The Alternative Detective (Hob Draconian) (20 page)

I wrapped my long cloak more closely around me: it was a bitter night. I stroked my rather striking moustache, and I entered the hotel.

The camera tracked me to the stairs. Our leader, La Présidente, as we call her, was there to greet me. I went past her, climbed the stairs and went to the cramped east room. The air was dense with smoke from the charcoal fire and the candles, and from the pipes of the tophatted gentlemen. They sat on sofas, or lounged in easy chairs covered with figured silks and satins, long slender pipes in their mouths, talking, laughing, arguing between puffs. As I watched, they seemed to waver ever so slightly, as though they were becoming the hallucinations they sought.

I spotted my dear friend Théophile Gautier, somewhat taller than I had expected. “
Ca va?
” I enquire of him.

“Oh, the party’s just warming up,” he replied. “The usual crowd is here, as you can see—Delacroix on that couch, Boissard with the silly hat on his head, the Goncourt brothers looking supercilious as always.”

“Who’s that fat fellow with the coffee cup?”

“M. Balzac. He comes only for the conversation, since he claims that his consumption of coffee and spirits renders him immune to the effects of the Black Smoke.”

From the coiner of my eye, through a haze of lights, I could see Clovis making circular motions with his arms. I interpreted that as meaning that he wanted Gautier and me to walk around, so the camera could track us. I took hold of Gautier’s arm and led him slowly across the room.

“And who are those two over there?” I asked, because two men had just entered and were looking with stern eyes upon the proceedings.

“The one on the left is Wagner, of course; you can tell by his floppy tie. The other is an up-and-coming young poet named Rilke.”

Wagner and Rilke walked over to us. The cameras turned to them. I said to Gautier, under my breath, “Alex, that
is
you under the beard, isn’t it?”

“That would be telling,” Gautier said. “How in hell are you, Hob?”

“Me? I’m fine. But how the hell are you? And what in hell are you up to?”

“We’ll talk later,” Alex said. “Frankly, old buddy, I am really glad to see you.”

WRAP-UP; MOULES WITH ALEX

44

Clovis wrapped it up soon after that. Below, a reception room had been set aside for the cast party that was one of Clovis’ signatures. I removed my costume and my makeup. Already I was coming down a little from the privilege of having been Charles Baudelaire. But, I reminded myself, it’s not so terrible to be good old Hob Draconian, especially when he is on the verge of solving his case.

I had expected Alex to give me the slip again. It would be in keeping with everything else that had happened so far. But that wasn’t what happened at all. He sought me out at the cast party and suggested that we slip away and get a drink somewhere and talk. We left the party and took a taxi. Alex knew a student place near the Panthéon, and we went there. I don’t remember what it was called. Le Moule Dorade, I suppose, since everything in Paris is at least gilded if not golden.

There was a tiny spotlit platform and on it people were dancing very slowly to the sound of drum machine, electric guitar and swizzle stick. They moved so slowly. This was the thing to do, control freaks were in, the old willpower thing, we’ve all seen it before now. It wears this year’s clothes and it probably has something to do with why anyone would be interested in Clovis’ cockamamie ideas about Baudelaire’s shoes. His imputation of importance to the notion irritated me. What did he think he was, weird poseur with his Zeitgeist all pat, coming on with his pronunciamentos ex cathedra?

The band was about what you’d expect in a chichi place like this, mandolin and wooden flute playing folksongs of Brittany. We ordered a pitcher of beet-red Belgian beer, a plate of mussels in a spicy marinara sauce, and fell to.

Alex hadn’t changed much in the ten years since I’d seen him. He was tall, muscular, blond, good looking. He seemed ill at ease, however, and had chosen our table carefully, sitting with his back to the wall so that he could see everyone who came in or out.

“So what’s new?” Alex asked.

I shrugged. “What should be new? I’m a private detective now. I guess that’s new.”

“Quite a change from the old days,” Alex said. “Do you ever play poker any more?”

“Rarely.”

“How’s the detective business coming along?”

“Not bad. I found you.”

“Yes, so you did. But that doesn’t count. I was trying to get in touch with you, as a matter of fact.”

“Were you? What for?”

“Hob, I need some help. I’m willing to pay for it, too.”

“What’s the trouble?”

Alex’s story began some years back. He had left Europe, just as I had, returned to the States and began looking for work. He had passed his bar exam in Washington, D.C., some years before. Now, with the help of one of his uncles, he went to work for the Selwyn Corporation, a group of fund-raisers. This was in 1985. By 1986 Alex found himself in the middle of an interesting situation, raising money for the Contras, and for the secret Iran initiative that the White House was promulgating during those years. Although “Spitz” Chanell was the one who would get into the news for his fund-raising activities, Selwyn and others were also active.

This was also the time when Alex met Rachel. She was one of the secretaries working for Selwyn. She and Alex began to go out together. Within a month they had moved into a little Georgetown apartment. Alex went on working for Selwyn.

Over the next months, Alex couldn’t help but notice that a lot of money was being raised for various initiatives concerning the Contras and Iran. But as much as came in, little of it ever seemed to get to the combatants. It was a curious situation. Everything was being done in terms of patriotism, but some people seemed to be making a lot of money out of it.

Then came 1987 and suddenly Iran and the Contras were in the news. They were linked, Iran-Contra, also known as Irangate. Casey went in for his brain operation and never returned to full health, dying soon after. Colonel Oliver North was fired. Admiral Poindexter, his superior, was in trouble. A lot of people were going to be in trouble before this one was finished.

Alex could see that his days in this job were numbered. In fact, the days of Selwyn, Ltd., were also numbered.

It was then in those final days that Alex saw the handwriting on the wall. It took a little time for it to sink in that his superiors had been engaged in something that, no matter how it looked when they began, looked illegal as hell now.

The net of the investigations was thrown wide, and a lot of little fish were being pulled in. Politics being what it was, you could be sure that a lot more little fish were going to get jail sentences than the big fish. And Alex was not in a good spot. Because, however innocently, he was involved.

Selwyn had learned of his Swiss account and had taken advantage of it from time to time, as a transfer point for contributions for the Contras, or for whoever was getting them. There was no profit in this for Alex, but it looked like he was going to get into plenty of trouble.

He discussed it with Rachel. She had learned, along the secretarial grapevine, that investigators from the Special Prosecutor’s office were going to start checking into his dealings with Selwyn.

“It wasn’t so much that I couldn’t prove my innocence,” Alex said. “I could, though it would have taken time and money. The main thing was, I’d have had to stay in Washington while the thing dragged on. I couldn’t do that. You know me, Hob.”

I nodded. I couldn’t have stood for that, myself; not if there were any other way out. “So what did you do?”

“I figured it was time to pack up and get going. In fact, it looked almost too late. Rachel had heard that there was a subpoena out for me. I left that same evening. Rachel stayed behind to take care of final details, get rid of the apartment, put stuff into storage, all that sort of thing. And then she was supposed to meet me in Paris.”

“That part of it I know,” I said. “But then you disappeared. Or so Rachel said.”

“Yes, I did, didn’t I?” Alex said, an amused smile on his face. “Or I seemed to, at any rate. As far as Rachel was concerned, I had disappeared. That, of course, was when she hired you.”

I nodded. “What actually happened?”

“I ducked out of sight for a while,” Alex said. “It seemed a good idea at the time. I’d heard something about Rachel which disturbed me.”

“What was that?”

“It seemed she was talking to one of the special investigators. A guy named Romagna. Maybe you’ve seen him around?“

I nodded. “He’s around. But why would Rachel do that?”

Alex gave me a long, somber look. “You’ve seen her Damascene routine?”

“Yeah, when she came into my office the first time.”

“She does weird things sometimes, Rachel. She’s a Mormon, you know. They raise some strange ones. You never know when she’s going to get an idea that she has to do something. She’s probably OK; maybe I was just paranoid, but I thought I’d better get out to Europe.”

“What about Romagna?”

“I don’t know if he has a warrant for me or not. But he’s hanging in a little too tight for my peace of mind. I thought I’d stay out of things for a while and see what was up.”

“Have you seen enough now?”

“Yes, I think so. My mind’s made up now. I’m ready for the next step.”

“And what will that be?”

“That’s the part I need your help for,” Alex said.

“No,” I said.

“Hob, just listen to me.”

Same old Alex. And I was listening to him. Same old Hob.

10

LA BAULE

45

Please do not ask me to explain how Alex got me from a taverna in the center of Paris eating
moules
and drinking wine to the passenger side of a rented Citroën speeding through the dark Paris countryside with the glow of the city behind us and the Atlantic coast ahead. I must have been crazy. Alex has that effect on me. There’s no buddy like a good old buddy. And, like some other men who have had multiple wives and replaceable families, don’t ask which means more to me, family or friends.

And I felt more than a little guilty, because here I was, flying through the night with Alex, like we had done so many times before, and I was laughing at his jokes like I used to do, and we were both a little drunk and the countryside was dark, vast, empty, mysterious, and we the only humans as far as the eye could see, Alex and me under the stars of Mother Night. So I’m sentimental; shoot me.

At least I was able to convince myself, not without reason, that I was actually doing my job, following Alex to wherever it was he was going, so that I could report to Rachel, my employer (who might be in cahoots with Romagna) Alex’s whereabouts. Of course, I’d also tell Alex exactly what I was going to do, so he could take his precautions, but what the hell, there’s nothing in my client’s agreement that says I have to do in an old buddy.

Alex had said he’d explain, and I allowed him to pull me out of the security of the taverna near the Panthéon with its long wooden benches full of French college students, its pitchers of beer, cheerful, sweaty, shirtsleeved waiters, the plates of mussel shells—blue-black, nacre.

At least I could give myself the illusion I was still doing it for Rachel, my employer, flying out into the night like this with Alex in order to learn his whereabouts, after which I would report to Rachel and she, perhaps, would report to Romagna. Only I would previously have told Alex I was going to tell her.

Well, maybe I didn’t know what in hell I thought. His rented Citroën convertible had a blown muffler and I couldn’t even hear myself think, much less talk with Alex about what was going on. He’d probably kicked a hole in the muffler himself in order not to have to talk to me. Nobody tells me anything. But even for me, enough is enough.

“Alex,” I said.

“What is it, buddy?”

“Stop the car somewhere, OK?”

“What’s up?”

“We need to talk.”

He looked at me. I looked back at him. He understood.

“OK, buddy,” he said, “as a matter of fact, there’s a nice little restaurant not far from here, right close to Angers. We need a break.”

He was doing what I’d asked, but he was giving nothing away. I’d always admired Alex. Which didn’t necessarily mean I’d do what he wanted.

I remembered only later that Alex had a positive affinity for the world’s worst eating places. I wish I’d thought of that and eaten some more mussels in Paris before we turned into the parking lot of the dark little inn on the N23 just south of Le Mans.

It was one of those thatch-roof affairs that always should be viewed with suspicion, and it turned out to be an overpriced bad eatery, something rare in France, but trust Alex to find the exception.