The Alternative Detective (Hob Draconian) (26 page)

“To hell with all of you,” Rachel said.

“Well,” Fauchon said, “I suppose we have a happy ending here. As you may have guessed, ’Ob, it was the sailboard thing we were mainly interested in. We knew that such a scheme was in operation. But it was difficult to find out who was behind it. We have you to thank for that information, however indirectly.” He turned to Rachel. “Did you make out all right financially? I’m just asking out of curiosity.”

“It wouldn’t matter if you weren’t,” Rachel said. “I didn’t get a dime. Alex said that I had payment in full when I took that shot at him.” She sighed. “I guess it was worth it at that. If only I’d pulled it another few inches to the left. … Well, if you don’t need me any more, Inspector, I’m going on to Rome.”

“You are free to leave,” Fauchon said.

Rachel paused at the door. “Hob?” she asked. “Want to come along?”

I looked at her firm jaw, strong neck, righteous eyes. She was a pretty lady, but, like Alex said, she was poison. And anyhow, I had other plans.

“No, thanks,” I said. “See you around.”

SAILBOARDS

57

“You mustn’t think too poorly of Major Wheaton,” Fauchon told me later. “It all happened rather quickly, the sailboards turning up like that. We weren’t interested in Alex. It was the sailboards we were following all the time. When Wheaton stumbled over them in Honfleur, he knew he had to do something, not let them get away again.”

“Why didn’t he call a gendarme and have Vico arrested?”

Fauchon shook his head. “It was the people behind him we wanted to get. It was a brilliant move on Nigel’s part to steal the boards and let the Mexicans think you were responsible.”

“Were they smuggling dope in those sailboards? Is that it? I don’t get it. I thought people smuggled heroin
into
the U.S., not out of it. And what was my nephew doing in that business, anyhow?”

“Some parts of the story will have to await confirmation from Falcone. But I think we will find that one of those men worked for him during the construction of the sailboards. Everyone thinks of dope smuggling in terms of big gang operations, speed-boards and planes in Miami. But there’s a lot more to it than that. A lot more angles. Distribution, for example, is a field worthy of study. Have you ever considered the difficulties involved in getting the dope to its end consumers, wealthy people? Especially how to do that when you need a lot of dope at a number of locations as refreshments for big-time sporting events.”

“Sporting events? I’ve heard of athletes taking drugs, but spectators, too?”

“You better believe it, ’Ob. No one goes to a sporting contest straight any more. And these people expect to get higher when they get there.” Fauchon adopted a didactic pose. I settled down for a lecture. “Dope has become a part of all sporting events. The best people use it, you know, not just the riffraff. For many, the great sports events of the year are merely excuses to gather with their friends and do a lot of dope. But where is it to come from? No one in his right mind travels with any dope on his person. No, people buy it where they are. But who are they to buy it from? Let’s say you’re in Monte Carlo for one of the races. You don’t deal with the street gypsies. For all you know, they’re police agents. Who is to vouch for them? No, you deal with someone you’ve dealt with before, someone you trust. You buy from one of the performers on the circuit. Like Vico.”

“He’s well known, Vico?”

“
Mais certainement.
He travels to all of these events, runs in all the races. And he’s been dealing to his friends for years. When Vico shows up with the goods, he’s going to turn over tens of thousands of dollars worth of merchandise. And this is of interest not just to himself, but to the money people behind him. And it’s also the reason for the arguments between him and his brother. Enrique learned that Vico had started this questionable practice. It was Enrique who intercepted the payment. He wanted to cause Vico trouble, to try to stop him before it was too late, before either the police got him or some criminal killed him. He thought the best way would be to get your agency after Vico. Throw a scare into him. He didn’t know exactly what you’d do. But your involvement would do something. And perhaps it would be enough to get Vico to stop dealing.”

“But it wasn’t.”

“Enrique had somewhat the wrong idea. He thought Vico was able to call his shots. But he wasn’t. Vico was tied in deep with his partners. They were two Mexican businessmen with criminal interests who had vacationed in Ibiza and had gotten to know Vico. The sailboards were perfect, not just for smuggling, but also for carrying the drugs around Europe. Getting the stuff in is one thing. But circulating it while it’s in, that’s trouble.”

Fauchon was ready to go into deeper explanations. But I had heard enough. I got myself out of there. There was someone I had to see.

PÈRE LACHAISE; WAITING FOR THE SUN

58

The last thing I did before plane time was go down to Père Lachaise. It’s a big cemetery in eastern Paris, in the section called Belleville. I took a stroll among the illustrious dead.

There are a lot of dead here. Close to a million, the guide books say. And we got some of the biggest names in culture right here. We got Marcel Proust here and we got Edith Piaf. Modigliani’s here, and so’s Oscar Wilde. We got Balzac and we got Bizet; we got Colette and we got Corot. We even got Abelard and Héloïse here, and that’s going back some. This is the big time. Victor Hugo said it: To be buried in Père Lachaise is like having mahogany furniture.

He’s here too, of course, along with his family.

Père Lachaise is the perfect symbol for making it as a foreigner in Paris. We got Georges Ionesco, Isadora Duncan, Gertrude Stein, and Alice B. Toklas.

I nod to them, internally, of course, but they’re not the ones I’ve come to see. The one I want lives in Block A, right over here.

Hi, Jim. Ladies and gentlemen, here lies Jim Morrison, a poet and singer of some reputation, a role model in my day, who came to Paris on a visit and is now a permanent resident.

Jim, I say, when I first came back to Paris I thought I was going to visit you and tell you what a great place you’d picked to die in, if you had to die, and how you wouldn’t really mind it yourself. But then something changed and I came to say now, Jim, it’s really nice here and I guess you’re going to be here as long as long can be. Because they’re not going to let you get out of here now. But it’s wrong, Jim, you never intended to stay on here; you were just passing through. Jim, back in America there’s still youth and beauty, talent and love. There’s a lot of trouble, of course, but a lot of good stuff going on. I wish I could bring you back. It’s a good place, America, though I’ll be the first to admit that the beat, the sound of our generation, is difficult to pick up.

Why did I feel so weird? The case had worked out all right. I’d been paid.

And then I remembered that I’d forgotten to ask Jim the question.

Jim, if you were me, what would you do?

But it was too late now, I’d just have to decide for myself.

I walked back to the Place Gambetta and took a taxi out to De Gaulle. I didn’t look back. I entered the airport and went to the TWA counter. It was over, my European dream. New Jersey, here I come.

It is the Paris of our dreams that entices us, we Americans in search of our past, or, if not ours, at least some past we could associate ourselves with. So that we could say, This is mine, this city, this woman, this culture, this civilization. Paris, homeland of exiles.

Alas, we don’t really choose our own archetypes. They act themselves out within us. I told myself that it was better to have Paris on my mind than under my feet. Better to live in America with the memory of Paris than to live in Paris with the memory of America. The dirty old industrialized homeland calls on us to return to it precisely because it is not beautiful, not old, not hallowed. Our homeland challenges us to put our value into the place that needs it, rather than passing away our time in the place that already has it.

I had no idea what all of this meant. But in a way I did know. Before I left, I hadn’t even known there was an American civilization. And now I was returning to it.

I stood on line at the check-in counter of TWA. The man in front of me said, “Hi, buddy. You look like an American. Where you from?”

“New Jersey,” I heard myself say.

“No kidding? I am, too! Whereabouts?”

“Snuff’s Landing.”

“No kidding! I live in Hoboken, right next door. Makes us practically kin, don’t it?”

He was a jovial, nice man and I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. He was wearing an electric blue leisure suit with maroon piping along the lapels, the sort of garment that haberdashers in small cities sell as leisure wear for your European holiday. Something rose up in me and snapped. “Actually,” I said, “we’re not kin at all. I don’t really live in New Jersey. I live in Paris.”

He was puzzled. “Then why are you flying to Kennedy?”

“I’m not,” I said, stopping at the entrance gate. “I’m just seeing you off. Goodbye.”

He gave me a funny look but he smiled and gave a little wave and then he went onto the plane. A moment later I was gone, too, back to stay with Rus and Rosemary until I could find a place of my own.

You can cash in those airline tickets any time, you know.

Before I got out of the airport I heard my name being paged. At the Hospitality Counter there was a telegram for me. It was from Harry Hamm in Ibiza. It read, INTERESTING DEVELOPMENTS. COME IMMEDIATELY.

I could see exactly how to do it. I could make a deal with Uncle Sammy through Louis and get off the hook with the I.R.S. I could turn over the New Jersey house to Mylar and good luck to her and to Sheldon, too. I’d send some money to Kate and the kids. I’d still have enough left over to set up the Alternative Detective Agency here in Paris, the world capital of pâté de foie gras, and that’s not chicken liver.
Kapisch?