The American Girl (23 page)

AUGUST 8, 2015

I
knew times were tough when I went to La Grande Bouche and was disappointed not to find Marlene there. I slumped over my coffee, writing a bullet point list of everything I knew that might prove Quinn was innocent. It wasn't the greatest of lists. The main things that made Quinn seem sympathetic in her blog—her relationship with Raphael and Noémie, and Émilie's bad behavior to her—were the very things that were now being used as motive. Next there were the threatening Snapchats that may or may not have been from Freddie, but since these had vanished into the ether, I couldn't do much with them, or pin anything to Freddie apart from Quinn's words.

Third on the list was the Blavette family's own mediocre human rights record, namely the closing of the school and the death of Nicole Leclair. The jury seemed out on whether that was down to Marc or Émilie's poor decision-making, to take a tour of caves that made people go insane and now served as a haunt for
local bad guys; but the caves themselves seemed key. Freddie had implied that not only Marc Blavette but Raphael was mixed up in something to do with bad people who used Les Yeux.

The question was, who were the bad people? I sat at one of the outdoor tables holding my phone all the way out, as far in the direction of the satellite as I could manage, attempting to catch a few rays of internet. Like magic, the Wi-Fi symbol rose to full and a message loaded in my in-box.

After a lot of digging around, I found an article in
Topix
dated 2013 about the disappearance of local businessman Marc Blavette, and put it through Google Translate.

There is fear in the small town of St.
Roch after forty-one-year-old local businessman Marc Blavette has disappeared. His possible kidnapping is causing fear for his lot, and is being investigated by police. They do not yet want to label it a crime.
It is entirely unclear where Blavette, owner of a chain of thriving local nightspots, is or why he disappeared. His family reported the missing person to police, who did a thorough investigation in the neighborhood, sent around a description. His regular haunts were searched, including his most well-known and popular club, La Gorda, situated in Place de la Préfecture.

It turned out that Marc Blavette was “a successful club owner, involved in the district association, and a tour guide at the local caves, popularly known as Les Yeux.” Marlene Weiss, manager of La Grande Bouche, was even quoted as feeling uneasy in the wake of the disappearance. “St. Roch is like a small village. Everyone knows each other and everyone also knows Marc. We are
very shocked.” Émilie Blavette, on the other hand, commented, “If I did know something, I wouldn't tell it to the papers.”

After he vanished, police sealed La Gorda and an investigation began:
According to the head of the St. Roch police, Inspector Valentin, the police have also been to Blavette's other club, Inferno, to look at security footage.
It seemed that Blavette had been beaten by “unknown assailants” not long before he vanished. The owner of a shop near La Gorda reported that he had a dispute with these people, “but refused to be intimidated. They had a hold on him, though. I don't know if it was something to do with the club. I'm afraid this is more than just a missing-persons case.”

La Gorda. That name stood out to me. I flicked through Quinn's Instagram again and sure enough: #clubbing, #lagorda, #thuglife, #crunk. Going through to the club's own feed, I found photos of a hip club and a map of its location.

I
FOLLOWED THE
map to the wrong side of the tracks in the land of the dirty bars. As I walked towards the door of the club, light gleamed from the sidewalk and I was struck by pavement blindness. I shoved my cheap shades onto my nose, scanning the white van parked outside, spray-painted on the side—Rise Up, Jonah in purple and Fatty's Junk below in yellow and bluish—plus other scrawls, other signatures, layered over and over and over, as if people felt compelled to keep contradicting each other on the side of that van.

Inside, the red outlines of Bud neons reflected in the glass, covering eerie art nudes that hung on the walls. The bar staff
paced like caged animals, coiled around their own beauty and some savage tension of the place—as far as I could tell, a French heavy metal bar full of Japanese hipsters, cool Arabs in sock hats, and cigarette-thin Goth chicks with fierce eyebrows and long, black hair.

Leaning over the bar in my tight red dress, I was struck by what hard work it is being a young thing these days. Dirty work, too. The place stunk of sweat and stale smoke and warm beer, and I was pretty sure I saw a roach run over my shoe. I knocked back a double JD and chased it with a Red Bull and vodka before I worked up the nerve to draw the attention of the pretty bonehead chick with the spike earrings and breastbone tattoo, and say, “You know anyone called Blavette?”

Her forehead crumpled and she frowned. I couldn't tell if she didn't speak English or couldn't hear me, or both. I repeated the question in French.

The look remained, but with something extra added to it—a little touch of fear. She looked down at the glass she was polishing as if suddenly possessed by OCD. The punk guy next to her scowl-smiled and beckoned me closer. He lifted a pierced eyebrow and without speaking pointed towards the back of the room, though all I could see was a mosh pit full of headbangers enjoying the gig.

“You know about any people getting beaten up in this area?” I asked. “Turf warfare? Um, bad people?”

He shrugged. “Why don't you ask Séverin about it? He knows. Table at the back.”

I headed for the mosh pit. The music throbbed. As soon as I got near the table the guy told me about, two heavies standing in front of it stepped closer together. I could see a guy I assumed was Séverin sitting behind them, hard to read behind his sunglasses. An expensive
tailored suit was stretched over his vast frame, made blingier by the addition of a gold Rolex and matching cuff links. Suddenly he smiled and I realized that he reminded me of an older French version of Tony Soprano. He was probably good company, buying everyone lunch and dandling his grandkids until the moment he was cutting your thumbs off. I smiled back and waved. The lights changed, dyeing the man's face red when it lifted to watch me. They changed again, made his beckoning finger turn green. Maybe he recognized me from TV.

“Raoul. Pierre.” Séverin snapped his fingers.

The bodyguards lumbered aside. I slid onto the cold leatherette next to him, glad for the shots I had downed at the bar that stopped my hands from shaking, that made it easy to smile.

He slipped his arm over the back of the couch. “And who might you be? I don't think we've been introduced, though it's hard to be sure.”

“That's the trouble with wearing Ray-Bans in a nightclub. You can't see shit.”

He cocked his head but didn't laugh. Jokes—they never translate.

“My name is Molly,” I added.

“And to what do I owe this pleasure, Molly?”

“I'm trying to find someone called Blavette.”

Séverin guffawed like I just said the best thing ever. “
Putain
, you are one of Raphael's little chicks? Aren't you a bit old for him?”

“No, I'm not one of his ‘chicks.' I came here to find out what happened to Marc Blavette. Do you know?” It wasn't the smartest of interrogation techniques, but at least it cut to the chase.

So much so that the look on Séverin's face shifted from one of benign contempt to barely repressed anger. “
Marc
Blavette? You come in asking for
Marc
Blavette?”

I seemed to have touched a nerve. “He used to own this club, didn't he?”

“Years ago,” said Séverin slowly. “We were business partners actually. I bought La Gorda from Marc fair and square.”

“Before he died, or after?”

Under the table, Séverin's hand grabbed my thigh, the nails digging in. “Who sent you? What do you know?” His fingers dug deeper, hurting me.

I flicked a look towards the dancing crowd, but could see nothing beyond the hulking bodies of the bodyguards. I was caught like a rat in a trap and now I understood the look on the bartender's face.

“You know,” said Séverin, leaning close, “what happened to Marc can happen to anyone.” His face was almost touching mine.

I pulled away, but he gripped my thigh tightly. There was a little knife in my purse, a sharp little folding blade my mom got me for my thirtieth birthday. It took serious subterfuge to get it
through airport security. If only I could reach my bag, I thought. But it was down on the floor.

A man pushed in between the bodyguards. It was Valentin. He flashed his police badge. The bodyguards grudgingly moved aside. “Come on, slut,” he bellowed. “I'm sorry, but this woman is a known prostitute and I have some questions to ask her.”

“Questions? For her?” Séverin's hand slithered off of my knee.

“On your feet, whore,” shouted Valentin.

As he led me away from the table, he continued to insult me, calling me a cheap tart, mutton dressed as lamb, and various other terms of endearment.

As soon as we were out of earshot and sight, I wriggled free of his grasp. “How dare you?”

“How dare I? I warned you once this morning. And here you are, talking to Séverin of all people—”

“I think he's got something to do with the Blavettes . . .” I began.

Valentin pulled me to him by the wrists. “Molly, why are you still putting your nose around, prying in my investigation? I have told you about this already.”

“Told me?” I snapped. “
Threatened me
would be more accurate. I have a question. Why are you fucking up
my
investigation? Quinn is innocent and I'm trying to clear her name. I was just getting somewhere—”

“Molly.” He touched my arm for a moment, before seeming to remember himself. “You were about to get hurt in some way. You
are lucky that my snitch at the bar spotted you and called me in time. You do not know this man, Séverin.”

“So he is a bad guy?”

“Yes, and he is serious in his business.”

“I knew it,” I said angrily. “So right here you have some bad guy who was Marc Blavette's business partner, who worked with Raphael, too. Yet instead of investigating him, you've arrested Quinn? You're just pinning this on her out of laziness or . . . I don't know . . . because she's an easy target.”

“Listen, Molly. I have asked you once nicely to leave this place. I will ask you once more. The next time, you will be charged with putting your nose in places it does not belong.” He turned on his heel and began to push between the dancers.

“I don't actually think that's a crime,” I shouted after him, but he had already disappeared into the crowd.

AUGUST 9, 2015

B
y way of an apology, Bill booked me a plane ticket, using my ill-gotten gains. He forwarded the e-ticket so that I could savor the prospect of my cowardice. If I wanted his advice, he said, I should catch the red-eye at six, read crappy magazines, and eat peanuts and get so bored that I would actually want to write up my notes. It would be France detox, reminding me that this whole St. Roch adventure had been nothing but a wild journalistic bender. Bill and my beer fridge and my sofa beckoned me home, and that holy trinity would absolve all my sins.

It was tempting. The hacks that had followed me when I was Quinn's aunt were following me double now that I wasn't, hot-tailing up the main drag, past the carrefour and the gas station, scampering after me down cobblestoned alleyways. They had big questions and I didn't even have small answers.

Seeking sanctuary, I ducked into the maritime church in the
middle of St. Roch, solemn with stained glass and boat-shaped votives, hung from the nave to thank God for showing mercy during shipwrecks. Up front, an unseen organist played melancholy chords. Beside him, behind the altar, sat a pietà carved out of marble, a sad, beautiful statue of the body of Jesus on the lap of His mother, Mary, after the Crucifixion, after they'd both given up hope. Valentin had told me his ancestors dragged the stone for it from the mountain quarries, hacking one great, unbroken piece from the high cliffs over the beach for the artist to carve. Light, tinted blue and green, fell slowly over the stone, as if life itself had distilled over centuries and become nothing more than still air.

A hand settled on my shoulder. For a moment I held my breath, feeling sure that it was either some divine intervention or the long arm of the law again seeking retribution. I was about to tell Valentin to get lost when a husky voice murmured in my ear. I turned to see Marlene's carmine lips split in a conspiratorial smile.

“The woman of the moment,” she whispered, though her indoor voice was so loud it made the organist stop midarpeggio.

“Just kick me when I'm down, Marlene.”

“Oh, Molly, Molly.” She squeezed into the pew beside me. “Everywhere I go, they are asking me what you are like, squeezing me for the juicy details.”

“I hope you gave them the full P. T. Barnum experience.”

“No, no.” She laughed. “I just told them all about the
real you
.”

“And what's the real me like?”

“Look in
Grazia
if you want to know,” she said, “or
Paris Match
.
You are a celebrity, Molly. What are you going to do with all this fame?” Her blue eyes glittered like pebbles in a stream.

“I just want to climb on the plane, take some pill or other, and wake up in the States,” I said truthfully.

Marlene pouted. “
Ach, nein! Wirklich?
That is very party pooper of you. And anyway, what about poor Quinn? Is she to languish in prison when you go?” She sure knew how to twist the knife.

“I don't know how to help her,” I said pathetically. “Her dad's suddenly decided to hire this top-notch lawyer. I suppose he cares now that it's his family's reputation at stake and not just his kid's welfare. No one will let me talk to her, of course, even though I
actually
care.”

She stroked my arm. “It's okay,
chérie
. Marlene understands. Of course you don't want to see her. That girl could have killed you in Les Yeux, after all.”

“No. Of course she wouldn't have,” I protested. “I never thought . . .”

She tutted knowingly. “I told everyone that is what you would say, because you are a true saint. But we all know she won't stop asking for you from that jail cell of hers. It's obvious she just wants you close enough.” Marlene mimed a stab to my guts and laughed her gravelly laugh.

“What?” I couldn't tell if she was joking or not.

“
Vraiment.
She has been asking for you. What a joke, considering you put her there. Maybe she really is insane, as they say.” She twisted her finger next to her temple. “So far gone she still believes you're her aunt.”

I was now haunted by a horrible image: Quinn languishing in a jail cell, as feverish and confused as the first time she woke, not knowing what was real and what was her mind playing tricks on her. “Where did you hear this, Marlene?”

“From your lover, of course, where else?” She clapped me on the back. “
Scheiße
, you really stepped on his heart, poor Valentin. He looks like a train has run him down.”

“Thanks, Marlene,” I said, rising from the pew to a new flurry of
Phantom of the Opera
chords. “I feel a whole lot better now.”