The Blue Ring (4 page)

Raoul nodded solemnly and said. "Then I guess it has to wait a couple of weeks
or more until he's fully recovered."

"What has to wait?"

"You
don't know?"

"Know
what?"

Raoul
was looking puzzled. He asked, "You are here because Blondie called
you?"

Michael
shook his head.

"She
never called us...What's happening?"

Raoul
was confused. He rubbed the palms of his hands down his face, sighed and said,
"Blondie has problems. I thought she might have written to Creasy. In fact
I suggested it, but obviously she didn't."

"Not
that I know of. Tell me about her problems."

Raoul thought for a moment and then said, "We don't have the Mafia here in
Belgium, but we do have something similar. We call them 'Les Homines de la Nuit'.
There are several gangs, but one has recently become predominant. It takes its
name from their leader, Lamonte. They deal in drugs, prostitution, illegal
gambling, protection rackets and coercion. Blondie has no affiliation with any
criminal group or with any pimps. You know she treats her girls well."

Michael's voice indicated his interest. "So tell me."

Raoul's face went gloomy. "Recently, Lamonte's gang has been targeting up-market
brothels for protection money. There are many such brothels in Brussels. They
cater to the huge amount of civil servants who work for the EC and also for the
businessmen who need those civil servants, and often invite them to places like
Pappagal. Most of the brothel owners have buckled under and now pay protection
money. But not Blondie. She refuses."

"So what have they done?"

Raoul shrugged. "They are very clever. They don't plant bombs or start fires or
anything so obvious. But every night Lamonte has his men waiting on the street
outside. They threaten our customers with blackmail and violence and, like
common touts, they give them the cards of other brothels over which they have control."

"And the results?"

Raoul spread his hands. "Business is down by more than half. Blondie cannot even
cover her costs. She is paying the girls minimum wages from her own
pocket."

For more than a minute there was a silence while Michael thought. Then he said,
"She should have told Creasy. She should have followed your advice."

Raoul nodded. "But she will not. She has her pride." His dark face turned
apologetic and his voice took on a different tone. "You have to
understand, Michael, I want to do something. Blondie is like a mother to me.
But I am not like you or Creasy. Sure I look tough, and I can frighten people
just by a look." He tapped his suit under the armpit. "And, yes, I
carry a gun, but it has no bullets. It's an understanding we have with the
police. It's just to frighten unruly clients." He shrugged again. "I
am no match for Lamonte or his 'soldiers'. So we must wait for Creasy to
come out of hospital...I hope it will be in time."

Michael shook his head. "We will wait for nothing. I will have a gentle word with
Lamonte myself."

Raoul looked slightly startled and murmured, "Maybe you should wait for
Creasy."

Again, Michael shook his head. "I will do it myself...Don't worry, Raoul. I am
capable."

Raoul looked into the young man's face and into his stone-cold eyes. "If you
want, I will watch your back...I will get bullets for my gun and fuck the
police."

Michael smiled and shook his head.

"I would be honoured for you to watch my back, but your place is here, watching
over Blondie. And, yes, do get bullets for your gun and fuck the police."

"So
who will watch your back?"

Michael's
smile widened. "Maxie MacDonald will watch my back. I'm having dinner at
his bistro tomorrow night. He knows the city and will know all about
Lamonte."

Raoul
grinned back. "Yes," he said, "Maxie will enjoy the action. He's
been out to pasture for too long...And Blondie will know nothing?"

"Blondie
will know nothing. But later, when business returns to normal, she may
guess."

Raoul
smiled again. "Let her guess."

Michael
ate monies marinieres followed by coq au vin, and drank half a bottle of the
house wine. While he ate, Maxie made several phone calls. After most of the
other guests had left, Maxie brought over an old unmarked bottle of Cognac and
two glasses. The square ex-mercenary explained that Jacques Lamonte was in his
mid-forties.

He had
muscled his way up to the top of the pile in the Belgian crime hierarchy. He
was daring and ruthless. He was also gay, and owned several nightclubs which
purveyed to the gay community in Brussels. He lived in a grand house in a prime
suburb on the outskirts of the city. His home was extremely well-guarded and he
never moved anywhere without very hard bodyguards, all well-armed. Diffidently
Maxie suggested that Michael should wait until Creasy was out of hospital and
fully fit.

Michael
shook his head and explained. "Maxie, you know how close Creasy is to
Blondie. I have a feeling he will get so mad that someone like that pimp is
threatening her that he'll kill him. That could be complicated. So I'll just
give the guy a hell of a fright and Creasy needn't know anything about
it."

Maxie
looked into the young man's eyes and said, "My sister-in-law loves you,
but sometimes, Michael, you can be a prick. You want to do this for Blondie
while Creasy is indisposed. You're being a macho young guy."

Michael
started out on a retort, but Maxie held up a hand, smiled and said,
"That's OK. It's no problem. I understand. You need to make your own moves
and come out from under Creasy's shadow. I'm sure you can take care of
it."

"I
will take care of it. Where does Lamonte go at night?"

"He
is almost always in one of his clubs, usually The Black Cat. It's on Rue
Lafitte. He goes there to pick up young men."

Christine
came and sat with them. She smiled at Michael and asked, "Are you going to
take me out tonight?"

"Yes,
with your sister's permission. I want to enjoy tonight, because tomorrow I'm
going to become gay."

There
were a few customers that always lingered late. At eleven o'clock Nicole saw
the impatience in her sister's eyes and said, "Go on, then. Don't wake us
up when you come home."

Christine
smiled and said demurely, "I will not wake you up when I come home."

First
they went to a small bar around the corner. They sat in a dimly-lit banquette.
Michael ordered champagne and they drank it, holding hands.

"Do you want to go to a disco?" he asked.

She squeezed his hand and shook her head. "No."

"Do you want to go home?"

"No."

"Where do you want to go?"

"I want to go to a big warm bed. I want to stay in that bed the whole night and I
want to watch your eyes open in the morning. I want to see the pleasure in them
because the moment they open I will be doing something very beautiful to you."

The big bed was in a small luxury hotel just around another corner. A hotel that
catered for such assignations. They had only made love once before, about a
year earlier, but he remembered how physically sensitive she was.

Very slowly he undressed her as she stood by the bed. First the pale green mohair
sweater then the white cotton blouse. She wore no bra.

Her breasts were small and high and made a triangle with the soft point of her
chin. He loosened the belt of her black woollen skirt and it dropped to the
carpet. She was left wearing only very brief white panties. He lifted her up
and laid her on the bed.

She smiled up at him and asked quietly, "Do you remember?"

He nodded as he took off his clothes. He did remember. He remembered virtually
every word she had spoken to him the first night he had made love to her.

In the beginning it had been a disaster. Like many young men he had assumed a woman
took pleasure from the pure physical act of sex, and that the harder he went
and the longer he went, so much the better. She had stopped him after five
minutes, pulled herself away from him, and then whispered in his ear in a
humorous voice, "Perhaps I'm not like your other girlfriends. Have you
ever had a Belgian girlfriend?"

"No."

"Then maybe we are different. Maybe we are the aristocracy of girlfriends. We are
nervous like race horses. However, there are ways to handle us." She had
gone on to tell him in great detail how to handle her.

So he remembered. He made love to her very slowly, very carefully and very tenderly.
At the end she lay with her head in the crook of his arm, her hand across his
chest. In a voice as low as the purr of a cat she said, "I love you
because of your memory. I love you because you think you are so tough and so mean
and so hard...But you are just a little boy."

He
stared up at the canopy of the four-poster bed and then asked, "Do you
really see me as a boy?"

She
moved up until her head rested against his shoulder and her lips were near to
his ear. "Oh, yes. You think that your youth has passed you by. Everybody
thinks that. My mother and Maxie say that you have the mind of a
forty-year-old...It is not true."

"No?"

"No.
You are nineteen years old, but for me you are even younger. I don't talk of
your mind or your body. I only feel the essence of you in my arms...I feel a
young boy." Both her arms had now circled him and pulled him close. She
waited for an answer, but he was silent.

She
lifted her head and in the dim light looked at his face and into his eyes. They
were infinitely sad.

He
murmured, "You must be the only one to see me as a boy. Sometimes I feel a
thousand years old." His smile was half bitter and half humorous. He
kissed her and said, "But you are so wise. I am a boy, but I badly need to
become a man. I need to stand alone."

He saw
the concern in her eyes. She said, "That's why you go after Lamonte on
your own?"

Slowly
he nodded. "And more. I told you about 'The Blue Ring'...I will go after
them myself while Creasy recovers. At least, I will start the journey and plot
my course."

She
wanted to tell him to be careful and to be cautious and to be patient, but she
had the wisdom to kiss him and keep silent. She ran a hand down his body and
felt the scar which she had not seen before.

"What
happened?" she asked.

"Someone
shot me."

"Did
you kill him?"

"I
don't remember."

She
smiled and said, "That's what Maxie always says about his past." She
moved and kissed the scar and then his lips. "Are you really going to go
gay tomorrow?" she asked.

"Yes, but only temporarily."

She looked down at him, her blonde hair falling across his face.

"Afterwards," she murmured, "come back to me. I will straighten out your genes."

The Black Cat was dark and dangerous, a mixture of discreet spotlights, chrome and
black leather. The two bouncers at the door were gay and mean. Michael paid his
fifty francs entrance fee and walked into the bar. He was wearing frayed denim
jeans with a metal-studded belt, an olive green silk shirt and a gold earring
in his left ear.

He ordered a creme de menthe frappe and studied the room. About sixty men, ranging
in age from fifty to seventeen. Not a woman in sight. The bartender had a
purple hair-do down to his shoulders.

Lamonte was sitting at a corner table with two men. Michael recognised him from Maxie's
description. He was in his mid-forties, a tanned, handsome man wearing a sober
business suit. Michael gazed into his eyes and then turned away and talked to
the bartender about the weather. When he ordered his third creme de menthe
frappe and tried to pay for it the bartender gave him the drink and waved away
his money. With a wink he said, "It's on the boss," and gestured at
Lamonte's table.

Five minutes later Lamonte eased himself onto the stool next to Michael, smiled
disarmingly and said, "I haven't seen you in here before."

Michael answered, "It must be Christmas."

They left an hour later. Lamonte had a Mercedes 600 complete with mini-bar,
telephone and miniature TV. He and Michael sat in the back. One of the
bodyguards drove, the other sat silently next to him. Lamonte opened the tiny
fridge in the mini-bar, took out a bottle of Veuve Cliquot, popped the cork and
poured two glasses. They toasted each other. With his free hand Lamonte felt
for Michael's penis.

"It takes time," Michael said with a smile. "But when it stands up, it stays up."

Lamonte grinned, leaned across and kissed him on the mouth, his tongue probing. Michael
played his part.

There were two other bodyguards waiting at the house. One at the main gate and one
inside the front door, who let them in. They proceeded straight up the stairs
to the bedroom, both carrying their glasses of champagne, and Lamonte carrying
the half-empty bottle.

In the opulent bedroom with its huge bed and silk canopy, Michael's first words were,
"First the money."

Lamonte took out his wallet and counted out five hundred francs.

Michael pushed the money into the back pocket of his jeans. With that action Lamonte
took off his clothes and moved in, needing to use what he had purchased. He
reached out his hand to move Michael's face closer. Michael kissed him, and
then the stiffened fingers of his right hand moved in a blur to a precise spot
just below Lamonte's rib cage. As Lamonte went down to the deep-pile carpet
Michael's right knee smashed into his face, breaking his nose and dislodging
four front teeth.

Lamonte woke up five minutes later. He was lying on the vast bed, naked and in
excruciating pain. His thumbs were tied together. He looked up into Michael's
eyes. Black eyes, and very cold. In a strange way the eyes were disinterested,
as though looking at a boring object. The voice when it came was
conversational, perhaps that of a young man talking to an uncle. It was a voice
without menace and, under the circumstances, terrifying.