Did he say anything to you?”

Paul shook his head, parked the carriage near the galley.

She began to change the kid’s diaper on the table in their room. Paul wanted to tell her what the trouble was, but he couldn’t. He’d given his word.

Lafitte emerged from his bunk dressed for work in a windbreaker and wearing his seaman’s cap.

“What time will you be back, Zozo?”

“About nine.”

He left. She put the baby in the crib and they went on deck to watch Lafitte start up his engine and pull away in his tug.

A pall hung over the deck.

“It’s Zozo’s birthday, Paul. Let’s surprise him with a party. I’ll get a cake right now.”

She left.

He could stop Lafitte’s pain. It was the finest, the kindest thing one person could do for another. But doing it that way… he had to think about it. The more he thought, the more stress pumped into his brain.

He heard the flute, remembered Michelle’s words. He used willpower against the flute. Felt the struggle. Sweated. Fought the fire aching in his brain. The flute stopped. The brainquake didn’t come.

It was his first victory against the jackal.

En route to the bakery, Michelle stopped in the phone booth on the top of the cement ramp, instructed Eddie to rent a car immediately, told him how to get to the barge.

Dark was the living room but for moonlight through the curtained window. In half-shadow the baby in the highchair played with the monkey on the attached tray. Sitting next to the baby was Lafitte waiting for the surprise Michelle had promised. The door of the room was flung open by Paul silhouetted in soft wavering light as Michelle appeared with a two-decked cake, every candle burning.

Paul couldn’t sing. He spoke the words.

Michelle carried the cake in, singing

Happy Birthday to you,
Happy Birthday to you,
Happy Birthday dear Zozo,
Happy Birthday to you!

The fascinated baby gaped at his mother’s face through the forest of flickering flames advancing to the table set for dinner. Song ended. Michelle embraced Lafitte, kissing him on both cheeks. Her smile at Paul spoke. He found himself kissing Lafitte on both cheeks. Lafitte kissed the baby, the monkey, then sucked a long deep breath preparing to blow out the candles. He caught the baby hypnotized by them.

“Dining by candlelight’s more fun, eh, little Jean?”

They drank champagne, dined by candlelight and Lafitte opened a bottle of absinthe. Paul and Michelle were relieved. The party worked. Lafitte felt and looked better.

But the reason was not the party.

Lafitte was in top form because Paul hadn’t returned the Luger.

Michelle was in top form because her plan was progressing on schedule. She kept pouring absinthe for Lafitte.

Paul was in top form because his willpower had stopped the flute.

For the party, Lafitte was in the old brass-buttoned, doublebreasted sea captain’s jacket he had bought in the Sixties when he became owner of his own tug. Black tie on a white shirt.

Michelle was in a blinding orange T-shirt with a pirate skull and crossbones that said
CAPTAIN BLOOD FOR PRESIDENT
in blue. Her green shiny leather jeans were ass-tight. Where had Johnson found these things?

Paul was in the secondhand white turtleneck that read
I
♥
Paris
on the front. He’d chosen the baggy coffee-colored pants because they had very deep pockets. The pressure of the Luger against his thigh kept him prepared to act when the right moment came, to shoot Lafitte by surprise and ease his pain.

Demolishing nearly half the bottle of absinthe, Lafitte was the life of the party, singing a bawdy song to the baby, crooning a romantic tune, executing long gliding steps and dips, dancing the tango with Michelle. Paul and the baby watched them. Paul wondered how much it took to get Lafitte drunk. He certainly seemed to be, but Paul had a feeling it might just be a pose.

It would be a blessing if Lafitte dropped dead from an OD of absinthe. But that was too much to hope.

Making a sudden whirl, Lafitte lost his balance, crashed against the tables, fell with bottles, dishes, glasses and flickering very short candles in the remains of the cake. The crash frightened the baby. It began to cry.