Skin Trade (15 page)

“Permanent?”

“It may be.”

“Go on.”

“I was told about the case and so I have looked in, and after I have examined her, I think I am right. It is quite a difficult situation.”

I looked at the floor.

Tentatively, Alpert said, “I might have an idea.”

“What? What is it?”

“It is not received wisdom, there are people who will tell you I am one old fanatical crackpot, possibly including Dr Lariot, but I have seen it before.” His hesitation was driving me nuts.

“Please go on. Please!”

“Unless Madame Hanes, unless Lily confronts the reality of her attack, unless someone shows her exactly what happened, she will never recover her memory completely. There will be self-willed holes in it. There will be a void because her unconscious wants this void. Part of her doesn't want to know because it is too frightening. I believe that she was raped?”

“Yes.”

“I've seen exactly this kind of case before.”

“But if we find out what happened, and if I can make her understand, then she'll be OK. Is that right? She'll be OK if I can tell her?”

He said, “It's not always that easy, and the surgeons, the psychologists, the neurologists will tell you I'm crazy, but I've seen this.”

“You said.”

“I'm sorry. I'm repeating myself. I've seen it happen. You make the patient understand, you show them the truth, and they come back.”

“The truth about the attack, you mean?” I said.

“Yes. There's one other problem.”

“What's that?”

“We haven't got much time.” Alpert looked at me.

“I don't understand.”

“The longer this goes on, in my experience, the more reluctant she'll be. Physically she will get better. Her body can be repaired. The better she feels, the less need for remembering. The more she heals, the stronger she is, the more her brain will resist the painful information.”

“How long?”

“A week. Two. I've never seen anyone come back in the way I mean unless they know the truth very quickly.”

It was Monday. Lily had been attacked on Tuesday night. I was losing her. I was going to lose her.

“She doesn't know me.”

“I am sorry about that.”

“What if I tell her about me, about us, what if I fill in all the details?”

He shook his head. “It won't make any real difference and it might confuse her. Or she'll know you for a bit, then forget. Just sit by her for now, and if you can, find out what in God's name happened to her. She's an intelligent women. They make the best candidates for this therapy, and the most resistant. They're smart enough to know what they don't want to know.”

“The police are working the case.”

He snorted. “The police are working their case, not hers.”

“Bernard Alpert? And his cockamamie theories of confrontation? You must be kidding,” Patty Finkle said when I went into the hospital courtyard and called her. Patty's an old friend, a forensic shrink I've worked cases with in New York.

I looked at my watch. “What the fuck time is it over there, Patty?”

“Around five in the morning.”

“I'm sorry.”

“I don't fucking care about that, Art, but I'm scared shitless when you tell me you're doing business with that
asshole Alpert. Even that phoney accent like Maurice Chevalier or some shit. You expect him to burst into song.”

Talking to Patty was like a wake-up call from a forgotten world. The brisk opinions of this decisive, opinionated, talented New York woman made me feel better.

“Everyone knows about Alpert,” she said. “He's about a hundred and he's always looking for cases like Lily's to crank up his research. He's a very old man. He once had a reputation, and I think they still let him have an office over there, right?”

“Yeah.”

“He worked up this theory treating GIs.”

“In Vietnam?”

“During the Second World War, Artie. World War fucking Two. He went out on the front lines to treat them. Forget it. Bring Lily home as soon as you can and we'll get her the best fucking treatment on earth. And stop listening to Alpert. You'll make yourself crazy.”

Patty was probably right and deep down I knew it, but I didn't care. We couldn't move Lily yet, I had to find the monster who hurt her. I believed Dr Alpert because I didn't have anyone else to believe.

“He seemed pretty smart to me,” I said.

“I'm telling you, he once treated some soldiers with shell-shock after the Second World War, Artie. It's almost sixty years. He has theories about memory and confrontation. It is, if you'll excuse me, real crapola. I mean, you could lose your footing in it and slide right into the toilet. I'm sorry.”

I kept my mouth shut.

“Lily will be all right. Just give it time. Hey, I saw Beth. I went over to the Millers. They love her staying there and I took Beth out to the movies with our kids. She ate the popcorn and the M&Ms. She likes to mix them together. She knows all the Disney tunes by heart. And then we took them all to Serendipity to eat those frozen chocolate things.”

“Tell me the truth.”

“She's marvelous. The kids adore her. We're all humongously grateful to you for letting us enjoy her.”

“Thanks, Patty. Thank you.”

“Listen, doll, Lily will be all right, Artie. Truly. She'll get better, you have to fucking believe that a hundred per cent.”

As soon as I finished with Patty, I got a message. Carol Browne was in Paris. She wanted me at her hotel. It was a summons not a suggestion, but I had other business. I had to find the creeps fast. Whatever Browne needed would have to wait. I called Tolya, woke him up, asked him to sweet-talk Browne or bully her. I believed the old guy, Alpert; I had to believe him.

I also wanted a weapon. The next time I ran into someone like the bastard who slapped me in Pigalle, I wanted self-protection.

Momo Gourad told me Levesque was involved with prostitutes; I was working Levesque's case; because of it, Lily got hurt. I had to find out what happened and fast, fast, or I'd never get Lily back. Hurry, I thought.

*

“Lily?”

Her skin felt fragile, thin and cold. Her eyes were shut, but for the first time I knew she could feel my hand. Later, she reported to the English-speaking nurse that she liked me. She felt she had seen me somewhere before, this man with the brown hair, the blue eyes and the smell. It was the smell that attracted her, as if she knew me and my smell, but she didn't know my name or who I was. She didn't know how long she had been in the hospital or what happened. The first time she had opened her eyes, she saw Tolya Sverdloff in the chair, face like Mt Rushmore, holding her hand. She knew who he was. Later, she forgot.

“Lily?”

“Beth?”

I told her Beth was fine, staying with her best friends.

She said, “Who are the Millers?”

I told her my name again after that, and kissed her head, but her eyes were closed. For a while I just listened to her breath.

“What do you need?”

There was a
Dirty Harry
poster on the wall over Gourad's desk at the precinct.

“What can I do for you, Artie?” He seemed troubled and remote.

“You know something about the creep who did Lily that you're not telling me.”

“I'm telling you what I can.”

“Tell me some more. He's a pimp? An enforcer?”

“Probably both.”

“Where's he from?”

“I'm not sure. Maybe some kind of border thug.”

“What's that?”

“They skirt the edges of established gangs, they like to work places you can disappear easy, the Czech-German border, Ukraine, Bosnia. All these places are good for whores.”

“I met your friend.”

He lit up. “Katya?”

“Yes.”

“I'm doing what I can. I want him worse than you, I want these guys to stop dumping girls in Paris.” He fiddled with a coffee mug. “We pick up the girls, we get blamed by the left, we don't, we get blamed by the right. You came by for something, Artie? I have to go arrest some boys for dealing Prozac. Important stuff, you know.” He was sarcastic as he picked up his cigarettes.

“Let me put this theoretically, OK, Momo? Off the record. Can we do that?”

“I'll try.”

“Suppose there was a guy in Europe, someone who knew how to handle it, and he knew it wasn't exactly kosher, but he wanted something so that he could take care of things.”

Momo, who had worked in America, knew what I meant. “Go on.”

“He wanted something that would help him work a case, especially if he was thinking of traveling some.”

“I guess,” said Momo, shaking a cigarette from the pack and tossing it to me, “I guess he'd go to the fringes of the flea market at the Porte Saint-Ouen. I guess he'd maybe look for one of the Russians who keep some shitty stores up there, or maybe one of the stalls where under the counter you could maybe get that kind of thing. For cash, of course.”

“Thank you.”

“It's nothing. I know you personally are not thinking of carrying a weapon in Paris, isn't that right, Artie? Because you know it's illegal.”

“Absolutely right.”

He changed the subject. “So Lily is better. I'm happy.”

“She's awake, I guess that's better.” I leaned over the desk. “I need this case solved, Momo. I need it for her. If I don't find out who did it, she won't get better. Talk to me. Who beat up on her?”

“If I knew, I couldn't necessarily tell you.”

“Why the fuck not?”

“I want him to show me who's running the whores in and out of Paris.”

“You said Levesque was involved.”

“Was. Levesque's dead. You want to come home for supper tonight?”

“Monique's cheese soufflé?”

” “Yeah, and the kids.”

What about Katya? I wanted to say, but it was what a stupid prude bastard would say and I kept my mouth shut. “When it's over. Thanks.”

“Artie?”

“Yeah?”

“The flea market operates weekends, mostly.”

“Today's Monday.”

“Monday's OK. Some stuff is open Monday.” ;

“One other thing.”

The phone rang; he picked it up and covered the mouthpiece. “What's that?”

“Katya. What's her real connection with all this?”

Momo didn't answer.

At the Porte Saint-Ouen I got out of the Metro. I had my briefcase, which I'd picked up at the hotel. For this job I needed a clean weapon from a guy who only wanted my money. I skirted the edges of the vast flea
market. People emerged from the maze of stalls lugging crystal chandeliers and ancient suitcases.

Somewhere I could smell the potent grease of lamb cooking. I couldn't remember when I ate and I was hungry. Around the Metro were people selling mis-matched shoes, old tin cans, war medals; there were stalls that cut keys and repaired TVs. Down one narrow alley, where the gutters overflowed with slush and garbage, the signs were in Russian. I tried a couple or three shops.

The fourth had a front window with a crack in it. Inside, the counter, the window sills, the chairs were piled with plastic boxes, chipped cups, styrofoam containers, and in them were findings; bits and pieces for broken jewelry could be purchased here – little stones, fittings, clasps. A sign in Russian announced it was also a pawn shop, and when a short guy emerged from a back room, I talked Russian to him. I told him exactly what I needed.

He said his name was Federov but everyone called him Ferdy. I showed him cash and the money made him eager, but I didn't want to make conversation, I didn't have time. Dr Alpert's words played over in my head – not much time, a week, a few more days.

Ferdy knew exactly what I wanted. There was no bullshit here, at least. He put his newspaper down and went into the back.

It was always risky. They could pick you up on weapons charges and toss you on a plane home, but I wasn't going anywhere without a gun. In France at least, unlike England, the cops carry.

Ferdy reappeared with a little .22, a piece of garbage. I waved it away, pulled out some more money. He
looked again and produced the weapon that I wanted: a Gluck in good condition that fit my hand. I paid, put it in my briefcase with the ammo he sold me, and left.

Up here in this crappy quarter of Paris, the Russians were obviously poor. Not like the bastards Momo mentioned, or Tolya's friends who lived in mansions in the 16th Arrondissement or the big hotels. People like Ferdy didn't take their vacations in St Barts, they didn't get their suitcases at Vuitton.

Tolya could have found me a gun, of course. Tolya would have contacts in Paris like he has everywhere, but I didn't want his people, not this time. His people were rich and polite, killers who skied in Gstaad. You had to play the part with them. You had to go begging. I didn't have time and I wasn't in the mood. I'd met some of them in London once. I wasn't exactly popular with the rich Russians in London and I figured they had friends in Paris and the friends would know who I was.

On my way to the Metro, I stopped and ate a steak and drank a glass of wine. In the mirror over the bar, I stared at myself. If Alpert was right, I had a few days to figure it out.

Was Alpert just a crazy old bastard like Patty Finkle said? I felt he was right. Lily is a woman who needs to look things in the face; she always says she hates not knowing. More than revenge, more than killing the prick who did it to her, I had to know. She had to know. On the train I sat and thought about it, but as soon as I got out and onto the street, the phone rang. It was Carol Browne. She was furious. I had been out of touch. I was off the case. I had promised her I'd close it, this Levesque
thing, but I never called back. When Browne finished her rant, I buzzed Tolya and asked him to get on her.