Jack Be Nimble: Gargoyle (18 page)

And then Jack broke away. “Hang on a sec, Mercedes.” He looked up, over her shoulder, chagrined. Then Mercedes became aware of the rhythmic squeak-screech of a bicycle being peddled up the quiet street, and the soft, rustling thud of newspapers landing on cement.

They stood perfectly still, Jack’s hands in the groove of her waist, as the paperboy trundled past them on the street. Without a glance towards the couple, the younger boy whipped a wrapped newspaper deftly at the front stoop. Jack nudged her hip, gently turning himself into the path of the paper. It slapped the side of his head and fell to the grass. He winced.

Mercedes put a hand to her mouth as if impressed. “Jack,” she breathed. “You took a newspaper for me.”

“Well. Not like it was a Sunday edition or anything.” he said as he rubbed his neck. “They really told you I was a Boy Scout?”

She grinned. “Yeah.” Mercedes hesitated a moment. She was a little dizzy. “Thanks a lot, Jack.” She gave him a quick peck on the cheek. “Now, get home, you whippersnapper!” She mimicked the whisper-shout of the irate man in the bedsheet.

Mercedes turned and stepped up to the door. It was unlocked. She could feel Jack’s eyes on her, and she looked back as she eased the door open. He stood in the wash of light, smiling, waiting until she was safely inside.

“Whew!” Mercedes pushed the door shut and leaned there a moment, letting her breath out in a long puff. In the illumination cast by the lamp in the den to her left she could clearly see the brass hands on the old mahogany clock in the far corner: sure enough, 5:05. The light further revealed a set of feet protruding over the edge of the sofa. One of the socks was missing a big toe: that would be her grandfather.

She peeked over the sofa’s back. She knew she was being unnecessarily quiet–the Swedish side of her family could sleep through a brass band. Grandpa Max looked younger, like a little boy. He wore sweats and an old flannel shirt. The lines on his face were perceptibly smoother. He seemed to be smiling slightly. Mercedes carefully shed her jacket and draped it over his chest. The long, deep breathing never changed tempo.

Despite the hour, Mercedes felt wide awake; more awake, even, than she would be during the day. She silently took the stairs two at a time, unbuttoning her blouse. Strange how spending the whole evening talking had left her more energized. In the dark at the head of the stairs, she paused, her hand on the newel, and shivered deliciously.

She still felt his arms around her.

In the spare bedroom, she stepped out of her shoes and moved to the window. It was open a crack, and the room had gently filled with the scent of jasmine from the arbor below. Her grandfather had been in the process of changing the storm windows when she arrived; the mesh screen was probably still in the garage. Mercedes sighed as she sat on the old-fashioned wide windowsill.

Life was so much simpler here than at home.

Everything in this little town was so predictable, so fresh and appealing for its expectancy. She loved falling asleep in the big, cool bed, sleeping soundly until her eyes popped open by themselves. She loved waking up to the smell of her grandmother’s baking. She loathed admitting it, but Mercedes was beginning to enjoy the routine of taking her little cousins to their swimming lessons every morning, then bringing them here and fixing lunch. She was actually finding joy in baloney sandwiches, apples, and Kool-aid. The daily predictability was so calming.

She loved it.

And what she liked best of all was, by no stretch of the imagination, predictable. She spied Jack out on the road, near his little Toyota truck. His back was to her, he seemed to be thinking.

Mercedes shouldered the window all the way open and leaned out. “Hey!” she hissed. “Hey, mister!”

Jack turned around, looking up at her window. Slowly he jogged over. “Hey yourself! Holy cow, Mercedes, cover up or something. You can get arrested in this town for that kind of exposure!”

She glanced down, then drew her shirt closed with one hand. What was the big deal? He couldn’t see anything from all the way down there. She had a bra on, anyway.

Jack stood for a moment with his back to the fence, a dark shape against the short white posts. “I forgot to give back your tennis balls,” he whispered. “Here, catch.”

He lofted them up, and she caught them. “Thanks.”

Jack waited, delicately fingering a pale spray of jasmine on the trellis next to him, then said, “I forgot something else, too.”

He took a few steps backwards and sat on the fence, then stood on it. Mercedes watched in amazement as Jack, his tongue clenched firmly between his teeth, bounded across and up to the center support of the jasmine arbor, then abruptly spun and
dove
at the side of the house.

It was an angling leap, and it brought him just below the window. His hands found the edge of the sill, and he managed to pull himself up slightly as the rest of his body glanced off the white siding just below.

The impact wasn’t overly loud, and Mercedes knew her grandfather would sleep through it. She was speechless, as Jack, flushed and grinning, hooked his hands over the inner sill and drew himself up to her. Their lips met, and she placed her hands lightly on either side of his face. He was smiling through the whole kiss.

When they at last parted, both were breathless, and Jack was beginning to tremble. “Thank you so much,” he said. “Thank you for being here right now, I just can’t . . .”

Mercedes brushed his hair from his forehead. “Jack, you’re the most amazing person I’ve ever met.”

He glowed back at her for one second more, then released his grip on the window sill. He twisted as he fell away from the building, and landed heavily, facing away from her, letting his body contract to absorb the impact on the grass below.

Pushing himself slowly to his feet, Jack returned her gaze. “Know what, Mercedes?” His voice held a note of undeniable earnestness and sincerity.

“I’ll be a lot better when I’m older.”

Jack jogged back to his truck at the curb, and was about to get in when Mercedes yelled down to him. “Jack!”

He raised his head. “Yes?”

Mercedes waved. “Be nimble!”

She laughed softly to herself and closed the window.

The Stone

The two boys rested, panting in yesterday’s sunshine. They lay near the gap-toothed grin of a boarded-up shaft. “I can’t believe it,” said the smaller one. He only had one shoe. “I thought I was a goner!”

The other boy shrugged and said “I saw you running across the field and then you just, like, whoosh, disappeared! I figured you didn’t know about the old mine, and maybe the boards broke.”

“
Yeah,” said the first boy. “I forgot about it. Hey, what’s your name, kid?”

“
Jack. I’m new. My uncle told me all about the mine.”

“
I’m Alonzo. You always pull people out of mine shafts, Jack?

“
Hey, what are friends for?”

“
Friends, then.”

“
Yeah, friends. ‘Sides, you’d do it for me, right?”

*

Paris

8 AM

Why did it always have to start like this? Alonzo wondered. Hours of nothing--waiting for a woman, nonetheless--and then a few insane moments of action. He needed a new line of work. This just wasn’t healthy. Look what you’ve gotten me into, Jack.

She was taking too long. Alonzo leaned back once again into the bridge, unconsciously sliding closer to the leering gargoyle that shared his view down the Seine. Anything to block the bloody frigid wind. It wafted along just above the water below him, stealing up occasionally like a thief, or like one of the ghosts that walked this town.

“I hate Paris,” he muttered against the rough cloth of his scarf. Too cold in the morning, and twice again too loud in the afternoon, when half the inhabitants managed to shake themselves out of their collective hangover. The fact that the other half of the population was female was the city’s only redeeming value, he decided. He watched a particular ripple spread as it moved down the river, past the sleepy barges and leashed watercraft, until it became indiscernible from the rest of the mass of silent, muddy water. He continued to stare at that particular spot of water as it passed under another bridge, then curved with its mother river around the bank to the left. He could barely see the spires of Notre Dame. About two-and-a-half minutes, he decided, and his personal ripple would pass the Arc du Triomphe, then the Eiffel Tower.

Too bad you couldn’t predict people the same way as you could the path of a mass of shapeless river.

“We’re waiting for
whom
?” Her voice was harsh. Strong, even attractive, but harsh.

Alonzo turned to the British woman patiently. “Eliane. The girl who sells flowers here.” Outwardly he was passive, almost sullen in his calmness, while inwardly he could hear his own dry chuckle as he considered Major Griffin. He wasn’t about to divulge the fact that the waiting was driving him crazy as well. You just had to be patient. The woman from the Royal Air Force had no idea how these things were handled.

“You simply have no idea how this sort of thing is handled, do you?” Her voice had gotten a notch more irritating, he decided. Understandable, considering what–
who
–was at stake. The woman continued, half to herself. “Why His Majesty requested this, this bunch of—”

“Vagabonds?” he supplied helpfully.

“No.”

“Troublemakers?”

“No!”

He thought a moment. “Miscreants?”

“You’re getting closer.” she said, almost smiling despite herself. “I suppose there’s not much else to do while your man researches. Do you really think he can do any good?”

Alonzo raised his collar to the wind. “Steve is the best in the world at computer sleuthing. The little girl’s only been gone two days, but I’d lay odds on the hacker geek.”

“But you need this other man, this Jack Flynn, before you can do anything. He must be very important to your group.”

He
did
like her accent. And her hair was just the right shade of red-brown. Auburn, that was the word. “Did you know he’s Christine’s godfather?” Alonzo asked.

“His Majesty did mention that. You are a very strange man, Mr. Noel. Your little group is very strange. What is it exactly you do?”

He looked her dead in the eye. “I’m an interior decorator.”

Major Griffin exhaled deeply and crossed her arms again. “I still don’t understand why you need a flower girl to simply go talk to this man Flynn.”

“Every door has its key, Major.” Yeah, he added silently, and ‘this man Flynn’ would probably be just as happy if I were burning in hell. Alonzo wished he had a cigar. Something to warm him up, anyway.

Alonzo gazed left and up at the twelve-story apartment building two blocks away. All the lights in the top two stories had been on since their arrival nearly an hour before. Squinting against a sudden gust, Alonzo thought he could almost see someone there through the bars of the balcony and behind the floor-to-ceiling windows. Does he ever sleep? he wondered silently.

Soon the sun would be up in earnest. Already it was smudging the grey Paris skyline into a blushing pink. At least the wind would be gone, he thought.

“Sorry, Major Griffin. Until she gets here, I’m afraid it’s just you, me, and old Floyd here.” He indicated the gargoyle looming over them. “Wonder what these things are for, anyway? Too much art in this city, if you ask me.”

She sniffed. “Americans.” He smiled pointedly. “If you must know, they were supposed to keep watch, to keep guard against evil.” She shook her head. “I’m going to get out of this wind. Good luck.”

Alonzo watched her retreat to her car, an ugly Peugot. Nice legs, he thought. “What do you think, Floyd?”

The gargoyle wasn’t disclosing his opinions. At least Major Allison Griffin was safely out of the way. Another minor problem fixed. Alonzo had always considered himself to be a bit of a mechanic.

A dog barked in the distance, and then as if on cue, church bells began to ring from somewhere far behind the short man. Alonzo burrowed deeper into his long coat, shivering despite the warmth and light spreading across his back. A few Parisians passed him, nodding amiably. On their way to Mass, no doubt. What would the priest say to him now, Alonzo wondered, a smile brushing at the corners of his mouth. Better yet, he mused, reaching through the narrow slit he had cut into his right coat pocket, what would he say to the priest? Bless me, Father, for I’ve run out of bullets? He touched the Glock 19 in the ballistic nylon holster strapped to his thigh. No, it would be a long time before he was out of bullets. A Mass would be nice, though. Too bad he was beginning to understand French, otherwise he could pretend it was being given in Latin.

He relaxed visibly as a young woman in a blue cardigan and a Detroit Tigers baseball cap rounded the usual corner with her small wheelbarrow full of flowers. She smiled familiarly at him as he pushed himself off the wall and quickly stepped to intercept her.
“Bonjour, mademoiselle,”
he said with mock severity as he took over the task of pushing the enormous bouquet.
“Combien pour toutes les fleurs?”

“Ah!--Monsieur Alonzo, I cannot let you buy all of them before I have even set up my business!” she responded in English. She half-skipped beside him as he pushed the wheelbarrow to her usual spot near the bridge, next to a man who was already setting up his easels and half-drawn sketches. Later, Alonzo knew, the man would fill in the blank spots on his canvas with the features of tourists who wanted to take home a painting of themselves by the Seine.

“Alright, Eliane, just one bouquet this morning, but it’s got to be the most expensive.” Alonzo’s Spanish eyes narrowed into twinkling obsidian. “And I need a new phrase along with the flowers. Come on, teach me something new.”

Eliane leaned over her stand of bouquets conspiratorially and whispered “Why is it you wait for me in the morning to buy these flowers, hmm? Whose woman’s heart are you buying your way into before the sun rises?”

“Only yours, mademoiselle. Can you doubt it?” Alonzo’s grin was sharp and lean, like the rest of his face. It was an honest smile.

Eliane smiled back. Americans were such fun to tease. “Bon. Here is your flowers, and here is your phrase:
Je suis amoureux avec la fleuriste.
There. Tell this to the one you give the flowers to. They will be most impressed, I guarantee to you.”

He paid for the bouquet and crossed the bridge.

*

Alonzo eyed the building as he drew abreast of it. The browner sections of mortar looked like dried mud in the rising light. Here and there along its riverfacing side the upper face was pitted and slightly charred. The corners of the building itself gave greater testimony to the ravages of the last war; German and then Allied shells had bitten chunks out of the edges of the building, and lighter patches of the wall showed where newer, cheaper cement had been used like an antiseptic over the scars of machine gun fire.

Alonzo walked past the main entrance to the apartments and turned down a steep flight of stairs just beyond. The air in the narrow alleyway was already redolent with the aroma of frying sausage. Pausing before the door he heard a woman's scolding voice upbraiding a man in German. He couldn't speak German; couldn't tell how far along they were in their argument, but he rapped on the door regardless. “Greta! Franz!” he called out.

The old woman who came to the door always reminded Alonzo of his third grade teacher for some reason. The eyes, the lips, even the ears seemed drawn together slightly and pinched. Her face, comfortably fat like the rest of her, creased into a maze of smiles at the sight of the visitor and the huge bouquet he proffered her. "Ah, Alonzo!" The English was heavily accented. "Come in, come in. You get here in time for bratwurst, good boy." She took the flowers and stepped back, welcoming him into the apartment.

“Sorry, Greta, but I’m really in a hurry this morning. You don’t suppose you could do me a little favor?”

She eyed him suspiciously through a wisp of iron grey hair. “You want to go up and see Jackie boy, do you?”

He nodded.

“He tells us to let no one to see him, that he doesn’t want any company, even you. Told us when he helped Franz bring in the new furnace. Since you came last--when? Three weeks now he’s seen nobody but that American woman, the movie woman. Doesn’t go out for groceries. The other tenants, they complain that his lights are on all night! Never mind he’s the one who owns the building, but we have to explain to Madame de la Grande Bouche why her neighbor is moving furniture at three o’clock in the morning? No, this is not work fit for old people like me and my Franz.” She was really getting herself worked up, Alonzo thought.

“Greta, sweetheart,” he broke in. “You have known me for what now, two years--”

“Since Jackie and--since Jackie boy moved in.”

“Yeah, now, I can tell you’re worried about him, ‘specially now. Why not let me up to talk with him? He’ll see it’s me and lock out the elevator if I go in through the front or through the garage.” Alonzo gave her his confident, good-looks-and-clean living-will-get-me-through-this grin.

Greta clutched the flowers tighter to her chest, eyeing him. “But he said not--”

“Greta girl, let the boy up to see his friend!” The owner of the gruff voice loomed at his wife’s side. “Hello, Alonzo, come in.”

“Franz.” Alonzo stepped in and shook the huge German’s hand firmly. Even in his sixties, Franz was a bear. A grizzly, Alonzo decided.

Greta eyed her flowers. “These are very nice, and probably very expensive. What is it that you do for a living?”

“I sell hats.” Alonzo said.

“Ah. Hats. Well,” She gave him another long stare. “Franz, show him to the elevator.”

The two men made their way through the knicknack-bejeweled apartment, into a maintenance room, where Franz pressed the button for the elevator. “Forgive my wife. She has doted on those two since the day they moved in and bought this place from us. She fears for Jack. When Victoria died, it was like we had lost a daughter. Jack is...not himself.”

Alonzo looked away bleakly, wishing the elevator would hurry, willing it down the shaft to the basement. He turned back to Franz as the door slid open. “To be honest, I’m not sure exactly what I’m going to say to him.” He tried for a smile, and stepped inside the mahogany-paneled compartment.

The old man moved forward, placing his hand lightly on Alonzo’s arm. “No matter. You are his best, true friend. Inspiration will come to you for what to say.” The old man paused, as if suddenly very tired. “No one should lose his wife.” Before Alonzo could reply Franz stepped back and the doors slid shut.

Alonzo’s caught himself before he pushed the button for the twelfth floor. Turning, he reached up behind the light fixture, disabling the alarm. He hesitated for a moment, then stabbed the button. He and Jack had climbed all through the interior of the building, the first time to check its integrity before Jack bought it, then subsequently to do a little home renovation of their own. For instance, pressing either the eleventh- or the twelfth- floor button would send a visitor to the eleventh floor, where there were no features to tell you exactly what floor you were on, while an alarm sounded in the main suite on the twelfth floor. That had been Alonzo’s idea. He was very proud of it. Jack and Toria always had liked their privacy.